The Chronicles of Camelot: The Snake, The Boy and the Chamber

by blackshadow111

The world is a far older and better place than the muggles believe. Harry Potter knows this very well indeed. Watch as the heir of Alexander and Arthur takes a world rotting in its mediocrity, and turns it into a utopia. With unlimited resources, an icy, brutal ruthlessness and an unparalleled mind, no one can stand in his way. Amoral, Political Harry. Dead, but the rewrite is up.

20. Chapter 20

Okay… first of all, I'm a bit…meh, about this chapter. It isn't bad, in my opinion (given that it's being uploaded at all), but it isn't excellent, either. It's just…well, this is a problematic patch for this tale. See, this story is basically a means for me to take the edge off of the sheer frustration and boredom that characterizes an ordinary day in my (and I believe in every student's) life. So, when I'm putting down things that I've thought over and over, worked out in a dozen separate ways, and generally spent hours at, I'm fine.

Hence the skill (I hope) I've shown at merging just about all medieval fantasies into this story. But actual war… where there are fight scenes and people dying and fierce combat… I just don't know. I thought Yaxley, Snape, Harkins and the Dragons all went decently enough, but those were tiny scenes, barely worth being called fight scenes. What complicates this is that while I want the fight scenes to be engaging, I also want to very much retain the cliché of the Super! Godlike! Harry that I've so carefully created.

Here's a big spoiler that isn't one at all. The Russian campaign is going to be a curb stomp. There. That truth has to be maintained as gospel, because I decided way before I started this story that I would not make any effort to suppress my wish-fulfilment desires. There, that is a fact, but individual battle scenes still have to be interesting and detailed enough. See my problem?

Well, enough of me and my tale of woe. On to Harry and his tale of awesomeness!

It was one thing to know that one was willing to do anything: cross all limits, shatter all accepted boundaries in their quest for power, and another to actually go ahead and do it. Harry wasn't hesitating, far from it. Not when he'd come this far and when this much was at stake. But still, there was something… icky …about the art and science that comprised the covert tool called the honey trap. As it was, it was far, far too useful to not use, but something seemed… off …with using it.

He knew, even as he contemplated it, that it was his Muggle upbringing talking. Sex was an entirely casual concept in the magical world, and no one really gave a damn, but still…

In any case, the fact of the matter was that they were one of the tools being used by the serpent sworn, and would remain so. After all, there was no end of use for them. People talked to their bed-mates, that was a simple fact, just as another simple fact was that a skilled enough bed-mate could create, even without the huge, huge amount of magic that existed regarding the matter, addictions that were simply impossible to be rid of. Once a person had lain with a master/mistress of the art, they would do anything to do it again. They would steal secrets, kill people, destroy anything, sign contracts…anything at all. No demand was too much, no price too expensive. And then, of course, were the inevitable photos, videos, sound recordings.

All in all, it meant that they simply had to be used, regardless of any compunction on the part of anyone involved. How this mattered right then was because Harry had to sign off on sending over five hundred girls off to Pune, where he'd arranged facilities to have each of them trained into a vishkanya; a poison maiden.

Another advantage was that each of them would have the secondary mission to seduce as much of the nobility and royalty as possible. If he could secure a couple heirs from the prominent bloodlines...why, things would be a piece of cake!

Speaking of pieces of cake, Harry's mind returned to the thick sheaf of documents in front of him. They were the complete physical and academic records of every student of magical Britain that had been deemed a, 'high flier' by Harry's evaluators. The charity work had finally paid off.

Months ago Harry had created two funds, the James Potter Sports Trust, and the Lily Potter Scholarship Fund. One use that they had was to launder the cast ocean of galleons he had flowing in, while another was sitting in front of him.

Virtually every wealthy individual and family out there had, in the past, tried to immortalize their names by funds or scholarships. Several had succeeded, but none had managed to hold out against Harry. Not that there was anything worth mentioning in that, as Harry hadn't achieved the absolute victory in the charity market by clever manipulations or back-stage trickery, or by any other respectable means.

No, he'd just drowned all competition under the weight of gold.

The Potter Foundation, which both organizations were subordinate entities of, operated upon a budget that was well over double of every other charitable organization in the country put together.

With that kind of largesse, they had everyone practically falling over themselves to both donate and be aided. It had been a trivial matter to ask for all student records from the provincial institutions. After all, how were they to decide who should get a sports scholarship except by studying the biological and physical records, and how could they grant educational scholarships except by analysing academic records?

Elementary; Harry had set the ball rolling even before the original left for Russia.

And already it was showing huge results. Harry's organization had successfully identified over a thousand powerful 'potentials', individuals bearing considerable gifts in arcane magic , along with a rather large number of individuals that pretty much had to be bastard scions of Noble houses. A few had been confirmed, but it was a tricky process, made more so by the new knowledge about blood magic that he himself was responsible for having spread.

Still, it would all work out, Harry knew.

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Harry checked the time. A simple exertion of minor time magic told him that it was 4:25 PM on the 28th of April, three days before the minor offensives he was carrying out were consolidated into a 'once and for all' campaign that would end with either all his hopes for Russia dashed or with him as the country's absolute lord and master.

He Apparated to Hogwarts.

As Harry strolled through the corridor, rapidly approaching his target, Auditorium #9, he could hear the quiz going on inside.

A voice Harry identified as Miranda Marchbanks, one of the history teachers, said "Okay, the rapid fire round begins now. Who was the last ruling monarch of Cimmeria, before the country was annexed by which kingdom? The time is nine seconds; eight, seven, six-"

"Harstorm the Untamed, and the Kingdom fell to neighbouring kingdom of Kjeldor, ruled by Darien IX." The voice of Cho Chang spoke.

"Correct. Twelve points to the Hawks. Next, when was the Kingdom of Malkier re-established for the second time, and by whom? The time is five seconds; four, three-"

This time it was Katie Bell "It was in 167,000 BR (before Rome), by Al'Markos Mandragoran."As she was answering, she came in Harry's field of vision. He cast a disillusionment charm on himself, not wanting to interrupt things.

"Correct.12 points to the Griffins. Next, what was the name of the wizard who summoned the first Great Daemon, called what?"

Ooh, that was a very difficult one. Still, Harry had published a paper called 'A history of Sorcery' as part of the preparations for his thesis, and it had the answer.

"The time is thirteen seconds. Twelve, eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six-"

So much for not interrupting.

"Five, four, three, two, on-" "Zarbustibal the Conqueror, first King of Atlantis, summoned Nouda the Terrible." Harry's lazy drawl came from the doorway, surprising everyone present.

Harry was immediately greeted by the sounds of several people hurriedly getting up from their seats, while others lounged back and just waved. He himself waved them all down, before strolling to a discrete seat in the side. After a few seconds, the event resumed, as question after question was asked, most receiving deft responses, which was nice, while a few drew blank looks, which wasn't.

Still, win some, lose some.

Either way, it was routine, and wasn't all that much interesting to Harry. What did draw his attention were a couple of students on the Griffin team and a girl on the Hawks. Why? Because they had gotten the point of this whole thing (In other words, they were cheating). The girl was wearing spectacles with an excellent piece of scrying magic on them, probably keyed to an all-book. The same went for the compulsion that the Griffin team's boys were using, an amusing piece of work that would cause the other team to hesitate just four or five seconds every time any of their members had the answer.

Harry noted both of them for induction into the Marauders, to be carried out as soon as they made it to fifth year.

After that, it wasn't long before things ended, with the Hawks securing a narrow victory. Each of them would be getting fifteen credits, along with a couple of extra benefits. Had Harry been a different person, there would've been consolation prizes for the Gryffins too, for the effort. As it was, each of the members of the losing teams lost ten credits.

Survival of the fittest, and only the fittest, was the new cornerstone of Hogwarts policy under him.

After the quiz ended, Harry finally allowed himself to be swarmed by the Hogwarts public, hearing their latest tales; as if he didn't already know every single thing that went on in his castle; shaking hands with them, high-fiving, back-thumping; as if any of them would survive if he put a tenth of his strength into it; and all around renewing his connections with them, and more importantly, with the, no, his Marauders.

It took several hours, during which they raided the kitchens, had an impromptu broom race, tried to knock each other off of Hippogriffs and Thestrals and Pegasus in the near-suicidal sport called Air Jousting, jumped off a flying chariot 2200 meters in the air while peeking into the Beauxbatons carriage changing rooms and screaming " Arresto Momentum is the greatest spell ever!", and all around appeared to have a good time.

And it was after all of that, nearly six hours after he came to Hogwarts, that saw Harry leaning back on a chair with Neville in front of him, looking over the notices that Harry was considering having put up.

"Are you sure it's a good idea Harry? I mean, a couple of extra classes for the Marauders is one thing, but this…"

"Oh come on, Neville, it isn't that bad!"

"I don't know, Harry… starting a full-fledged training program in a school…"

"Oh don't tell me you're going to spout the same 'we're too young' line. It'll be fun! I mean, it's not as if it's black market, we'll be using Auror Manuals!"

"But live fire exercises with people our age, Harry. I just don't know…"

"Neville, Neville, Neville, you worry too much. Still, if that's your final word…" Harry trailed off, looking at Neville expectantly.

"Oh damn it, Harry! You know I won't say no to anything you say. It's just…well, can't we at least consult Dumbledore once?"

Harry's voice got noticeably harder. "We talked about this, mate. Tell me, what do you think Dumbledore is?"

The question caused Neville to stop and think for a few moments, before he said "Well, he's one of the most powerful wizards out there, and the leader of the light, and he's the Headmaster of Hogwarts, but somehow I get the feeling that none of these things is what you're talking about."

"Well, you're right. Let me tell you, then. Put simply, Albus Dumbledore is the greatest example of wasted potential that there has been in the history of this country, quite possible the world itself." Harry conjured a glass of water, draining it in one go. "And the worst thing is, it's his own entire damn fault."

Neville's eyes were wide. "How so?" he asked.

"Tell me one thing, Neville. Forget this day and time, let's recap fifty years. What didn't Albus Dumbledore have at that time? An extraordinary level of magical power, near unconditional support from the masses, a huge amount of political power, meaning that it was very much possible for him to land himself with a couple of primary ley lines. Is any of that incorrect?"

Neville's brow was furrowed "No, not at all."

Harry continued then "So, tell me, does any of that sound familiar?"

Harry watched quietly as the cogs turned in Neville's brain. No doubt the old stories, taught years ago, were coming to the fore slowly, aided by Harry's spells. "Yes, yes, it's familiar. Bu-but, that's supposed to be a myth, Harry! I mean, come on!"

Harry's voice was completely serious. "Let me assure you, there is nothing mythical about self-attained divinity, Neville. It's the way every Ancient Pantheon was created at first. You remember the stories, don't you? A magical being to have defied the laws of magic, acclaimed by the realms, saturated with power, connected to the depths of raw magic, can draw all the power of the lines, embody a concept upon themselves, and ascend to true, very real godhood, or at the very least, to the status of a legend. That was how both Ouranos and Gaia rose, and Odin, and the Hindu trinity, and Yahweh. Just about every first generation god can be traced to this, even Eru Illuvitar. Or did you forget about the mortal called Eruesmus , High Lord of the Western Realms? Hell, we swear by Merlin nowadays, what do you think that implies?"

"But that's just…"

"What, impossible? So is being able to fly unassisted, according to the weaklings. Last I checked I was at Mach 27." For a moment Harry's voice rose, stressing with extraordinary venom the word 'weakling'. Neville understood completely, very much aware that there was not a creature in existence that Harry loathed more.

"Had there been any decency in the world, Dumbledore would've found the relevant rituals, done them, and risen as the rightful successor of Eru and R'hllor, a new Lord of the Light. He had his followers they'd have been all too willing to become worshippers. Jehovah and his Vatican would've been dust by now. As it is, the man is a shadow of what he could've been, and the worst thing is, he can still do something about it. There's a place in the Throne of Heroes practically reserved for him, if he'll just get over the 'good' and 'evil' nonsense." Harry spoke, making quotes in the air at the words good and evil.

"Fat chance of that ever happening" Neville muttered, more to himself than to Harry. To be honest, he himself was conflicted about this topic. He'd had an upbringing where he'd been taught the differences between good and evil quite clearly, and yet everything he'd seen with his own eyes screamed otherwise. Throwing people off of balconies for a cup of tea was supposed to be evil, wasn't it ?

Still, he needed to focus on the here and now.

Harry continued "And all of that just means that he simply won't understand! He'll harp on about letting us have childhoods, about carefree lives, and all that rubbish."

Neville continued to raise points for his arguments for a fairly long time, only to see them deconstructed one after the other. The whole thing ended eventually with him agreeing to keep an eye on the program, more specifically on the students who would be affected the most by it, like himself.

Once he had the boy's agreement, Harry finalized the matter, before popping off to chamber for a bout of training and sleep.

XXXXXXXX

The next day, he could be seen at the Ministry, mainly to check on the operatives that he'd recently installed there but with a couple other things in mind. They weren't all that much, a few minor jobs in the Admin sections of both the DIMC and the DMGS. But that was fine for now. All he needed from them was that they rise as high as possible in the bureaucratic ranks as quietly as possible.

Not, by any accounts, a difficult thing to do, with the patronage of their respective HODs, but vital nonetheless. There were troubled times ahead.

Harry Apparated into the Atrium, strolling through even as the crowd around him started to notice him slowly. He walked briskly, making his way to the Wizengamot Administrative Office. Every member of the Fifteen was entitled to an office here, meaning that Harry had three in his own name, and three more under his aliases.

Given that he had no intention to actively enter politics in his name for a while yet, his own offices were largely unused, but having them did give him an excuse to have six large sets of staff loitering around, running errands for his 'allies', giving outrageous parties in the cafeteria, picking up all the gossip, earning favours and building contacts, not to mention the tactical advantage of having several highly trained agents in place at the heart of the British Magical government.

Reaching the relevant wing, Harry slowed himself to a casual gait, looking around, as he sauntered over to what was perhaps the single most imposing door in the entire ministry, certainly the corridor. It was rough-hewn mahogany, aged for centuries before being cut, and deeply magical. Dominating it was the shield with the Gryffindor coat of arms, a lion head on a blood-red background. Currently the lion was silent, looking ominously around the corridor with deep, brooding eyes. As it saw him it nodded in a motion meant to represent a bow, the movement causing the light to fall differently on its jet-black mane, giving it a slightly crimson sheen.

It was an imposing thing, certainly. Enough to completely overshadow the plaque above the shield, carrying in stylized lettering the words 'His Grace Magister Harry James Potter, Duke of Gryphonsworth, Lord Gryffindor, War-Magus first class, Master of Transfiguration, Councillor of the Fifteen.'

The office inside, as Harry strolled in, was every bit as 'tastefully ostentatious' as the door and its decorations, with antique furniture, the very finest Persian rugs, Tashkent silk cushions , priceless paintings and chandeliers. There were more than ten million galleons trapped into decorations in this room, to make a modest estimate. There was, of course, a reason for that. Harry had set aside his Eldritch family offices, Gryffindor and Slytherin, for high profile guests, like pureblood lords, high level members of the 'mot, the top-notch ministry officers, MNC owners, and the like, with this office for the more 'light' purposes and the Slytherin one for the 'dark', while the Potter office was much easier on the eyes, with a severely Spartan deco. Similar (to the former) went the other three, of course.

Harry put all of those thoughts out of his mind, sitting down on the chair behind the huge desk that stood directly ahead of the towering portrait of Godric Gryffindor, astride a magnificent Gryphon, a hand outstretched, carrying a blood-red sword glinting in the sun. A pity that it wasn't an actual portrait, but Salazar had destroyed all of those as soon as he'd managed to, all the way back to the founding of Hogwarts.

As it was…

"So, how was it?" The voice of Darius Sharr came, as the figure relaxed, while the Gryphon slumped down, tired of all the heavy lifting.

"Well enough. I allowed him quite a bit of leeway, actually."

"It should help in the future, though."

"Yeah, no doubt it will. Any trouble on your or Sal's end?"

"Not really, no, but that reminds me. Harry, are you sure going as slow as we are is a good idea? Your agents are practically crawling. Back in the day, my operatives had accomplished several times this in a much shorter time."

"I know, Lord Grindelwald, I know. But you were in a hurry. The agents have a plan to follow; I have a plan to follow. It'll work."

"Yes, well… it's your decision to make, in any case."

"Yes it is. Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

"Certainly, certainly."

Harry snapped his fingers, reinforcing the protections of the room several times over. Once that was assured, another exertion of magic saw the portrait replaced by his 'government tree'.

He took a moment to analyse it, considering its details. At the first look, it was just a vast, vast number of names, spread across white canvas. A casual onlooker wouldn't understand it, but they were the names of every major player in magical Britain. The three hundred members of the Wizengamot, their most important family members, their employees, the movers and shakers of the business world, CEOs, Chairmen, guild leaders, every member of the ministry who could be said to be in a policy making position, the whole lot. Everyone who was anyone featured on the wall. His own name was at the top, in the exact centre. Connected to it by multi-coloured threads were all of the names that he had any estimable contact with, however remote or indirect.

That was a good, sizeable portion, just over seventy percent. Of course, that didn't mean much, as in quite a few cases the direct contact was just a letter exchanged or a greeting while passing by. But the connection was there, outlined with rich blue lines interspersed with green, to indicate that Harry had amiable relations with the persons, and there was a possibility of control being obtained. This was in contrast with the jet black lines, denoting absolute, complete control. One hundred and twenty-three seats on the Wizengamot had this, along with two members of the Ministerial Cabinet, and a decent percentage of the ministry in total. And the final colour, thankfully dramatically in the minority was an ugly, disgusting red, symbolizing enmity, even hate towards him and everything he stood for.

This was all of the Morrigan faction, and a few others here and there. If Harry's plans were crystallized there and then, none of these people would see the twenty-first century. Of course, there was a huge amount of change possible.

And then there were the ghostly colours. After all, nothing magical was ever that neat and clean. For every actual colour denoting current circumstances, there were faint, ghostly strings that stood for possibilities, subject to certain conditions. It didn't cover everything possible, nothing but Harry's own brain did, but it allowed him to better understand most of the things better.

As he watched the steadily darkening colours around the names currently at Hogwarts, Harry pondered that this really was much better than being a fourth year brat.

Wrenching his mind from his thoughts, Harry prepped the chair on its back legs, crossing his feet on the table. He summoned an elf and ordered up a thoroughly unhealthy breakfast. Fried chicken, well diced, with enough oil and spice in it to properly prepare five times the amount (A.N 1: The way I like it). The only thing he drank with it was water , chilled to exactly 3.333 degree Celsius. It was all he ever drank, really, even in the middle of a Russian January.

Elfin efficiency what it was, very soon he could be seen popping pieces of chicken into his mouth from a plate floating near him while his eyes remained stuck to the T.V. on the far wall, which was showing some duelling match rerun. In short, he looked very picture of a spoiled prince. Just to add emphasis, a wordless, wandless spell made the clear glass of water take the tell-tale golden appearance of fifteen year old single malt. It was to this image that he summoned Marcus Loxley, when the time for the man's appointment came in a few minutes.

It worked. Harry watched, a sense of amusement growing within him, as Loxley just stood for the first few seconds, alternatively gaping at the splendour of the office and the young man in front of him, as if wondering which represented greater decadence. Meanwhile, Harry kept his eyes focused on the match. When the man coughed loudly to gain his attention, Harry made a big show of annoyance and boredom, before turning a lazy gaze on him. "Oh, Sir Marcus! Please take a seat, why don't you?"

It was a brutal breach of protocol, and Harry could see anger peak within the man due to it. He liked anger, it made people so, so easy to manipulate. Case in point, the Warlock subdued his rage, before speaking. "If you'll recall, your grace, I wrote to you about a loan…"

"Oh yes, I read that letter. How much was it again?"

"Six hundred thousand galleons, sir." Loxley ground out.

"Would you mind it terribly if I asked why you need it?"

Harry could see it in the man's eyes that he did mind it very much. Still, he watched, completely nonchalant, as the man said something about an illness in the family.

Harry interrupted him halfway through, saying "Oh, that's sad. So, do you need it now, then?" He was well aware that the man was very much desperate, having already had to make quite a few compromises.

The effect was what Harry had known it would be. Harry peered into the man's mind, observing with grim satisfaction as the dislike the worm held for him curdled into hate.

Through gritted teeth, the man said "Yes, your grace, it is urgent" venom pouring from every syllable. Harry knew that Loxley now loathed him, as the representation of everything the man so desperately wanted but could not have.

Good. That was good. Now for just a bit of appeasement.

"Well, you have it, of course. I'll have it sent over in bonds before today evening." He said with a note of finality, dismissal clear in his voice.

As the man left, Harry allowed himself a little smile. He'd summoned the man without even the slightest need, behaved in a manner that insulted Loxley in every conceivable way, and then dismissed him as one would a servant. If this didn't get the ball rolling on the formation of a voting bloc that Harry could count on always opposing him no matter what, nothing ever would.

And Harry really needed such a thing. With the amount of clout he held, British politics was… well, a gentleman would call it 'vulnerable to him' or 'susceptible to his influence', so naturally Harry had to say that the entire British political world was his bitch. But the thing was that no one, absolutely no one could be allowed to realize this for a long, long time yet. Hence the need for his motions to never go unopposed, for every victory to be seen as hard won.

Of course, the legislative, where time was measured in months and years at the shortest, was the only place where this could be allowed. As far as the executive was concerned, the game was different.

"Selene, a word" Harry summoned.

Immediately, a brunette entered from the attached room. At first sight, she was average looking, just another secretary in a building full of them. As a matter of fact, it was a simple automaton, a mass of flesh moved and operated by the magics of Harry's AI, created out of some Death Eater.

"Yes, Harry?" the voice came inquisitive as ever.

"Get me Michael, will you?"

"Certainly, Harry."

Michael Hawkins was one of Harry's judicial liaisons, attached to the Slytherin office. Harry had tasked him, apart from other matters, with permanent duty to have a team of observers around all the courtrooms, to see anything interesting that came up, like some blackmail, or someone promising that they could and should get in their debt. He was good at it too, having successfully pointed out over a dozen excellent targets; potions masters that had been a bit too enthusiastic about certain restricted recipes, top notch ward-crackers who'd been engaged in tomb-raiding of all things, among others.

Yeah, Hawkins would rise high.

Harry's attention came away from his thoughts, as a knock sounded on his door.

Calling out a lazy "Come in", Harry vanished the faux-whiskey and the food, sitting up in a, well, less lazy way.

"Well, Mr Hawkins, how are you this fine day?" he asked, voice light and cheery.

To his credit, Michael Hawkins got suspicious immediately. A look into his mind showed a healthy bit of paranoia and doubt.

Good, good.

"I'm fine, you grace. What about you, sir?"

"Oh, just peachy." Harry said.

That was about all that either of them could endure of small talk, a fact made more evident by the enthusiasm with which they both jumped into business.

"So, how far have you gotten with the records?" Harry asked without preamble.

The man cleared his throat, before answering. "Sir, the Project is at exactly 74% completion. Over the past months we have, using the authority of your office, gone through almost the entire legal history of the isles. Going backwards, we have analysed every transcript, every report, and every bill ever filed into the archives. Your authority clears us for all but the most highly classified information, and we have succeeded in drawing a mostly complete picture of British legal history. I have sent the records over to the Institute, and by what I hear, they have been received rather well."

Harry knew that the last part, at the very least, was true. He had currently teams of lawyers, that, once they were pronounced acceptable by their trainers (who themselves were among the finest legal minds alive), would form into Althric Barristers, the law and solicitation firm that Harry was determined would be his weapon to deal with the judicial committee of the Wizengamot. He had already sent out feelers, to test out the prices at which the firms he currently employed would consider selling.

Speaking of which…

"And what about the poaching?"

"Ah, your grace, I'm afraid the news isn't nearly as good. We have identified several high profile individuals that would be susceptible to an approach, but the resources required…"

Harry considered enlightening the man to the fact that there were no limits whatsoever to their resources. But no, there was a reason he was subtly encouraging stinginess in his vassals. After all, his unlimited wealth came from the Muggle economies, the same economies that, when his plans came to fruition, would cease to exist. It was a long time ahead, but a legacy of good habits had to be put in place to avoid unnecessary problems.

"Very well. You have written up a report?"

"Yes, sir, "The man said, before pulling a slim folder out of one of the pockets of his robe.

He proffered it to Harry, who flipped through it, seemingly just skimming through it but actually reading, digesting and memorizing each and every word. After a few seconds, he put it on the desk, before turning his attentions back to the man.

"Well, Mr Hawkins, that's all from my side. What about you? Is there anything you need, any extra matters?"

"No sir, not quite."

"Well, my door is always open." Harry said, as a form of dismissal.

As soon as Hawkins left, Harry picked up a pen and his letter-pad, and started upon a series of memos. He requested up to the office several members of the secretarial staff of the DIMC and the DMGS, ostensibly to clear up irregularities in some permits and licenses, but in actuality to get reports on their work in their Departments.

It wasn't anything ground-breaking, but Harry was able to adjust several schemes timely thanks to them.

Things continued in that vein for several hours, before the time for the most important meeting came.

The world was a strange place, the young woman who was walking through the ministry mused. Just how much a simple change in name and stature could matter.

A mere month ago, she'd been 'Tonks', the orphan trainee Auror no one wanted to deal with, nearly broke, emotionally a wreck, and completely helpless. She had been practically ostracized, with the only motion anyone being willing to offer her being pity in varying quantities.

She'd been alone, getting cold shoulders no mater whatever she tried to do. In other words, she'd been nobody.

And then, and then it came.

It had been three and a half weeks since she had gotten the fateful letter, three weeks since she had accepted the offer contained within. And she still couldn't quite believe everything that was happening.

Nymphadora Tonks, the clumsy Metamorphmagus, weak, alone, parentless, was gone now, dead with her parents. In her place was Nymphadora Druella, Lady Black (a lady Black, not the. That would've been weird, although by no means unprecedented), heiress presumptive of the house of Black. Rich, well connected, with an all-powerful Patriarch and a list of contacts that were more than willing to take care of any and all indiscretions for a fee, to be paid by the same Patriarch, and a Wizengamot seat that was hers for the asking.

People, officials, fellow trainees, all who'd been cold and unsmiling to her plight, were now as slick olive oil, perfectly willing to bend to her every whim. Every single one of the arrogant little pigs who'd made a point out of forcefully taking away her dead parents' things had returned them on their knees, without any mention of payment.

And it was more than that. Things she'd never known before were happening, every day she was swamped with invites for balls, dinners and parties, shops sent her catalogues, fashion magazine editors sent long letters asking her opinions on the latest items, training seemed to be a joke as the reports about her would always be glowing, even when she'd missed the entire week's duties!

The world was at her fingertips in every way that mattered, and it was a very, very intoxicating feeling. Nothing could or would be denied her.

An example seemed to be when the trainer that sneered and said "I don't care about your name, rookie! You're still a clumsy little ditz!" found that his superiors did care. Oh yes, they cared very much.

Last she knew, he was still on night duty with the MLEP, looking for regurgitating toilets.

And she owed all that to her uncle and the person she was on her way to meet.

Speaking of which, she was there.

Looking askance at the lion for a moment, she made to knock, only to step back with a muted "eep!" as the lion spoke in a loud, terrifying growl "Don't do that! How many times do I have to tell you people, it rattles like hell?!"

For the first few moments, Black just tried to get her heart back under control. Eventually, she regained her composure, and said "Well, how am I supposed to ask for permission to enter, then?"

The lion sniffed disdainfully, an action that made her feel like she was six again. "What do you think I am, girl, a decoration? Tell me your name, and I'll ask the big boss-man inside if you're allowed in. be advised though, there is a serious possibility that he could tell me to jump out and rip you to pieces."

Her voice wasn't hysterical at all, honest. "You can do that?"

The head turned its nose high, before speaking "Of course! I'll have you know I have a 190 pound body hidden away, not to mention-" it suddenly broke off, grimacing in pain for a brief second, before continuing in a different tone "That's not relevant at all. Now, your name, or I jump!"

"Oh it's To-Black, Nymphadora Black. He's expecting me, we've corresponded."

The head turned, before moving into the door. She could vaguely sense magic working, and she surmised that it had appeared on the other side. It took a few moments, before it was back. "He says there was a common phrase in Aries's second letter and his first letter to you. You have to tell what it was before you can pass."

Nymphadora's brows furrowed. What was this, a test of identity? In any case, she remembered the answer.

"It was 'rebirth to glory'. Aries said that I would be a part of the rebirth to glory of the Black family, and Harry said that the rebirth to glory of the Blacks was of paramount importance."

The head nodded sagely. "You are correct."

Immediately, the door swung open, and the young woman was treated to her first sight of Harry Potter. She had to admit, lounging on a comfortable chair that was on its back legs, with his feet lying crossed on a huge desk, he looked the perfect mix of the careless prince and the extraordinary prodigy.

What surprised her was the total lack of resentment she felt. After all, he preceded her in the line of succession to the House of Black without even carrying the name. There were even more perks attached to the title of heir apparent than she enjoyed as heiress presumptive, and she'd be the first to admit that the panoply of high birth and privilege had started getting to her.

Her mind refocused from her thoughts as he spoke, in a way that suggested that they had been friends all their lives. "Good morning, Nymphadora, how're you today?"

Fighting down a surge of resentment at her name, she answered. "I'm fine, your grace."

"Oh, none of that! Call me Harry." He spoke, bright and eager.

Despite herself, Nymphadora couldn't help the smile that appeared on her lips. "Then I must ask you to call me Dora, Harry."

He grinned from ear to ear at this, eyes gaining a mischievous sparkle. "Sure about that? I know you don't like your full name, but I could always call you Nympho…"

She did not blush crimson. Honestly, she didn't.

Neither did she sputter "Wh-what? No, you can't-I mean please don't-I mean I'll not stand for-" He calmed her with several soothing gestures. "Relax, Dora, relax. I was just joking."

Finally regaining her composure, she said "Well, it wasn't a nice one, was it?" just to add impact, she sniffed a little at the end, turning her nose high.

Looking at him she realized signs of amusement, such as a barely suppressed eye-roll, but in the end he said seriously enough. "I apologize if I offended you. That really wasn't my intention."

Nodding her head dismissively, she plodded ahead "Well, you asked me to come, here I am. Can you please tell me why you wanted to meet me?"

He became at least somewhat sombre quickly. "Well, it's about your work, actually. You've been promoted up to trainee first class, haven't you?"

She nodded her head "Yes, it came through last week. I was so surprised, you know. Trainee first class just two months from graduation!"

"I do know, as a matter of fact. But that's all fine. Thing is, there's the matter of attachment."

"Hmm?" she asked.

"I mean, which Auror would you like to be attached to?"

She was floored at this. She'd expected something similar, but this? "What? Can we pick and choose, then?" it was honestly a shocking thing to her. She'd thought that the seniors picked and chose them.

"Well, not exactly. It's more like you can, you know. I and the others are willing to pull a few strings, get you attached to someone you feel you can trust, can rely on, you know."

Her mind was reeling. Ever since she'd entered the Auror program, she'd been told that the first year after she cleared the academy would be vital, six months in the advanced academy and six months with an experienced Auror showing her the ropes. It was supposed to be the latter that made or broke her future, that proclaimed to the world just what the opinion about her was 'upstairs'.

And now, now she had it in her hand, just like that?

Her mind snapped back to the conversation. Harry was continuing. "I realize that this is not the sort of thing one makes a snap decision on, so you've got a couple days, to look over the records and profiles, y'know?"

She dumbly nodded her head, trying to grasp the sheer inverted-ness of the situation.

Again, her mind's focus was drawn to his words "Well, do you have any questions?"

She found herself speaking. "Yeah, I do. I mean, don't take it otherwise, but why? Why are you doing this? I get it about Aries, he's my paterfamilias, so it's his duty, but why you? What am I to you?" She almost yelled the last part, her voice having grown steadily louder.

She looked at Harry's face, which had lost all traces of mirth. There was a sad, wistful look in his eyes, a sorrow broken only by traces of affection.

At length, he said "Dora, I don't know if you realize it, but I am an orphan. I've been an orphan all my life, and for the first thirteen years of it I was with people who made a point out of reminding me of that fact." She would have spoken, but she realized that this was a deeply personal narrative.

"And as things are, I'm not going to have any family any time soon. So, whether or not I, or anyone else, like it or not, the fact is that you're as close as I'll ever get to a family member who isn't an old fudgy or a near-monk. I don't know about you, but that matters more than a little bit to me." She opened her mouth to say something comforting, but he cut her off with a gesture. "The fact is, I owe you that much, and more, I like doing this, to know that I'm useful to people. So… if you don't like it, say the word, I know it could be that you want your space, but I really would prefer it if you'd let us do this." he finished with an unspoken sigh.

All in all, she was overwhelmed. She'd never thought that the young man behind the myth of 'The boy who lived' (a title she privately considered utterly ridiculous) could be so moving. All she managed to do was nod, and promise to think upon his words. Her feet carried her away while her mind was busy pondering the words, trying to make sense of it.

In any case, she wouldn't have understood just what that look in his eyes, the one that spoke volumes about a successful Con, meant in this context.

XXXXXXXXXXX

His name was Yevgeni Morozov Alexandrovitch, Commander-in-Chief of the Alexandrovitch Imperial Army, son and heir of Yuri Filipovich Alexandrovitch. He was one of the most powerful wizards in Europe, quite possibly the world. Possessing an exemplary Durmstrang education, seven masteries in combat-related subjects, four in 'civvy' fields, he was a War-Magus first class, an above-average alchemist, and a Master of Transfiguration and Animation. He'd also participated in twenty-four separate successful 'takings', in which the holdings of his family had been nearly doubled. And more to the point, he'd led more than half of that number.

He didn't have a duelling championship to his name, as was fashionable, but to him and his men it was irrelevant, as he had killed over a dozen 'Champions'. The Cherinskys and the Strassinovs called him 'Yevgeni the Butcher', and another few groups had other names, not nearly as impressive.

Summing up, he was a very, very dangerous person, a major mover and shaker on the Russian stage. He was also, currently, simmering in a fierce rage, having just finished reading a report from his international agents.

Several years ago, when he'd been a lad of twenty, he'd been given his first command. He'd been a bright eyed boy then, all full of thoughts about 'honour' and 'glory', about how he would win this whole war with his soldiers and their courage. Fifteen years had given him several scars and maladies, but they had also given him a simple, straightforward sense of war. It was won neither with brave and courageous soldiers, nor with devilishly clever generals. They helped, yes, but only to a certain point. What won wars was the right equipment, at the right place, at the right time, and plenty of it.

He'd faced that fact for almost a decade, and resolved that his men would always have the correct equipment, at the correct place and the correct time, and plenty of it. For several years he'd fought his father's advisers, greedy businessmen, other commanders, his brothers and cousins, all to that end, eventually establishing a procurement machine that was able to satisfy their demands, if not extravagantly, then adequately. And then he was finding out that he couldn't have it.

He'd tortured men, forced out answers, planned and executed raids, and the answer was always the same: No one was denying him supplies out of deliberate intent, no. There simply weren't any to be had! Anything that was produced, wardstones, herb supplies, trained animals, wands, potions, enchanted items, they were all being bought by a multitude of businesses, individuals, and countries, as soon as they were produced. It was as if a vast maw had opened up, swallowing all the supplies that could be had.

Someone was paying five, six times the going prices, simply overloading any protests with cash, to the point that all any seller could do was to agree! As if that wasn't enough, there had been signs that the sources of the items themselves, the farms and the quarries and the forests were also changing hands. It was being done quietly, discreetly, but it was happening, and no one seemed to be able to understand just how or why.

Sure, the numbers were tiny for now. A measly little patch of forest sold here, a small stake in a company sold there, business as usual. Except… the cumulative result was to thin out availabilities in a market already starving for them. About the only sources left with a degree of reliability were governments, both through their reserves and state owned sources, but those had another factor involved altogether, namely that the prices were sky high! After all, if there was one thing bureaucracy could do with any degree of efficiency, it was getting money out of people. If the private sector was making a killing, why the hell would they stay back?

He had about a month or two of reserves in food and medicines, a time period that could maybe be brought up to five, six months if they stripped all his peasants clean and imposed draconian rationing. And that was just in food and meds. The rest of the materials, quality armour, magical crystals, wardstones, keystones, all simply couldn't be had! They had warehouses, yes, but those would hardly last for any respectable duration.

About the only avenue left was raiding from enemy stores and international sources alike, of which the latter was a sure way to international persecution as terrorists. Thankfully the vampires were providing a nice amount of materials from their own stockpiles, but Yevgeni didn't trust that to last all that long.

'And the problem is, it's only going to get worse.' He thought, mindful of the contract they had recently signed, where the Nosferatu clan would provide him with an infinite supply of vampire soldiers, as long as the Alexandrovitchs could feed them.

He was broken out of his thoughts by the sound of alarms flashing, springing to his feet just as his door was opened by an assistant rushing in.

"Sir, you're needed at the command centre!"

"Why, what's happened?" he asked, breaking out into a sprint towards the room which housed the aforementioned centre. Years had taught him that while every second was priceless, acquiring correct information as soon as possible was, too, just as much if not more.

"There's an attack on the northern Warehouse. Local garrison reports they'll be overrun in an hour tops!"

Damn. Damn and blast. Northern was where they kept the…

Alexandrovitch paled dramatically. The Northern warehouse was repository to almost all of their dragon related materials! Rolls upon rolls of dragon hide, fused plates of dragon scales that had to be mounted over their walls, bottled dragon fire, and worst of all, over twenty dozen eggs. If they lost that…

No, that possibility wasn't worth entertaining.

In a few seconds, he had reached the command centre. Alexandrovitch mentally cast a series of spells that switched out all his clothes with battle gear, a good thing as the normal way to put them on would have wasted crucial seconds. As soon as he was standing in the middle of the room where over two dozen men and women were hunched over communication nexuses, he started barking out orders. The first thing he did was to ask for a full report.

"Sir, the attackers seem to be attached with the Strassinov faction. They have several recognized Strassi soldiers mixed among them."

"What about the numbers?

"It's bad, sir. There are over two dozen great beasts, mainly Chimeras and Dire wolves, although…" the young man, a senior intelligence officer, Yevgeni noted, trailed off.

"What, man!"

"Well, there has to be a Parselmouth among them, sir."

"Why?"

"Because they have half a dozen each of Basilisks and Chimaeras"

Bloody hell

At that point the man came very close to losing his composure to the fear and the anger building up within him, but he managed to crush it eventually.

"And apart from that?" he asked, voice straining.

"Well, they seem to be comprised of a collection of talents, sir. There are over five hundred mid-level demons, seventeen elemental spirits, three million Inferi out there, sir. And that's just what we've seen."

"Just what you've seen? Explain."

For that the officer just pointed to one of the screens, which doubled out in size at the gesture. Alexandrovitch stared at the screen, and then realized what the young brat had said. There was a massive host arrayed at the edge of the wards, pounding them with reckless abandon, but the back of the host was covered in a dark, inky fog that made it impossible to see anything.

"I assume that the fog clouds all senses, and stretches in all directions?"

All he got was a series of nods. Well, he had expected that. No one who could use the idea could be stupid enough to leave out any of those two vulnerabilities.

Either way, rushing to the facility's aid while unaware of the size of the assault force was pure stupidity... And yet…

"What's the status on thunder #35?" he asked, turning towards the Dragon-keeper liaison officer.

"There are a few injuries, but most of them are fine. 85% battle efficiency, I'd say."

"Good enough. Deploy them immediately, and tell them the priority is slaughter with recon. No prisoners are necessary."

The man nodded before pulling out a mirror from his pocket.

Yevgeni turned to one of the other officers. "What about evacuation?"

"Negative, I'm afraid, sir. Anti-transport wards are up and currently beyond our sappers' power."

The commander just nodded, before turning ad focusing on the screen. Looking carefully, he spotted something. "That golem, it's carrying a standard. Zoom in on it."

The technician faltered for a few seconds, before the screen moved ahead, focusing on one of the largest figures in the host, a seventeen feet statue that carried a huge flag in its hands. The problem was that the golem seemed to be a Balrog imitation, meaning that between the smoke its flames released, and the shadows that were part of its aura, very little of the standard could be seen.

As the assorted officers strained their eyes, the techy murmured a few words under his breath, causing the smoke to clear up enough so that they could make out the image. The flag was a deep black, seeming like a rectangular hole in the air, swallowing all light falling on it. And in the middle of it was an insignia, that of a snake eating its own tail, done in a darkish gold. And in the middle of this circle, in a deep, blood red colour was a 'VII'.

Well, well, well. It would seem the rumours had substance to them after all. These would have to be the ones who had crippled the whole of the Republican bloc, given that he didn't know their sign automatically.

Well, that could be changed.

"Activate the scanners." He said.

"Yes sir" one of the techies replied, before carrying out the order by tracing a few runes.

Their effect was felt, as nexuses of complex magics set to work upon the world-soul, coaxing knowledge out of its infinite repository. Yevgeni thought to himself that it was most likely a futile exercise, given that most parties of even halfway decent skill had wards for this sort of thing. But they might just get lucky.

Either way, text soon started to appear on the screen. It went something like this.

Designation: Seventh Legion, Ouroboros Army
Commander: Unknown
Numbers and weaponry: Unknown

Following the entries was a short list of other 'unknown's, until it was clear that the only thing the attacking party had allowed to be analysed was its unit name.

Well, nothing anyone could do regarding that. Alexandrovitch barked out orders, for the entirety of the forces under their command to be raised immediately and placed on standby to await further orders.

"What's the ETA on the dragons?"

"Nine minutes, sir." The technician replied.

"Sir, their wards are starting to falter!" the voice of the tech. team leader came from the mirror. Harry nodded to the generals around him, wordlessly relaying the order for the rearguard and the main body to form into firing positions. Even though it would still take the wards half an hour minimum, it was best to be ready early, especially with as large numbers as were here. It was a truly massive party, he mused. Three legions, the seventh, third and fourteenth, each of them specialized in ward-shattering and rapid raiding. As far as OFOs went, it was one of the most important in the whole war, and going nicely enough.

Well enough, certainly, that no one could have told that out of the nine colonels and twenty-five captains at play currently, five and fifteen respectively were brand new, here for their first taste of live action.

And he'd made it a sign of his seriousness that he himself was serving as OC (Overall Commander).

Breaking out of his thoughts, he asked one of his own aides, one Martin Laspsy "Hey Martin, are my mirrors mounted?"

The young man (no one he had attached to his staff was over twenty) nodded "Yes, Harry. They're in the exact positions you asked them to be put in."

A few of the assembled officers raised eyebrows at the familiar address, but no one said anything. Harry had made it loud and clear at several times that he didn't give the slightest hint of a damn as to what anyone called him, as long as it wasn't deliberately insulting. Did he know it was unconventional, possibly unwise? Yes. Did he care? Emphatically No.

"Good." He tersely said. It was a delicate balance they were playing at here, given the nature of the problem. By the reports of his spies, there were extremely valuable, and, (this was the point, really)useful items in there. Why this was a problem was because one of the reports said they were dragon-related, while another claimed that they were winter-powered artefacts, saved up for the Alex's eventual Siberian campaign against the Cherinskys. Now a remarkable number of options in his armies were fire-oriented, and therein was the problem. In the case of dragon-related materials fire wasn't a problem at all, but in the second case…

Harry's thoughts were interrupted when Selene's smooth voice spoke into his mind 'Harry. You have a thunder of dragons headed your way, ETA of three minutes.'

Immediately, he was in 'business mode'.

'Size?' he asked.

'I count twenty-one Ironbellys, Harry.'

'What? But aren't they supposed to be, y'know, extinct?'

'Yes, they are.' Was all the AI said.

Harry nodded to himself. A lesser mind might have felt fear, but all he could feel was that exactly four-and-a-half plans had just gone down the drain (the half had an interesting story behind it, but this wasn't the time).

In moments, he was standing up, armour forming about him in a bright blaze of light (he had worked out a series of spells inspired from Power Rangers of all things, thankfully without the dramatics). Smooth as ever, he asked another aide, this one a girl called Vivian Walters, to get him William Harford, the Air Marshal, at his base in the Urals, from where he was serving as Overall Commander, Defence (there were a lot of simultaneous offensives under execution right then, so many that the defensive garrisons had been stripped almost to the bone).

"Marshal Harford? Harry." He said, continuing with summoning things to him and putting them on.

"Yes, your grace? What can I do for you?"

"I have a thunder of dragons headed my way. We'll handle them ourselves, but I need you to trace their origins, do a full recon, and act on what you learn by your judgement. Use of ACs is authorised."

"Acknowledged, sir."

By a stroke of style, Harry had timed things so that the comm. link ended just as he was finished with his preparations. Standing up, Harry directed his attention to the officers around him. Out of the nine regiments here, four were 'Air', so there was more than enough firepower for ten times the number of dragons headed their way. Thing was, it would be rather unusually stupid of him to reveal them all this early.

He turned to Col. Remins, of the Third legion. "Colonel, I need your four best squadrons."

The man saluted, before touching his ear and barking out the names of three Squadron Leaders. They were patched through into a conference link with Harry, where command over them was duly handed over. As soon as he'd finished relaying a few orders, Harry left for the skies immediately.

In that, he was followed within minutes by his new subordinates, who all rose almost with him, reaching optimal altitude in a matter of seconds. Then it was strategizing.

"We're going for a three pronged approach. I want squadrons Conan and Athan to approach from the right, and Faust and Perseus from the left. Do a hard hook, spread yourselves out, and corner them in. You know the drill."

"Sir, what about the centre prong?"

"What?"

"What about the centre prong? You said we were going for the tri-prong."

"Oh, that's me." He said, voice just reassuring enough to quell any doubts.

Now a squadron in his air force had at least three dozen planes. Out of them, half a dozen had pilots, while the rest were operated by nexuses, who answered to those very pilots. So, he had to focus on nearly one hundred and ten planes while he did his next bit of magic.

Harry felt his consciousness expand, as the limitations he always kept it under dissolved away into nothing. He could feel the jets, each and every part of them, from the wires to the crystals to the strands of magic that tied the enchantments upon each of them into a cohesive whole. He needed to feel the last most of all, as he worked the illusion.

Light bent and twisted upon falling on the planes, magic wove through them, and colours started taking shape where none had been before, as a master of illusion went to work. Steel acquired the appearance of flesh, metal wings became bat-like to look at, and missile dockets gained the looks of bombs clutched into claws, as he forced the fighter planes to look like a thunder of huge, ravenous dragons. It took several moments, but by the time he was finished, no one could have told the truth about the flying death dealers unless they knew it beforehand.

That was just what he wanted. Harry continued to work on the squadrons, adding some finishing touches to the illusions while working on a few other surprises, till he sensed them: A dozen dragons, full grown Ukrainian Ironbellys, homing in rapidly.

He knew that his officers would know too, so without bothering with talking to them, he came to an abrupt halt, taking up a defensive position. Indeed, the false dragons paused with him, starting to move into defensive patterns. They, of course, couldn't stay still (well, actually they could, but that was an advantage he wouldn't give away so soon), so they simply slowed down and started a few manoeuvres.

Meanwhile, he focused in on himself and his magic. Slowly, he closed in on his fire affinity, channelling it through the protective runes along his skin, making him immune to fire in all its senses. Then he locked it in, and started to close off aspects of it, focusing on external ones mostly.

After all, Dragons were beings of fire and air, meaning that they could control those elements, even occasionally to the point of overriding another's control. Air he had to keep out in the open because it was far too advantageous up in the air, but fire had to be kept suppressed to a certain degree.

Once the elemental work was done, he allowed for his other powers to come to the fore, removing a full four limiters out of the nine he was always under (well, except for training). Unlike other times (when he'd absorbed the energy that went into them), he allowed for the accompanying special effects to unfold in full. All over his body, glowing lines traced out the remnants from his rituals, as images of snakes, phoenixes, dragons and the like blazed almost through the layers he was wearing. In his eyes, the pupil elongated into a draconic slit, while claws manifested on his fingers, capable of tearing through three feet of reinforced titanium like it was wet paper (he'd checked). His muscles took on an odd hue as his strength and speed expanded to almost 65% of their maximum levels, more than enough to make six feet thick walls of concrete collapse with one punch (he'd checked). His magic rose, much like a tsunami, to such a level that he could have overpowered every spell and magical being in a five mile radius simply by releasing a casual pulse ( He'd…..yeah, you guessed it, checked.)

It wasn't long before his magical senses were supplemented by the sounds of powerful wings pushing the air, propelling tons-heavy bodies towards the waiting fighters. Harry smiled in grim satisfaction as he watched the different pilots arm the various weapons, perfectly choosing from the thousands of options available to them.

LFG bombs(standing for Lace-of-Frost Gas), Sonic Grenades that would turn the Dragons' advanced hearing against them, Cecylahys poison injection-missiles, powdered Crumpton flowers, and a whole lot other weapons were being readied for deployment even now, becoming armed as the stasis spells upon them were removed, and their innate magic was brought to full power.

He was very much aware that as soon as they actually took down the enemy, the 'dragon' charade would be over. But that was fine, as the whole point was that the first five, ten seconds of the deception, which would ensure two things. The first was that the incoming dragons would be decimated with just the lowest echelon weapons used, while he would be able to establish the pretence of not having very good illusionary skills after all.

All such thoughts exited his mind, as the enemy came within visible range.

Sure enough, there they were, twenty one hulking, snarling lizards, each of them radiating a palpable aura of death and fire, barely restrained by the riders sitting on top of them. The smallest among them was over ten meters from nose to tail, and the largest was the size of a full grown stegosaurus.

He had no doubt that this force could reduce all Muggle civilization to ash and rubble inside of a day, and would stand a pretty good chance of being a miniscule threat to even a magical nation (like, one which would cause them to, maybe, sweat for ten minutes and get a yearning for coffee and/or strong alcohol).

Had he been alone, they would've made a decent challenge, like, for an hour or so. Now… well, the enemy had shown that they were taking this seriously, so it was as good a way to pass the time till they turned up as any other.

"Alright people, please tighten your seatbelts, put on your makeup. We've got a show to put on."

"Oh yes we do, sir." The voice of the squadron leader came, clear with a note of jubilation.

And then, without any more fanfare, it was on. The jets dove sharply, keeping intact the illusion for now. They approached the thunder, all weapons blazing, the pilots calculating the holes in the enemies' defences, while taking care to ensure that there weren't any in their own. Before long, they were changing formation, spreading out into a curved, three dimensional claw to form a kill box that none of the enemy would be leaving alive.

Harry himself focused on the riders. His orders to his men were to kill, but if one or two could be captured…

He moved slightly, calling into existence a small tornado of freezing cold air in anticipation of the fires that he felt were building up within the dragons. Around him, the jets twisted in yet another motion, readying themselves till they were in the needed positions, after which crystal wands popped out, releasing a salvo of fireballs from the illusionary 'mouths'.

Sure enough, the dragons were forced to tighten their formation to withstand his tornado, drawing upon each other's fires, which made them easy targets for the fireballs. They were all direct hits, enshrouding the whole lot of them in fire and smoke.

Which was then penetrated to reveal the dragons flying on, barely having noticed the attack.

But it had been an attack, leading to a response by the beings as they opened their maws, releasing huge gouts of flame that had Harry's pilots twisting and spiralling to avoid it. They immediately doubled back, maintaining the claw, while Harry cast the Prohibere spirandi, more commonly called the ancient strangulation curse. It had been invented by the roman general turned emperor Maximus Decimus Meridius, the Conqueror of Germania, who had used it to great effect in his campaigns.

It had proved its worth against ancient magic when entire hordes of berserkers had dropped like flies to it, and it proved its worth now, as the dragons visibly strained against the magic, trying and failing to fight off the clamp it was forming around their throats. Harry almost considered that this might be it, but his faith in providence was restored when the riders' voices chanted out loud, incanting the counter spell. Harry was quick with a Muller's Lock, an injunction that nullified most common counters. It worked, and he could see real panic on their faces now, with the dragons starting to falter mid-flight, till…

The spell ceased to exist, the threads of magic withering into mere wisps.

Harry raised an eyebrow. That hadn't been a spell, no, that was Structural Deconstruction.*

Well, who'd have thought! They did have an expert in abstractual magic. And a good one at that, it seemed. He found the art tricky, and modesty aside, that was saying something. (No, really, it wasn't a matter of ego. He had the gold class mastery certificate, one of less than twenty in the whole wide world, to prove it.)

Still, that was an advantage successfully extracted out of this little skirmish just like that, and it'd hardly even begun!

Because that was how Harry carried out his life-or-death engagements. There was very little that could force him to divert all his attention to active combat, so he spent most of his brainpower in staying so many steps ahead of his opponents that they couldn't even count them without getting hopelessly distracted themselves.

Harry carelessly dodged a burst of flame, freezing shut the jaw it came from with a twitch of a finger. With another few, he created a dragon shaped construct out of pure ice, and then used it as an iron maiden to encase the aforementioned dragon in it.

All this, just so when the dragon broke out effortlessly, he could loudly say "Well, that breaks the ice."

Painful jokes aside, Harry now knew they had to work fast now. "We have to work fast now!" he said to the pilots.

Their response came from their actions, in the form of simultaneous deployments of over a dozen level 3 weapons. Again, given the fact that these were of the fire element, there was no real damage.

That was fine. The point of the façade as to get close to the dragons, close enough, and without alerting them enough, for one of the lesser one-hit-kill measures to work.

Well, lesser or greater, it was now time for those measures to be used. Harry moved at three times the speed of sound, darting here and there about them much in the way of a fly, peppering them with a medley of spells. Each spell granted instant incapacitation, and each was different from its fellows in the how.

Most of them failed, giving him rather valuable insight in the levels of knowledge the Alex's had regarding this branch of magic by observing the way they failed. Meanwhile, his own 'dragons' opened with a salvo of poison 'bullets', topped with enchantments geared to penetrate the natural protections of dragons as well as the most common shielding spells.

Needless to say, given as the Alexandrovitchs were not total idiots, none of these worked either. Again, this was exactly as he'd expected things to be, and the only reaction from the Ouroboros pilots was to switch to one level higher.

This time, he synchronized his own spells with the weapons deployed; making it so both his own magic and that of the planes supplemented and strengthened each other. This time, five dragons ceased to be, turning into chunks of flesh that rained (not so)prettily on the ground below them, while the rest managed to dodge it in time.

It took several minutes afterwards, as spell after spell rained on the encircled (well, more like en-sphered) dragons. They and their riders fought back well, yes. One of Harry's pilotless planes was even flamed down, but the end was never in doubt.

"Yes! Look at 'em fall, bloody beasts" he heard over his comm. link from one of the pilots. He could have said something, but he decided to leave it to experience to teach the man the folly of his words.

Still, it was amusing to him. That someone could be happy at this…

Because if anyone was thinking that this was a 'big', 'successful' skirmish, that they had bravely and gloriously 'survived', they were in for a rude awakening.

It was a loosely thrown punch, at best, if the entire house of Alexandrovitch was to be regarded as a single man. Not small enough to be effortless, but it would take enduring many, many of them to even begin to tire the other guy out.

Still, his side weren't lightweights either.

"Okay, with that interruption done, we need to do this quickly." He said to Selene. "Activate the mirrors, patch me an uplink, and then get me Harford after ten minutes."

"Done."

Harry felt the mirrors out with his senses, tying the magical connections directly to his mind, before channelling the powers he needed into them through the gloves he was wearing. Slowly, he felt the vast powers of the Mirror of Erised course through him, pouring into the connection, spreading over the whole building in front of him into a vast mist, ready to ensnare anyone fool enough to be caught.

There were roughly three hundred men in the base, protected by extremely powerful and well-woven wards.

Which were utterly useless before the powers of the mirror, given that there wasn't any hostile magic to them at all. There wasn't even illusionary power, as the mirror operated on entirely separate principles. It cut through like a hot knife through butter, starting to gain control over the defenders rapidly.

It was a shame that all that could be done was to immobilize the defenders, but it was all they had.

Harry had just put the final touches on the whole construct, creating a self-sustaining web, when he was alerted that Marshal Harford was on the line. "Well, Marshal? Where were they from?" he asked distractedly, his full attention on the transport spell to move the helpless dragons to Britain. His men had bound and secured them, but there wasn't currently a porting platform big enough for the actual transport.

"They were successfully tracked, your grace. I deployed two squadrons after them, along with ACs 23 and 16." The voice was slightly nervous.

"The defences were that powerful?" Harry asked, even as he magically invoked the vassal bond and started probing the man's mind.

"Yes, sir, there were rather vast-"

"Spare me the details for now, Marshal. Put them in the report. It was your call, after all." Harry said, while at the same time extracting those very details out of the man's mind.

The man could do with feeling a bit trusted. Harry figured it would help alleviating the annoyance he was detecting in his mind, left behind to play guard dog as he was.

Meanwhile, Harry analysed the data. The origin point wasn't too far, just a couple hundred miles from their position. Harry considered popping off to take a look at it, but desisted. The situation here was far more delicate.

He finished the transport spell, moving the dragons cross-continent with a muted flash, before turning to face the group of officers.

"Okay, enough with the half efforts. I want everything that can fire anything to be prepped and brought to full power inside of a minute. Orient the third and the seventh to bring down the wards, and tell the 14th to prepare against reinforcements, possibly airborne."

He made a show out of scratching his chin as he apparently wondered what else to do. "Tell the Med. Corp to go to full alert. Apart from that, well, all we can do is wait for any reinforcements to come for them, or for their wards to fall. Anyone have a pack of cards?"

The statement solicited several chuckles and rueful smiles from the men who knew him, and incredulous expressions from the newbies, who were shushed by the others fairly quickly.

The room had started to descend into a medley of murmured discussions and orders, till one of the Colonels, one of those assigned to the Creature companies, said "Sir, isn't it time for a check up on the rest of the campaign?"

"Ah yes, Colonel. Good point. Well, Selene?"

"Sir, I estimate that there are over ten minutes before any serious action can be expected. It is more than enough for a full report. So, shall I?"

"Yes, you may" Harry said. In his mind, Selene did the mental equivalent of a nod, before commencing.

"There were exactly twenty-six offensives launched today. The details are already known, so I shall not waste time at them. Their current statuses are:

"Offensive 1: The taking of the Leningrad cluster from the House of Cherinsky. Current status: Successful, consolidation initiated.

"2: The interception and acquiring of the Winter-Magic consignment headed to the Cherinskys. Current status; in progress.

"3: The destruction of the Odessa sea-air fleet of the 'Desecrators of Joy' war-band (A.N: That's my band. The sacrifices I make for you people…*) Status: Complete. Special note: Via a Hell-rain execution.

"4: The robbing of the medicinal reserves from…

…

…

"26:The assassinations of Jean-Louise Ducard, aka Boris Karminsky, Michael Anderson, aka Yuri Drach, Emmanuel De La Romeu, aka Nikita Alexandrovitch,-"

"I get it, the European clean up job. Status please." Harry said, carefully inserting the right amount of exasperation in his voice.

"Of course, your grace. They're complete."

"And the ex-fil?"

"Also complete"

"Okay… so, what about the Redist?"

"The Redistribution Protocol has been initiated under the contingency four, sir. The teams whose operations have been completed are split 3-ways, one team for on-site security and clean up, one for the ongoing operations, and the last for the home bases."

"Excellent. Now what about the action? I'm getting bored here!"

"HA imaging reports no activity… wait. There's heavy infantry headed your way from Cherinsky 11… no wait, Harford fired off a cruise missile. They're gone. Burnt to a crisp. Obliterated. Exterminated. They're…"

"I get it. Trust me, I really do." Harry sometime wondered if he hadn't gone a bit too far with the flippancy protocols. It was almost necessary that he be as random and chaotic as possible, both in regards to his position as the heir of Sharr, and due to his father's legend.

Even though, it was a chore at times, dealing with Selene when it (not 'she'. Never 'she', because that way led to an avenue he wasn't ready to explore yet) was like this.

"Well, anything else? I'm in serious danger of going into a berserk rage." He said with a faux yawn.

"Well, there is…" Harry's mind ceased to be on Selene, as his attention was drawn to a singularly problematic happening. Namely, the collapse of the illusion that was supposed to be keeping all the defenders rooted to their spots, just helpless in ecstasy. Probing the cause, he sighed. Nullification spells were such a bore. Someone had cast a spell to just neutralize all mind magic in the area, and it had worked almost perfectly.

"Oh to hell with it!" Harry stood up from where he'd been sitting. Ignoring the hurried motions around him, he strode out of the tent, while making his staff stay behind with a gesture.

It was possibly rather stupid, but Harry had made up his mind that Yevgeni Alexandrovitch would die today. If it took Harry himself showing off to drag the idiot here, then so be it. He was spoiling for a fight anyway.

And so he walked, at a brisk, careless pace, to the very forefront to the encampment. He gave a brief look upwards, where spells from his subordinates were bombarding the wards like there was no tomorrow.

Harry rose high into the air.

Half an hour later

Derek Kelson was not, simply speaking, all that much of a fan of the young man who commanded his every waking breath. Harry Potter was his liege, by right of inheritance, and his word was law. Derek had been taught these things since his birth, and he'd taken them to heart. But still, a fourteen year old was still just a fourteen year old. Despite whatever he heard of the lad's skill, he'd doubted.

He didn't anymore. Just half an hour ago, Harry Potter had called down no less than a hundred meteors straight on the building they were trying to take, completely sapping the wards that protected it. He'd done that from over half a kilometre high in the air, and in the span of three seconds. Derek had had his doubts dispelled then and there, but what followed only drove home the point.

The man had been starting on corrupting the weakened wards and disabling them, when they'd all felt a massive build-up of power a small distance from them. Looking at it had revealed their worst fears; the whole Alexandrovitch host in all of its bloody glory, with the butcher itself at its helm.

The orders had been given, of course, and they'd engaged, but no one doubted that the real show was not what they were doing, but what was happening in the skies above them.

On one side was Yevgeni Alexandrovitch, a weathered veteran, fierce and proud. On the other was Harry Potter; world famous, brim-full of confidence and the next star of magic.

The combat was even now raging, and had only grown fiercer.

Kelson gazed at the skies, where the two figures could be seen, locked in intense combat beyond anything anyone else could manage. Harry Potter gestured with his hands, and the wind formed into blades, rushing at Alexandrovitch, who neutralized it with a look, while releasing a burst of killing curses like bullets out of a Gatling.

Those fizzled out midway through to the younger man, who hissed briefly, causing the very clouds to form into serpents biting and snapping at Alexandrovitch. Alexandrovitch flicked a finger, and the snakes turned into long, sharp blades, that encircled the Duke, closing in to render him into fine mist.

It was the most intensive combat any soldier on either side had seen yet, with dozens of spells being cast in seconds, while magic well beyond the reach of regular wizards was tossed around casually.

Magical POV switch

Even as he cast seventeen separate spells, three invocations, and eight curses at Yevgeni, Harry wondered about the possibility of himself getting excited, of all things. It wasn't possible! He couldn't feel, he reasoned, while forming a shield out of pure spirit-fire drawn from his own soul, to burn all the magic 'Alex' was casting while his wide area shield struggled to contain Harry's magic. Yes, it wasn't possible for him to get excited! He even controlled his adrenaline flow, and there wasn't any being released currently.

But, he thought while reshaping his shield into a hundred lances that rushed at Alex from all directions, that did nothing to explain just why his magic was alive with joy, or just why every demon his mind held connections to was getting steadily stronger.

Even as the flame-lances petered out before the 'Rain of Nightmares' that Yevgeni unleashed, Harry wondered if there wasn't actual credence to the 'race instincts and memories' thing that was so popular with soul magic specialists.

In any case, that could be analysed later, Harry thought, summoning three afrits and letting them loose. He doubled back, intending to use the twelve to fifteen seconds it would take the other man to deal with them to bring out a couple of big guns. He whispered a series of prayer verses in old Sanskrit, giving a mental thanks to Chandrakant Patil at the same time. The result was made apparent in the form of the weapon that materialized; a bow of pure energy with an arrow already notched on it. Harry finished off the verses with a few chosen words, before he released the Ram Baan at his enemy.

The weapon was supposed to be able to penetrate any and all protections and strike the aimed target, but this was the first live test he'd done. Sure enough, it went through all twenty-three layers of protections that the other warlord was under, penetrating straight to his…shoulder?

Damn. Harry knew that had he used the original weapon there wasn't a force in the world capable of stopping it, but Alex was just too small a target to waste the literal once-in-a-lifetime weapon. (That was the deal with Hindu divine weapons. You could use the undefeatable original only once, till then you had to make do with cheap knockoffs that you created with your own magic (as opposed to how the original was born of the grace of the god it came from))

Still, it confirmed something that Harry had been thinking since the start of the fight. Namely, that Alexandrovitch was carrying a defensive Noble phantasm of his own. He thought he recognized some of the aura patterns as belonging to the shield of Medea, but couldn't be sure.

Just another thing to take off a cooling corpse, either way.

And there was quite a list, by now. Even as Harry dodged the flaming, rapidly dissolving remains of his Afrits, he mused on that. In any magical combat, the most important things were what one could do. What magic a person could cast, how well they could cast it, how quickly, that made or broke all combat. But that was exactly what it was, the most important thing, not the only important thing. There was a world of difference between the two, and it could be seen here.

Harry could count out at least nine separate mystic codes that Alexandrovitch was carrying currently, and they were acting in a major way towards the man's victory. The nullifier that sapped nearly half the power of Harry's spells, the unidentified Noble Phantasm, the potion that his clothes were releasing, which was trying its level best to penetrate Harry's mental defence, two separate poisons that had undergone burnout in the face of the basilisk venom in Harry's blood, it was quite a list.

Dispelling his thoughts, Harry took advantage of the eye contact he'd just made with Yevgeni, weaving a series of illusions in the man's mind, only to let out yet another sigh of annoyance when they were shredded with a pulse from a false tooth in the man's mouth. As he cast a spell of primordial destruction on the flock of Bethmooran toothfairies that the man conjured in return (and boy was he good at transfiguration. Harry had learned quite a few things already), Harry pondered the merits of a 'Chaos Infliction' to disrupt all ordered magic in the area.

Nah… there were other things he wanted to try out.

For a second Harry considered if this… flippancy he was treating this thing with was wise. After all, such things were a sure cause of destruction. But no. Harry had been having an easy time because he'd made an exhaustive study of all of Alex's strategies, commonly used spells, magical patterns, and, well, everything. Of course, he'd have been a fool beyond imagine if he'd relied totally on them, as any plan that didn't allow for the unexpected couldn't ever hope to survive contact with the enemy. He'd allowed for a slew of contingencies, which was the reason this deluge of items that Yevgeni was using didn't faze him. It was contingency #3, to be exact, that 'The Alex's have acquired many powerful objects. They may be used.'

So… yes. It was a success of decent planning, not arrogance.

Having successfully concluded that, Harry released a series of high power elemental spells, releasing a cumulative 'end of the world' effect at Alexandrovitch. Done with analysing the man's defence, he overpowered everything thirteen times over.

And was pleasantly rewarded as the blazing, ultra sharp, wickedly flaming blades of doom overcame all defence, and sank deep into the man. Of course, 'deep' was subjective, in this case meaning a quarter of an inch. Not crippling or fatal, but Harry could at least claim to have 'left his mark' on the man. There was no blood, regrettably, as the wounds were cauterized instantly, but he took his victories where he could get them.

More importantly, it resulted in the man going, well, not 'berserk with pain and rage'; he was too experienced for that, but just a bit too angry, introducing that tiny bit of sloppiness that Harry needed. This would be over soon now.

Harry released a series of tiny magical pulses at that, results of an offensive blood ritual, while absentmindedly obliterating Alex's conjured killravens with a wink. Having had some opportunity to analyse the nature of the defences possessed by Yevgeni, he'd deliberately calibrated them to pass under their detection ranges. Sure enough, he detected the magic going into effect, as the man's blood cooled rapidly, starting to freeze in his veins.

For an ordinary magical, this would've been a killing spell, as hardly anyone could reliably cast spells upon their own blood (the magic mostly got broken up into raw magic and reabsorbed into the blood) unless they knew exactly what to do. Unfortunately, he thought as he sensed the man's magic neutralizing the magic, the counter-ritual had been around for quite some time, and had gotten spread around rather thoroughly.

Of course, he'd accounted for that, Harry thought while he took the opportunity this granted him (about eight to ten seconds when his opponent was in tremendous pain) to release a set of spells that would be the killing blow in this whole thing. A whole swarm of Afrits, led by a Marid was summoned, followed by two dozen of each of his flight capable magical constructs, each armed with the utmost power that all his skill could create. Of course, that was just the beginning, what with Zar'roc springing to his hand, and the power of the mirror surfacing fully in his eyes. Harry was now fully in 'Archmage' mode, with his aura springing out in full purple glow, while the Kraken's powers unfolded in the form of tentacles from that very aura.

As a final step, Harry dropped the limits on his powers, letting the full mental effects of his aura to unfold. He allowed himself a grim smile at the visible flinch this drew from both his fellow warlord and his subordinates, in the face of the crushing terror that was exploding out in waves. With Harry's tight leash on his powers removed to almost the full extent, the full presence of chaos could be felt for miles, he surmised. He wasn't surprised in the slightest, as the very air and magic around them warped, creating portals and random effects, while starting to erode the very powers Yevgeni's magic was exerting to control his blood.

Still, it was a tiny erosion, and Harry could see the man returning back to the fight in moments. But now…

As the man struggled, Harry started raining spell after spell at him, all aimed to deliver death in their own ways. Bone breakers, AKs, Blood boilers, heart vanishing spells, all rained in a nonstop flow, while Harry picked out anything interesting he detected in the man's fighting style.

After that, well, it was a matter of time, as the fatigue mounted. Harry continued with his spells, raining low powered magics to just overwhelm the man's defences, while firing off lucky one-hit-killers in between.

REST OF WAR SCENE TO BE DONE LATER

The meeting was about a war. To be more exact, it was about a shadow war, a terrifying, grim concept at the best of days, and a nightmare at the worst.

Not that anyone here was a stranger to it. After all, a significant portion of the Dark Lord's first rise had just been one especially violent example, and he had played a vital part in it. And right now the faction that this group of people was part of had more power than most players in British political history had dared to dream of. But still, they were unpredictable things.

While everyone around the table read over the papers they had been handed just moments ago, Lucius mused over what he knew.

Arguably the first such event was when the fifteen families, acting in concert with the Warlocks of the Round, bound every ennobled magical family in Britain into one Wizengamot. The second was when several of those very families deposed the Wizengamot, and formed the Wizards' council, ruling for nearly half a century till they themselves were toppled, to form the Wizengamot back, but this time with all executive power concentrated into a number of different institutions. Then another was when major members of this new Wizengamot were killed off, and the disjoint organs of the executive were bound into one Ministry of Magic.

Since then the examples had been tamer in terms of magnitude, but still, that didn't count for much as far as actual impact was concerned. Case in point, the last one had allowed Lucius a great deal of control all over the Ministry, which was only now beginning to even be noticed properly.

And now there was going to be another one. Another bout of the Great Game, the elaborate art of cloaks and daggers, where all rules of politeness and decency were thrown out of the window, honesty was an even greater stupidity than normal, and the corridors of power underwent rapid renovations. People would die, businesses would be closed, departments dissolved and committees abolished. Families would be broken up, different members seduced by different sides. It would go on and on, administrations crumbling and positions being played against each other, till one side emerged as clear victors, as the side that would dictate the lives of Britain for the foreseeable future.

Lucius was working on plans already, to see Draco either readied for the fighting or out of the country, and to test Narcissa's loyalties. He would have to purge his companies, his contacts, see which ones would answer. He knew that Nott was doing the same, as were all the members of the Ouroboros.

Speaking of which…

"Is this for real?" Timothy Dalglish, a vassal lord of the Gryffindors asked.

Lucius could only nod.

"But-I mean, this isn't possible!"

"Well, we are expected to make it possible." Bartemius Crouch said. The man had taken surprisingly well to being relieved of free will and being made into a walking, talking and casting sock puppet. But then, he had been devoted enough to a woman that she managed to make him ignore everything that mattered in his life, his ruthlessness, his honour, his altruism, and break one of Voldemort's most loyal supporters from Azkaban. So perhaps there wasn't all that much in terms of free will after all.

But considerations about free will aside, he had a point. Looking on the surface, the task did seem impossible, and in actuality, they were expected to do it anyway.

Sighing, Lucius looked back at what was causing the discussions.

It was three pages long, most of them detailing matters that had little import right now. The crux was on page three, the final list of objectives.

The acquiring of, at the very least, a seventy-five percent incontrovertible majority within the Wizengamot, to a degree that no dispute between the interests of the seat holders and the Alliance is possible.

The establishment of Alliance members, or, failing that, Alliance placemen at the Chairmanships of all Wizengamot councils, and enough committees to ensure a seventy-five percent majority in the Council of Chairmen.

The quadrupling, from their states at the official initiation of the war, of the personal and family fortunes of every member of the core assembly, as it is at the time of initiation, and the doubling of the same fortunes for the lesser members.

The establishment of Alliance members, or placemen, at each and every one of the Directorships, Deputy Directorships, the Minister position, the Senior and Junior Undersecretary positions, the Chief Warlock position, the Vice Chief Warlock position, and the Lord Protector-ships and Mugwump-hoods for the protectorates of Ireland, Australasia, Canada, South Africa and Barbados.

The acquiring of 96% stake in all publications by Alliance members or nominees.

The establishment of an absolute monopoly in all markets, especially ones oriented towards combat.

The utter and absolute enslavement on the same degree as the erstwhile House of Yaxley, or, failing that, extinction and dissolution, of the House of Morrigan and all its members and vassals, as well as any other Noble families rated as a credible and likely threat.

The establishment of an Alliance member as Director of Mysteries.

The removal, from any and all positions of power and influence, of any person above the age of 100.

For the purposes of carrying out the preparations for these objectives, the subcommittee of political affairs- Britain is henceforth granted level 3 access to the Resource Pool, subject to accountability and answerability to the founder's council only.

Additionally, the political subcommittee is granted a sum of twenty million galleons, out of my personal discretionary funds, subject to the same accountability.

Furthermore, Lord Wiltshire, as Chairman of the subcommittee, is henceforth granted full deputy-chairman-level authority to the political subcommittees of the protectorates, once again subject solely to the founder council.

Thus commanded
Henry
Duke of Gryphonsworth and Parsellsia

Following it was an elegant signature, and the seal, an Ouroboros around a stylized 'HF', standing for 'Harry-Founder'.

Of course, a matter that provided relief and trepidation in equal measures was the presence of one Harry Potter. Lucius was honest enough to himself(and man enough) to recognize that if there was anyone suited for the mantle of greatness in this country, it was the lad approaching fifteen. He admitted, that wasn't what he'd first thought, but in recent times…

After all, even if all other considerations were trashed, the young man's planning skills alone made him worthy of it. The way he had taken, and indeed, was even now taking Althric to greater and greater heights, the way he commanded the Ouroboros, the way he led the army, all were true marks of greatness far beyond what Lucius had seen in the Dark Lord.

Speaking of which, Lucius's mind went back to the sheets of parchment in front of him. Displayed on it, on the first page was the message that had been his official notification about the current state of affairs, while outlining his duties, which were rather considerably important, if he did say so himself.

First and foremost was the matter of the aforementioned dark lord and his dark order. After all, there were only six people aware of the true facts; them being the founder councillors, him, and Nott. That naturally meant that both he and Nott had to play important roles in maintaining the charade. Lucius had to say, he doubted it was needed, given that the simulacrum he knew was acting as Voldemort was almost completely indistinguishable from the real thing, but still.

He knew that the first pages on the other files were similarly distinct, detailing their own duties.

And it had to be said, that if Harry Potter ever went dark, as in truly, completely dark, then their world was screwed. That was a simple statement that Lucius could make easily, just looking at how he was doing at replacing Voldemort.

Currently, the Death Eaters had been reorganized entirely. The old arrangements all discarded as useless and remade into a simple, close knit structure. Everyone who had any connections worth speaking of were provided the resources they needed, be it funds, houses, potion supplies, and whatnot. Every battle capable witch or wizard was under the best training money could buy, while a vast stockpile of resources was being accumulated, all preparing for one, single objective: The creation of a mighty, deadly force of entirely disposable shock troop-cum-terrorists, so as to cause untold and untraceable mayhem. No doubt all actual violence would come from these very wands. They would torture and kill and burn and rape, raining depravity after depravity upon the world, all in the name of Voldemort, unaware that they were dancing to the tune of his greatest enemy.

Frankly, it was enough to make him smile in amusement.

Chuckling wearily, he turned his attention back to the room.

"Before we descend into undue panic, we need to note the relevant matters, gentlemen."

"First of all, we should understand that this is not, in fact, impossible. We have with us over one hundred and fifty votes in the organization itself." Lucius said, deliberately excluding the votes of the Death Eaters that weren't part of the alliance.

"And if the votes we and our co-members have are not enough, we have nearly a hundred votes more that we can influence to our favour. We all know that there are Warlocks, Lords and Heads of departments owing us not a few favours, and who will vote wherever we ask them to vote." He said. Looking around, he could see that while reassuring, his words hadn't nearly been enough to convince them.

Sighing, he continued. "And that's without mentioning our support in the ministry. Between us, we control the departments of games, international cooperation, transport and creatures outright through the directors, while we have a great deal of influence over the others too. What has the enemy got? Finance, Judicial affairs, some power in law enforcement. That's it. Trust me, it's more than doable."

Again he looked around. This time, there was more hope, given that there were a few slow nods starting to appear, but by and large…

He sighed, before snapping his fingers to summon an elf. As soon as one popped in, he instructed it to fetch the book that'd been supplied by the founders for exactly this purpose. One day he'd realize just how Harry Potter guessed these things, but for now he'd have to settle for browsing through it before he asked another elf to fetch the copies for the other attendants at the meeting.

He noted with some pride that a great deal of material covered his own work, carried out over the last decade when he slowly put puppet strings in place throughout the ministry, law by law and official by official. It was yet another example of their changed conditions. Earlier, he'd been competing for influence with not just Dumbledore, Morrigan and the like, but also with his fellow 'dark' families. Indeed, the Notts and the Yaxleys, not to mention the dozen or so lesser houses, had done almost more to hinder each other and him than the light ever managed. But now, all of that was ended. The vast majority of the traditionalist purebloods, the heart of the much touted 'dark faction', were now united under one, single leader. That meant a blanket ban on all the undercutting, jockeying and tricking that went on in politics, allowing for the sum total of their resources to be used on their common enemies.

The end result, especially when the resources so acquired were added to by those of a whole host of other families, businessmen and officials, was nothing short of fantastic. Already there were whole books worth of data, detailing just who had done what in what ways, all ready to be released and ruin careers. And it was on everyone committee chairpersons, division and section heads, directors, council members, and businessmen, no matter whom or what they were.

For example, Malfoy himself controlled over a dozen ultra-discreet, very high class brothels scattered across Europe, employing a rather complex mixture of bound veela, partial metamorphs(full ones were far too valuable to waste casually), and other, delightful samples. A whole list of the world's great and powerful had made use of them often and repeatedly, acting out their wildest fantasies, never knowing of the veritable blanket of surveillance and recording measures that existed throughout them. He wondered, how the world would react to seeing the German Deputy Head of Law Enforcement crawling around a room in a dog collar, the leash in the hand of a veela in stilettos, or to the rather interesting sight of the American Director of State, known to people as a prim and proper lady of forty-something years playing, very convincingly, it had to be added, as a captured slave girl, taking on sweaty, muscled young men… three at a time.

He had enough to bring a whole lot of long, glittering careers to dead stops, enough end whole departments. Hell, if he played his cards right and had just a tad of luck, he could collapse entire administrations with it! In the past, it had served him well in building back the Malfoy fortune from the state his and his father's service to Voldemort had left it in. Now… well, he'd already donated the vast majority into the common pool, so that was a huge contribution right there, but there was also the fact that a whole lot of blackmail had been unusable, given that the individuals in question were under 'protection' from Nott, Yaxley and the like. Since that was ended… it made for interesting contemplation.

And that was just one source, out of the… well, that would be telling!

He had credible evidence that Nott had similar sources, not to mention the whole lot of other members. Earlier those 'sources of influence' had been against each other at least just as much as against others, a situation completely ended nowadays.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Somalia. A land of lawlessness, where the law of the sword was the only law, where all pretence of civilization hadn't just been dropped, it had been contemptuously and violently rejected. It was home to thousands of criminals and still larger numbers of their supporters, among whom, if the former were savages of ferocity rarely matched, the sheer moral bankruptcy of the latter was a thing of legend. In today's time, Somalia was among the few true tribal lands still extant. It was hell descended on Earth, a parcel of land on the horn of Africa that was, even though lacking the trees, just as teeming with animals as the rest of the continent.

It was also one of the only places in the world where the Muggle and magical societies were in close political and social alignment. To realize this properly one would have to know the facts about the magical side of the Dark Continent. To the north of the land, its borders in a sharp, diagonal line from the south-eastern most point of Egypt to the western-most point of the small nation of Benin, was the Persian Magical Empire. To the far south, encompassing the Muggle nations of South Africa, Lesotho, Namibia, Botswana, and Zimbabwe, extending all the way along the eastern coast to the southern border of Ethiopia and above-mentioned Somalia, was the Protectorate of South Africa, a British puppet state.

And all through the middle of the continent was a mishmash of little republics, kingdoms and nations, hardly the size of a decent sized noble estate. Simply put, they were tribal lands, ruled by the shaman-lords and the woodland monarchs, just as they had been since times immemorial. Of course, it wasn't as if things had to be like that. No, the lands were rich, almost beyond measure to be honest, teeming as they were with beings of value and power beyond reckoning, not to mention the vast mineral wealth that lay beneath the ground.

But it was in the vested interests of the two superpowers above and below them that they not unite into one nation, which would be more than powerful enough to be a serious challenge to them both. So, divided they stayed, rife with death, pain and bloodshed. And nowhere was all of the bloodshed thicker than at Somalia.

Just like the Muggle side of things.

Well, just like the Muggle side was for now, it would be more accurate, thought the young man called Astor Werrlot, Master of Arms for the House of Potter, who currently had under his command over two dozen of the world's finest fighters, into the form of the Crusader Company, a detachment from the directorate of special forces.

His mission was simple, to lay down the groundwork for when forces were sent to carry out the transformation of this… cesspit, into a place worthy of the tag 'civilized'. He was here in a semi-official capacity at that, to be the Chief of Security as the Potter Foundation went about delivering necessary goods to the people. Not that that was all. He was also to be part of one of the Muggle companies that the duke had under his thrall. Apparently the company had been made to start a series of initiatives to ostensibly 'do business' in the region, but in actuality there were going to be more than a few people working at crushing the local warlords under Phoenix's booted heel.

What he needed to be doing was to act as a Muggle head of security for the company, keeping them safe while they went about their work. This was simple enough with a few cursory spells, leaving him and his men with ample time to go about the second objective, that of using Muggle methods to put in place a series of magical bases, supply caches and safe houses, in preparation for the inevitable, an armed conquest of the region.

He wondered for a few seconds just when a plan like that could be allowed to come to fruition, as it would result in the one thing both Britain ad Persia were loath of, a common border (the other reason behind the tribal states' existence). Of course, there were other considerations on the British side too…

Werrlot didn't know it because he didn't need to, but Harry had actually made rather encompassing plans in the region. Phoenix had moved in a few weeks ago in a fleet of armed ships, and set up shop in a rather major way. Licenses had been procured from the UN and several government for a variety of operations, such as to allow Phoenix Fishing total monopoly in the seas around the horn, for Phoenix Infrastructure to build cheap, good quality housing for the locals, roads, shipyards, hospitals and, well, infrastructure, and for Phoenix Charity to supply the basic necessities of life to the severely, terribly underprivileged people at large.

That, at least, was the cover story.

In actuality, while the fishing ships currently prowling the coasts were supplying several tons of good quality fish to the world, their actual purpose was far more benign than something as plebeian as 'earning money'. A few fertility spells, some thousand litters of potions sprinkled, and all of the damage that had ever been done to the fish population was already healed, even enhanced to the point that the amounts he was taking, which would have been crippling a month ago, was barely noticeable. But that was one thing, another was the fact that already, in a few short weeks, over two dozen pirate ships had been sunk with all hands lost, adding nicely to his blood factories and Inferi armies.

And even the eco-friendly measures weren't out of the goodness of his heart (he didn't have goodness, period, or for that matter,a heart.) Fact was, 'mother nature' was pretty much the same as 'magic', and earning her/its favour like this was supposed to give him at least some leeway when he started the really big plans.

But the point was that even now the Muggles over which Werrlot had titular command (his lieutenants ostensibly answered to him, but in actuality received their orders directly from Harry), had tracked down and exterminated several of the most violent and sick warlords, allowing the provinces they controlled to fall to other ones that had the serpent sworn mark. The process would be stretched out over a while, four-five years or so, so that world suspicion, already aroused with the events throughout the dictatorships, did not turn into full-fledged alarm.

And either way, anything that would or would not happen in Somalia was a long time away. Africa would be tamed, but at the right time.

XXXXXXXXXX

Russia
10 Days before the third task

Harry was looking over the document in his hands.

The study of fire is as old as the element itself. No one has ever quite succeeded in comprehending the true nature of the element, or its limitations, although the list of those who have tried is almost beyond counting.

For the purposes of this paper, I shall endeavour not to be sidetracked and stay to the main points about the study of fire.

Firstly, we need an understanding of just what fire is, and how it is created, and ended, along with the principles of handling it.

Scientifically, fire is a combination of two forms of energy, heat and light. As all Muggle knowledge, this is utterly pedestrian and woefully incomplete, although correct by a technicality. Indeed, common, everyday fire is just like that, with the only interesting aspect being the fact that it changes colours according to its heat, a fact that is in direct contradiction to most observations regarding magical fires.

Now, the point of this paper is to study magical fire, in its different types and along its different uses and natures.

The simplest forms of magical fires are the ones born of the Incendio spell, which are mostly common fires, with the barest touch of magic. They are easy to cast, and extinguish just like common fires. Although a skilled user can work impressive feats with Incendio, that is entirely due to their personal skill, and not a component of spell.

The second rung in the ladder, although the spell is simpler for them, are the bluebell flames. These are blue coloured flames, and can be cast by even the weakest, most unimaginative witch or wizard. Despite that, they are one of the most useful forms of magical fire out there, requiring little to no sustenance to burn for hours, while giving off exactly the desired amount of heat.

After them, are a whole lot of variants, each with varying degrees of usefulness and power, not to mention ease of casting. But for our purposes, we focus on the level after that, the most powerful kind of fire available in wand magic, which is known simply as Fiendfyre. Extraordinarily hot, and possessing a direct link to the spirits of every beast to ever either die by fire or wield it, it is one of the most powerful wand spells in existence. Not just that, but one would not be wrong in saying that it is one of the most powerful pieces of magic, period.

It is after Fiendfyre, that we come to the upper level spells, also known as Mage-class magic.

Here one needs to bear caution, for not all forms of magic are for everyone to use. Arguably the simplest form is…

The whole thesis was over a hundred pages long, containing numerous spells, diagrams and potion recipes. Harry would have to give a practical examination too, as well as Pensieve memories of having applied the knowledge in real life. The whole thing, just to qualify as a fire elemental. Granted, he could have done with half as much effort, but that would have limited him to a mere elemental. This, on the other hand, was enough to get him an Arch Elemental status. Hell, even Grand Elemental status wasn't out of the question.

It was strangely symbolic that he was doing this now, given as he'd just concluded the whole bloody shenanigan he called the Russian Conquest, and was in the process of burning down all enemy strongholds that he'd been besieging for the last week. And by god had it been tough. He'd had to suppress no less that seventeen separate attacks, each enough in magnitude to suppress whole legions. The unnamed Abstractual magic master especially had needed Uzariel himself called down upon them and their whole castle.

Then there'd been Yuri Alexandrovitch.

K

The sounds of war were finally dying down, as the Ouroboros Army's soldiers finished the clean-up. the final stronghold of the Alex's had burned well, but there had been a last rush out that had managed to penetrate their defending lines, breaking out of the wards with the sheer power of the dying gasp of a primary keystone. It was an irksome thing, having to hunt down all of the enemy units that escaped just to find the leader, but it had to be done.

"What's the current status now, Selene?"

"Unit six has just cornered another group, Harry, they're checking them now…" After a few seconds, she continued "…He's not with them, either."

"Kill them, then." Harry said. "Now, what's the count?"

"I detect just one remaining, Harry. It's speeding for the coast."

"Oh ok-… wait. There were five teams that escaped. We hunted three by now, so how can there be only one left?"

"I… agree, Harry." The AI spoke in a subdued tone. It continued "It seems my detection abilities have been fooled."

"Yeah, it does. Now don't you think that the wards that could achieve such a thing are the exact location one might expect dear old Yuri to be?"

"Well-"

"Don't bother, dear; Rhetorical question. What I want you to do is, assign three teams to neutralize the group going for the coast, then send half of the rest back to home bases under Redist 7."

"Acknowledged. The other half?"

"Tell them to initiate consolidation."

"Acknowledged."

Harry snapped his fingers, calling the Afrit in charge of his spirit guardian retinue. It appeared in the guise of a falcon-headed man, wielding a bloody trident. "Hail, summoner! I and my kin bring you great and bloody glory, Harry Potter!"

"So you killed off Yevvy dearest's brothers, did you? Any trouble finding them?"

"None, they were all where you said they'd be. Although that is a minor matter, what matters is that my kin and I have-"

"And what is that hanging from your trident? It's not…"

"If you were going to ask if it's entrails, then yes. What? I needed a snack!"

"And what about that bit, between the left spike and the middle?"

"Oh, it's the spine of the youngest. Quite tasty, actually."

"Huh, who'd have thought? He actually had one. Anyway, finish up your snack, I'm going to meditate. I need you to-"

"Summon my kin, assume guard formation, protect you with our lives, yada, yada, yada, I know. Will do."

Harry assembled the full 21 levels of his protections, laying down magic in a web so complex that it would take anyone weeks to understand, let alone unravel. He sank into his mind, allowing himself to connect to the raw magic, letting the ebb of the leylines carry him along as it would. Keen, magic seeing eyes would have seen a transparent form of him sink into the ground, as his astral projection penetrated the boundaries between man and magic and sank into the very flow of the Earth's lifeblood. He was looking for something here, not some complicated pattern but a very simple occurrence. It was not easy, given that the enemy was sure to have worked to protect themselves, but spells cast here in the heart of the wild were notoriously devoid of staying power. It was just a matter of time.

Harry continued to meditate, his astral self penetrating every nook and cranny of the Russian ley line network, a search facilitated by the fact that he controlled more than half of it, till-

Harry'seyes opened. There it was: a draw on raw magic enough to establish wards well above the highest reaches of the fortress class, with the particular taint of the Alexandrovitchs throughout it. Noting its location and comparing it with his memory of previous scans like this (he conducted them once a week, to pre-empt exactly this sort of thing), and real-world scouting reports, he came to the conclusion that there was a physical aspect. Space had been folded over to conceal an entire village.

No doubt there were more spells on the village, but the first priority was the folding.

Harry rose from where he was sitting. Cancelling his protections, he transmitted a series of mental orders, before taking off.

Two hours later

"We can't penetrate them, sir. Not safely."

Harry didn't bother talking to the man. He'd made the same evaluation within ten minutes of looking at the wards. The problematical part was that he couldn't, either. He had the power to do it, and the skill, but he couldn't do it safely. The rebound was liable to catch a lot of his men.

He almost sighed. That left one option.

'I did not want to do this. If there is any fairness in the world, then it will understand this.' Harry thought, before he said. "Summon AC-34"

He'd hoped to avoid using the WMDs at all in this war, but enough was enough.

In a matter of minutes, the Air Castle was in position.

"Okay. Initiate Deathrain"

"Sir, are you… sure?" the voice of the technical officer was hesitant, cognizant of whom he was speaking to.

"Yes. Do it." Harry said.

"Acknowledged, sir."

After that it was just watching. Harry looked, as in the sky, the Boeing stopped circling the village, becoming stationary. He didn't wonder about how that'd been achieved, given that he'd designed the spell schema. He nodded grimly, when the bomb bay doors opened. After that his face was an unreadable mask, unfeeling as ball bearings made of enchanted iron started raining. They fell hard, gaining momentum, till… they bounced off of the dome that flared to life, covering the village. No matter. Even as they started coming towards the attackers, their Portkey features were switched on, moving them straight to just below the bomb bay, which released six more bearings. Again they fell again they bounced, a full dozen balls plus six, each thirty meters in diameter. Each time they fell, they sapped exactly a billion iota of magic from the wards.

That was irrelevant, what mattered was that they were also disrupting the magic of the wards, introducing an element of variability, a flux factor into the defences. Till… the wards flashed, large gaps appearing for just a second.

That was enough. Thirty missiles got through.

They exploded with full power, unleashing the power of thirty small suns in a hamlet barely ten miles in radius. The lights faded. There was not a scratch on any of the walls. That was fine, too.

The real attack came now. From the cooling shards of the missiles (also undamaged: Muggle power was that much of a joke against magic) runes flickered, as strands of magic interlinked, forming a portal, a portal into a realm that no mortal should ever have rested eyes upon.

There were an infinite numbers of doorways into the infinite span of the nevernever. There had to be, after all, as more were created every other day. This was because the nevernever was a realm between realms, a corridor if one would. But doorways aside, there were also other realms that existed whole and soul inside nevernever itself, being layered, encircled, divided, multiplied, joined and separated, all at the same time.

These realms were many and varied, called Narnia, Wonderland, Oz, Far, Far Away, to name but a few. And there were many, these realms, many, and also irrelevant for now. But where they existed, they were physical, and where they were physical, there was friction between them. Out of this friction, heat was born, and this heat later evolved, as all things did, absorbing the chaos of nevernever.

Void Fire, the result was called: The vilest, harshest, hottest and coldest fire in existence, a fire to boil souls, to char concepts, to burn existences themselves to ash and beyond. Born out of clashes to end realities, extinguished never, save at the creation of new realities.

This was what had been unleashed.

Long story short, things got a tad hot.

D

Yeah. That hadn't been a good day.

But it was done, the whole thing was finished. Now all that remained was the political side of things, plans for which had been drafted way back in advance.

XXXXXXX

"What is a mage, exactly? Can any of you tell me?" The teacher asked. He was a portly man, well over two hundred years of age, a redhead in the few hairs that remained encircling the shining pate like the last survivors of a bloody skirmish.

He taught one of the most interesting classes in the school (and under the new curriculum that was saying something).

Neville was jolted out of his thoughts when he heard his name called.

"Well, mister Longbottom? What is a mage, exactly?"

He answered crisply and concisely, as he'd been training himself to "Sir, a mage is a magical being that is in close communion to the natural forms of magic, having the ability to comprehend and manipulate the raw energies without any serious need of a focus."

The man nodded slowly, and Neville could see that he was pleased. "Good, good. Take ten points."

Neville smiled, well pleased as he realized that with this in addition to the thirteen points he'd earned before, he had another credit to his name. (Twenty points made a credit)

"So… yes. A mage is a magical being who can tap into the raw energies of magic and manipulate them without a focus. Now, can anyone tell me what the practical rankings of mages are? And while you're at it, explain the two commonly accepted branches of magic. Three credits to whoever manages it."

Neville looked around, aware that a question like this would've drawn blank looks from the whole room. As things were, a slew of hands rose up with varying levels of hesitation. Neville focused on those, realizing that quite a few were actually transfer students from the provincial schools, here on Althric Largesse.

He half-listened as unsteady explanations started coming in, most earning sharp rebukes. He couldn't be bothered with it, knowing the answer but not having the mood. And in any case, he had greater priorities, such as finding a way into certain pants that he had his eyes on. He'd only just started his 'evil plotting' when his ears perked up, hearing a voice he didn't know.

Sure enough, it was one of the transfer students. "Sir, mages are mostly classified in three classes. The first is called simply the mage, the second the Archmage, and the third is the Grand Mage. The two most commonly acceptedbranches of magic are spell-craft, or wand-magic, and mage-craft, also called Arcane Magic, or the Untamed Arts. Out of these, the more common is spell-craft, which consists of the spells, potions and runic patterns that do not require any intrinsic connection to magic and draw almost entirely upon a person's own core. Mage-craft, on the other hand, is dependant rather extensively on instinctual understanding of the materials involved and the inborn talent required to comprehend and manipulate magic in its raw, natural state."

Neville was impressed. That was an answer that came from no less than three different books, and it had all the right nuances that no books ever printed (more like no books were allowed to print, but still.)

So was the teacher, as it was. He nodded in that way of his, and dutifully awarded the promised credits. Immediately afterwards, he followed with another question "Okay, now, let's say a person is a Grand class mage in the art of Natural magic. Now explain the powers they would reasonably have, and the official title that they would bear."

This time Neville was all too willing to answer, given the nature of the question. "Sir, such a person would have vast powers over the forces of nature. They would be the rough equivalent of Mage-Class elementals in all four elements, and then, on top of that, they would be capable of extensive, indeed, extraordinary manipulation of any and all plant life. Given the Grand Class status, they would also be able to call upon and command spirits of nature such as Ents, fauns and dryads. Also due to the grand class, they would have significant powers in regards to beast control and manipulation. Apart from that, the common and official name of the NatureMages is Druid, and the hypothetical person would be titled a Grand Druid."

"Excellent answer, Longbottom. Take a credit."

"Now can-" the teacher was interrupted by a rising hand. Neville looked, realizing that it was Cedric Diggory, the Hufflepuff champion.

"Sir, going by Neville's reasoning, a Grand Sorcerer would be a grand-class summoner or invocator, yes?"

"Yes…" the teacher trailed off, his tone questioning.

"Well, I don't believe that anyone has seen the headmaster have anything to do with any spirits, sir. Then why is he called Grand Sorcerer, sir?"

The teacher's eyes gained a trace of amusement at this, as if this question was a very common one for him (it was.)

"Well, you see Diggory, there is a very simple explanation of that, and it has nothing to do with magic at all. No, it's pure politics. See, when the headmaster writes out his title, or anyone else does, they skip a few letters that come before it in the original format. Can you guess what those are? Anyone?"

The class was totally silent at this, reminding Neville yet again just how far behind they were even now. Eventually, he answered himself "I believe the letters are H, O and N, sir. With the first capital and the rest small, followed by a dot."

"Ah, Longbottom's gotten it!" the teacher said with a delighted expression on his face. "Now, my dear students, what does that mean?"

This time the response was encouraging, with a handful of hands rising. It was finally a Slytherin girl that spoke "It means that he's an Honorary Grand Sorcerer, sir. Not a real one."

The teacher just smiled, before speaking "Exactly! It means that the sorcerers' guild acknowledges that he has the skill, intelligence and power needed to be a Grand Sorcerer, if he were to put his mind to it. Nothing more, nothing less."

"Now, after that, can any of you…"

The class went on for slightly over half an hour, covering enough material that under the earlier school system would've been stretched over nearly one and a half weeks at the very least.

Once it was over, Neville rushed off to the dungeons, intent on getting a few thousand calories in before he had to be at 'Politics and its relevance to war', one of the courses he and all of the marauders had been 'recommended' (read: ordered on pain of considerable embarrassment) to take by Harry.