Authors Note: Things are very busy for me at work at the moment. I do expect it to be another month before the next chapter is ready to go because of this. Blame the wheat in the fields and the soybeans still to be planted. I hope you enjoy this chapter! At 36k words, its the second longest chapter by only a spare 1k.

Thank you to my betas jdh41 and GJMEGA for all the time they have spent making this chapter much better than it would have been. Also special thanks to Sehan for help regarding Norwegian culture/language, and to So you want to be an Author for help with showing French accents.

Today is my son's second birthday, so I dedicate this chapter to him, although he does tend to hamper the creative process. :D


Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

-T.S. Eliot


Remus paused at the edge of the wards, grasping his large suitcase in one hand, breathing deeply of the warm morning air, stirred by a cool eastern breeze that smelled faintly of a distant ocean.

He had decided, after talking it over with Harry, that he would spend the next month before the start of term among the pack. Sirius had declined to come with him this time, as Remus would be here much longer, and the man had started with more long-term experiments with those muggles. How much time his old friend was spending with them now made Remus nervous. Sirius had also seemed concerned that he would be much more likely to be recognized than either Remus or Harry, and hadn't wanted to risk it again. Still, it made Remus feel good to be here, even by himself.

An entire month among werewolves! A part of him was still uncertain, still nervous, but the greater part was simply excited to be free. He glanced back at the place Harry had vanished from moments before, not willing to go into the grounds and greet the wolves. The boy was still an odd mixture of embarrassed and concerned after what had happened on the last full moon with the pack, and their reactions to it. Maurice's warning had not gone unheeded either, though Remus hoped that without the ritual to taint the experience Harry could perhaps be a bit more normal.

Normal for a teenage alpha who wasn't a werewolf, anyway.

Inside, the wolf stretched and yawned. It had never been so peaceful as it was here, and hadn't fought him the days he had been away from the pack. For that alone he was excited by what he had found here.

"Remus! Good, you're here."

A female voice drew his attention forward again, and he smiled as Hank, the non-werewolf elder sister of Zeke, trotted out of the fenced gardening area with a large basket in her hands.

He grunted when she shoved it at him, grasping it in one hand and looking down at a full load of potatoes. Inwardly, he groaned.

Hank saw the look on his face and grinned.

"No peeling, don' worry 'bout that. I pulled these up this morning, take 'em down to the cellar for me on ya way in."

It wasn't a question, but a simple order. Her voice had a distinct twang to it, something her sister Glory said she exaggerated on purpose, and her hazel eyes were challenging. Remus smiled again, hefting the basket into a more comfortable hold, his suitcase still grasped in one hand.

"No problem."

Hank narrowed her eyes, then rolled them in a gesture that reminded him she could only be in her mid twenties. Then she snorted, pulling off soiled gloves from her tanned skin and absently beating them against her jeans, sending up puffs of dirt.

"You wolves make me sick, tossin' around heavy bushels like they nothin'."

Remus shrugged.

"Perks."

She snorted again, then turned and left without another word, heading in the opposite direction from the main commune complex.

Remus had discovered on his first few visits that the place was laid out in a rough circular shape, with the kitchen and storage areas in the middle, and the various cabins sprinkled at a distance around it. Matty, the alpha's wife, had told him this was to prevent a lot of the magical use from messing with the electrical work present in the center, and discouraged the use of spells within the actual buildings of the main complex for that very reason. If you wanted to practice spells, you had to do so outside or in your own cabins.

He turned and continued up the small incline towards the kitchen, eyes narrowed slightly against the sun's glare.

He wasn't used to such a nonchalant merger of muggle technology and magic. He hadn't even been sure why, when he first arrived, they even tried to bring the two together. What use was muggle inventions when you had magic? But slowly he had been introduced to all the things the werewolves used for entertainment and job use, and been amazed. He knew more about muggles than most wizards, but it was only a surface brush of their lifestyle. He hadn't known how useful the things they made were.

The kitchen was full of gadgets, from a dishwasher to a microwave, which cooked much faster and more evenly than spellwork, something he would have never thought possible. There was television in the entertainment room, electrical lights glowing evenly and brightly without magic, and a actual computer. Remus had been astounded at the amount of information present on the device, and not a little unnerved by it.

Of course, it wasn't always an easy mesh. Zeke, a young werewolf who was mostly silent and brooding, was also somewhat of the resident mechanic and electrician. Nearly every day there was a broken bulb somewhere, or a dead battery, especially if there was what the boy termed an 'accidental magical surge'. If any of the witches or wizards had a argument, or cast a spell without thinking, the technology around them tended to do what Zeke called a "short-out". The wolf had tried to explain, something about electromagnetic pulses and such, but it all went far over Remus's head.

In a conversation with Julie, the youngest werewolf in the commune, it was revealed that this tendency of electronics was the reason why one wizard in particular among the commune had been banished from the kitchen. A wizard Remus had not met yet, Zachary, apparently tended to kill the microwave by setting a single foot inside the square tiled kitchen. Julie had leaned over and whispered, her eyes mischievous, that she suspected he did it on purpose, so he didn't have to cook, but that they couldn't be sure, apparently because this wizard was very powerful.

Remus would hold out judgement until he met the man. He had thought it odd, at first, that there were non-werewolves among the group. But the ones he had met made sense, all sisters or in once case, wife, to a werewolf. But this Zachary was apparently just a friend who wanted some peace and quiet. He owned an odd squat stone tower that lay at least a good mile from the rest of the cabins, something he was told was necessary because of the experiments the man performed.

Remus set his suitcase down on the steps to the kitchen, then entered and passed through the blessedly cool area to another door, with steps leading down into a wide stone cellar used for storing the various plants that the commune used during the winter months.

Derrick, the alpha's brother, had needed to ward this room's walls to prevent their inevitable collapse given the sandy nature of the local soil.

He placed the basket of potatoes down on one low wooden table, then left with a small smile to retrieve his suitcase.

It figured that he wouldn't be here for even ten minutes before being put to some task.


Harry sat in his living room at Hallam Street, glancing down at the wide leather book in his lap with unseeing eyes.

Hermione had returned home, and Remus had gone to America, leaving him alone with the elves in the quiet house. He had enjoyed the peace, the first few days, catching up on his own studies and practicing with his new runes, painstakingly learning their limits and abilities.

But now he was simply a bit lonely. Upstairs, Dread was somewhere moping. The snake hadn't been happy that he couldn't go with Hermione for a visit, not understanding why muggles would make such a big deal about his presence. Harry was mystified that the quetzalcoatl had become so fascinated with his friend, but perhaps having someone other than himself to talk to was energizing. He couldn't blame the snake for that.

And he hadn't seen Fawkes for weeks now, the phoenix off on his own errands.

Harry slammed the book closed with a grumble, then placed it gingerly on the table with a sigh, pushing to his feet. He began to pace across the carpeted living room in thought.

He was no where near finding another alternative for a tutor, when the new laws on werewolves were passed. He figured he would have until December to do so, as the new legislation would go into effect the first of the year. Remus had already received a notification letter from the Ministry mentioning the new laws and their probable conclusions, along with a list of the laws that would soon come into effect.

They would need to be careful that Remus was not caught outside the country without a permit. Harry stopped and looked out the wide paned window, teeth clenched.

He had been through the list from Dumbledore he had received nearly six months before, and was not satisfied with any of the options. He supposed when it came down to it, he simply did not want to be under anyone's authority, no matter how good a teacher they may prove to be. But he had little choice, besides emancipation, which was a process that he doubted the Ministry would give him a chance to fulfill.

Unless he didn't give them a choice.

There were a few circumstances he might be able to use to break through any roadblocks the Ministry tried to put in his way if he chose that route. For one, the Potter Family had no Lord, only an Heir. He could use that in his favor, citing the need for his family to take up their seat on the Wizengamot which was currently held by some Fudge sycophant.

Or he could simply test out of school, taking both O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s in enough subjects.

Harry hummed in thought, clenching and unclenching his fists. He needed to study up on the tests themselves. O.W.L.s were used to measure which students could continue on in certain particular subjects at N.E.W.T. level. N.E.W.T.s were usually only needed to qualify for certain jobs within the wizarding world. He knew of several cases where witches and wizards had not even used the results of their N.E.W.T. or O.W.L. tests. But they would probably be one of the things he would need to complete to prove he was knowledgeable enough on his own. He wasn't sure how many subjects would be necessary to test under, but if he could avoid potions he was certain he could at least pass the tests on the other subjects at O.W.L. level. With some study, he could probably even complete those at N.E.W.T. level. Basic memorization was easy for him with his memory augmenting runes, and that was mostly what those tests where. The practical portions were even simpler, merely performing one spell or another.

At least, that was what he had gleaned from Hermione, who had already begun fretting over the O.W.L.s, even though she wasn't due to take them until the end of fifth year.

Harry sighed, then turned away, heading upstairs for parchment. He would send a letter to her and ask for more information. It would be easier than trying to find it himself among the books he had. And, if necessary, he would contact the Ministry department that conducted the exams and find out the rules on taking the tests outside of a school environment. He would be taking them in two years anyway, and this was the year most began studying for them. He doubted the Ministry would think it odd that he was asking for that information now.


Zachary Gryffon preferred his friends to call him Zak. His given name always gave him the impression of an older, most definitely stuffier, man. Like his father, who to this day would greet him with the same condescending tone of voice, the blue eyes they shared narrowed in disapproval.

He was a Gryffon of The Washington Gryffons, a family known for its wealth and prestige among the bluebloods of American wizardry. All of his siblings had attended the best schools, went on to the best jobs. His aunt was the Headmistress of the Salem Witches Institute. His father and mother both worked in high positions in the Bureau.

His family, Zak concluded with a grin, were like thoroughbred horses. Pampered, worth a lot of money, and completely useless as anything other than what they were bred for.

Except, it seemed, Zak himself. He wasn't a humble man; he didn't attempt to hide the power he held, or where it had gotten him. Inventing spells by the time he was twelve, graduating from the Academy itself at the early age of sixteen, leading research teams by the time he hit his twenties. He had power, and his family had the wealth to spoil him in any endeavor he sought. Unless what he sought was to get drunk like a normal teen, something he finally accomplished by befriending a wonderfully normal boy at the Academy, Neil Raggon, and breaking the wards on a bar to steal some firewhiskey.

That incident had been his first run in with the law, and definitely not his last. Of course his family had disapproved of Neil; he was everything they were not. But to Zak, it was a breath of fresh air, of normalcy. A beacon of rebellious hope.

He never looked back from it, and though his family sought to control him by withdrawing its substantial backing, there was nothing they could do. Zak made money the way he cast spells; instinctively, lackadaisically, and with a great deal of wry humor. Before long his name was known in nearly every scholarly circle as a genius of his time, a wizard who promised to be a mage in a few decades, the first America had seen in over a century since the great Lark Gillian had died.

Now, in his late thirties, he had scandalized his tentatively supportive family by living on a werewolf commune for the last few years. It made him giddy with joy to be the dirty talk of the family Christmas parties. He so loved tweaking the noses of his stuffy aunt and her ilk, though his own father was much too controlled to be moved.

He liked living on the commune. There had only been one reporter brave enough to attempt entrance for an interview, it was private, solitary, and yet he hadn't felt the least bit lonely with company only a mile away. He had built a nice home for himself, a fat stone tower with imported stone, housing his own potions laboratory and several rooms for experiments, all carefully warded with controlled environments. He had the library he always wanted, with material he could never get away with at his family's estates. The tower hosted several false walls for hiding the things of a more sensitive nature.

The arrangement was simply too wonderful to be given up, even by pressure from the Bureau, who disliked such a well-known and respected wizard living among beasts. Distasteful as politics were, Zak was not immune to them, and had been disgusted by the academic backlash he had faced on several occasions. He had kept such things from his friend, Neil, though he had confided in the man's wife a few times. Lucy was a sweet darling of a woman, and her great-great-grandmother had been none other than the aforementioned mage, Lark, who had dared to marry a muggle herself.

Some would credit that with her many squib offspring, though Zak himself doubted the fact. He wanted to do more studies with the genetics the muggles had been playing with to prove it, but hadn't yet found the time.

There were so many things to discover!

Zak apparated into the humid air of North Carolina, and breathed deeply. It was good to be home!

He had suffered through a month of tedious parties and lectures at the Academy, smiling for the papers and giving speeches on magical theory and properties. Fundraising was an unfortunate reality of his life now, if he wanted to continue his expensive research. Without the Gryffon family's financial backing, Zak had to find other means.

If he was the kind of man to hold a grudge… but alas, he was not. If anything, it amused him that they were so petty. As if their maneuvers could truly stop him from doing exactly as he pleased. For the last decade he had been proving just that; he might be a Gryffon, but he wasn't ruled by them.

Zak began to meander towards the low buildings huddled in the center of the commune, sending his bags whisking towards his tower with a absent wave of his wand.

Then, just as he approached, a brown haired man exited the wooden building, his shoulders slightly slumped as if burdened, though his hazel eyes were bright.

They also had a slight spark of amber within them, marking him as a werewolf.

Zak smiled brightly as the man startled, stepping up and holding up a hand.

"Name's Zak. You new to the pack?"

The man blinked, then smiled with hesitation as he reached out to gingerly clasp his hand.

"Remus Lupin. Nice to meet you. I, ah... I'm just visiting for a bit."

British accent. Immigrating? Strange. Zak grinned, then gestured behind him.

"Well, you couldn't ask for a better place to go for a visit."

He didn't press for details. There had been a few werewolves who had visited since he had begun living here, but none had stayed. He was no expert on werewolf communes, but apparently the Pungo Lake Pack was a bit of an oddball for its kind. He understood that most of the wolves had been turned violently, but couldn't fathom why werewolves would care how one became a werewolf.

Was it a difference in smell? Pack dynamics? An idea for a future experiment, perhaps.

The man, Remus, fidgeted, and Zak realized he had paused for a second too long before replying to something the man had said. What had he said, exactly? Ah, well. Social interaction wasn't his expertise.

"Sorry, I was thinking. What did you say?"

Remus blinked again, three times in rapid succession, and Zak filed away the response. Used to hiding his emotions, but can not control the eyes.

"Sorry, I was merely commenting on the weather. A bit hot."

Apologizing, even though it's not his fault. Low self-esteem, perhaps. Idle chit-chat, as well, Zak mused. Talking about the weather was about as idle as one could get.

"I imagine the temperatures are much different here than in Britain."

The man gaped a bit, then his eyes flickered away for an instant before returning.

"I guess my voice gave it away."

It was both a statement and a question. The man did not want to be recognized. Zak could have explained it was also the man's clothes, much warmer than the climate called for, and the logo on the leather suitcase on the porch that, while old and worn, was obviously a popular british trunk maker. But he had found that simple was sometimes perfectly acceptable.

He nodded with another smile.

"Of course. Do you perhaps know where Maurice is?"

Remus shook his head with a reluctant frown.

"Sorry, no. I've only just arrived."

Also obvious, Zak mused, though he did wonder that Maurice had opened the wards to the wizard so soon. The wizard would have removed his cloak, if he had walked from the outer edge of the wards. That meant he most likely had apparated directly into the commune itself. Odd.

"I'll find him. Enjoy your visit."

"Ah, yes. Thanks." Remus mumbled, then reached down to seize his brown case and quickly walk off.

Zak turned to watch him walk, head tilted slightly. There was something off about this one. He thought about it for a full minute, categorizing the data he had observed from both his eyes and his magic.

Then he shrugged and turned away. He was sure the mystery would resolve itself in time, and it was none of his concern.

Another thing he had learned, over time. There was not enough of himself to spend solving every problem he came across.


Harry finished reading Hermione's letter and put it back on his desk. He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, thinking as he idly tapped his fingers on the wood.

Hermione had a great deal of information about the O.W.L.s, as they were, in her own words, imminent. Twelve subjects total could be tested, eight of them core subjects, the others tested electives. All students at Hogwarts were required to take the core exams, regardless of aptitude, and were placed according to their scores in sixth and seventh year level classes. All students must pass with an Acceptable in at least four of their subjects in order to move up with their year.

But most important of all, the O.W.L. exams were not required in order to qualify for employment or graduation. Only the N.E.W.T.s were. Of course, most institutions using the European teaching method relied upon O.W.L.s to weed down their classrooms to only the best and brightest for the N.E.W.T.s. But there were exceptions, more than one, of students who failed their O.W.L.s and later took N.E.W.T.s in the same subject on their own time in order to up their qualifications.

In fact, there was testing offered at the Ministry twice yearly for anyone who wished to take the N.E.W.T.s. It would be a simple matter for Harry to skip over the O.W.L.s and go directly to the N.E.W.T.s, as long as the loophole was not closed before he could do so.

But he was only fourteen. Not the youngest ever to take and pass N.E.W.T.s, but it had been more than a century since it had been done. And he doubted the Ministry would be overjoyed with his success, though it would certainly sell newspapers. Would it, however, get him beyond their control?

O.W.L.s could be used in an emancipation request as a qualification. If he passed a significant number of them, with a Outstanding at least, it would work in his favor.

But taking them early could also tip the Ministry to his plans to escape their grasp.

Harry's eyes snapped open, and he leapt to his feet, pacing furiously across the floor.

It all came down to control. Every option he saw only lead to more problems. He couldn't think far enough ahead, couldn't possibly predict everyone's moves. He didn't have the scope, didn't have the knowledge of the people in power. He only knew someone was trying to cage him, manipulate him, someone other than Albus Dumbledore.

He was certain it was the Minister. But who worked with him? Scrimgeour obviously wasn't, unless their meeting had been a ploy.

Perhaps the Head of the Auror Office could give him advice, if Harry approached the topic very carefully. Scrimgeour wanted Fudge gone; Harry wanted to be left alone. Surely they could both work something out.

Harry sighed, then turned to the bed, where Dread lay curled into a feathered green and red ball.

The serpent tilted his head, tongue tasting the air lazily, before speaking.

"Master steps like a bear, and grumbles as if claws are stuck in wood."

Harry snorted.

"And you look like the leftovers of a Avis spell." Insults done, Harry ran a hand through his hair. "I need to get out."

Dread lifted one coil in a parody of a shrug.

"Winged-Master has ability to go at any time. You are disturbing my rest."

Harry hesitated, then sighed.

"You can come with me."

Slitted eyes seemed to look him over critically.

"Not inside. I wish to remain… corporeal."

Corporeal? Harry nearly rolled his eyes. Hermione must have taught him that one. Harry didn't think he had ever even used it in a sentence before. Harry grimaced, thinking. Then he smiled.

"Not inside, then."


He flew over the mountain range, looking below with a critical eye. The sun was just beginning to dip below the peaks here, though it had set a good hour ago in Britain.

Beside him, Dread seemed to slither through the air itself in an odd undulation, wings routinely swept back as he twisted through the air on swift thermals. It was both beautiful and distinctly unnatural, seeing a snake fly.

He spread his own wings wider and caught a thermal of wind, letting it pull him up and over another ridge of mountain, snow flittering with pink tint as the clouds around them glowed with reds and oranges around the setting sun. It was beautiful, peaceful, flying above the world, not a soul around for miles. It wasn't quiet, the wind harsh in his ears, drowning out anything his companion might say, but the lack of humanity's various noises seemed to put a hush even over the wind.

He allowed his magic its freedom, curling about him in wisps of power and light, gleaming in faint silvery trails along his skin, lighting his runes as if a star shone behind his skin. He shook his hair out of his eyes and simply breathed, beating his wings in time with his heart, letting the peace enter himself and push out all the fears, doubts, rage.

This is what he was, who he was. Here, in the sky, freedom from both the Ministry and the Hounds. At times like this he wondered how hard it would be to simply leave them all behind, break the ties that held him to Britain. Remus would be fine; he had the pack now. Sirius had Remus, and enjoyed working with the muggles. Let Black be the wizard those revolutionaries sought. Draco, Blaise, and Neville were all pureblood Heirs; their life was what they wanted to make of it. Kerr and Tiny had made a new life for themselves. Mike was chasing his own demons.

Hermione.

He faltered in the sky and drifted to a stop, beating his wings stronger now to hold him in place against the tugging wind, looking into the sun.

She had little future in the wizarding world as it was. She could leave herself, probably. Vanish into the muggle world, relocate to another country perhaps. But she wouldn't. He knew her, had heard her talk, seen her eyes. She wasn't the type to flee from a fight, or give up on her dreams. She would stay and challenge the Ministry itself for what she thought was her rightful place.

And they would make her suffer for daring to do so. For daring to want more than what they considered a mudblood's rightful place.

Harry took another breath, then carefully began to draw his magic back inside himself, sealing it tightly under his skin, where most wizards would not even sense it. Hidden, deeply, as his own self must be.

Hermione had managed to do what Steel had struggled with years ago; tie him down to the world he desperately wanted to leave behind. But, for his friend, he would stay. He would do what he could to fight the system right alongside her. Whether that meant working with the Hounds or not, he would have to decide as things progressed.

With a renewed sense of purpose, he called up his flame, jumping into the sharp white place of its depths and taking himself back to London and all the problems that waited there.


Harry had agreed to spend the full moon with Remus at Pungo Lake, though he inwardly dreaded the experience. He hadn't seen the pack since two moons ago, when he had ordered them all to run.

Did any of the others dread his own presence now as much as he did? Harry only knew how the alpha had reacted second-hand through Remus. His tutor hadn't told him anything else about the Pack, except that Harry was still welcome, as long as he didn't challenge the other alpha's authority.

Harry wasn't quite sure what he was doing at all, running with werewolves on a full moon as a favor to another werewolf, who happened to somehow be his.

As the full moon drew closer, he could sense the bond they had unwittingly formed, like a thin silver wire drawn tight between them. A sense of location, and a dim flicker of emotion. Harry wasn't sure, but he believed that the emotion he felt was more from the wolf that hid inside the wizard than from Remus himself.

Harry sucked in a breath, then brought up his flame and carried himself away, stepping out into bright mid-day sunshine. Both he and Remus had thought it best if Harry at least interacted with the others before the moon actually rose. Might ease any anxiety at his presence, though he doubted Remus's hopes would be fully realized.

Still, he was here now, Harry thought, looking around the large clearing dappled by sunlight through the large shade trees. He started walking towards the main buildings, gritting his teeth, and hoping against hope that he could simply greet everyone and fade into the background.

His power rumbled beneath his skin at the emotion Harry kept tightly reigned, and from somewhere a ways off he felt something, like a spark lit up in the dark.

Harry froze, one foot still raised to walk, and turned.

A man was walking toward him, tousled blond hair streaked with brown as he tilted his head, looking Harry up and down with blue eyes that seemed to spark with both humor and power.

Those eyes reminded him so much of Albus Dumbledore that Harry tensed further, bracing himself unconsciously as he turned to face the man full-on, ready for anything.

The wizard paused, raising a single eyebrow, then hummed.

"Ah. So that's how he got inside the wards! You brought him, obvious, and across the ocean too. Punched right through, right?"

Harry blinked in confusion at the words. The man only nodded to himself.

"I have to say, you've exposed quite a hole in my ward-net. Never thought to block phoenix flame as an alternative means of teleportation, but then again, I was thinking of reporters mostly, and none of them have one of the firebirds. Only know of one man who has one right now, actually, if you discount that quidditch team, and I have to say you don't seem to play any of that type of sport."

Harry followed the words, his confusion only deepening. Had this man seen Harry arrive, and assumed he had a phoenix? He supposed that would be the only conclusion one could make. But who was this man?

Harry narrowed his eyes, reaching out with his power the same way his quetzalcoatl would taste the air to determine a threat.

He was met with a deep oppressive wave of magic that reminded him strikingly of the other powerful wizards he had met, Dumbledore and Flamel and Voldemort, and it shocked him to his core.

He should have known there would be other powerful wizards, mages, out in the world. Why would they only be in Britain, or Europe for that matter? Flamel himself, when talking to Harry about what separates a normal wizard from a mage, had said there were others. There was probably at least a dozen, the world over, if not more. But meeting one here, on a werewolf commune, where no one was supposed to know him, threw him totally off guard.

He had been prepared to meet with werewolves, not a powerful potential threat. And this man was no werewolf. Why was he here? Had he said he made the wards around the complex?

The thoughts and questions flashed by at a rapid pace, in the space of a blink, and Harry pulled his power back and flared it out, his hands lifting away from his sides slightly, fingers open, waiting.

The wizard still grinned, not appearing phased by Harry's aggressive reaction. He spoke with a light tone that held a distinct accent he could not place.

"But where is your phoenix? I must say, I'm quite curious about the creatures. Rare things to encounter. Neil didn't mention you had one, though he did say you have the most interesting appendages."

Was the man ever going to make sense? Appendages?

Then Harry felt dread rise over him as it clicked. Mutely he made himself relax. Neil must be one of the other wolves, and the entire pack had seen him fly. Remus had warned Harry about that, and also that he hadn't given the pack any answers as to how he had gained them.

The wizard raised a single eyebrow.

"You can speak, correct?"

Harry straightened from his unconscious crouch, speaking through gritted teeth.

"Yes."

"Marvelous!" The wizard said, before beginning to walk closer. "You are Harry, correct? I'm Zak Gryffon."

Harry nodded, then at another arched look from the man, reluctantly spoke.

"Yes."

The wizard stopped only a short distance away, and his smile finally began to fade. His eyes narrowed instead, then abruptly cleared. For the first time, Harry saw something other than humor in those blue depths.

"I see. Should have put it together earlier, the clues were all present. Totally unbelievable, but completely possible. Harry Potter is in America."

A cold chill ran down Harry's spine, and he tensed again, speaking in a low hissed voice.

"I'm not who you think I am."

Gryffon laughed with a toss of his head, raising hands in a universal gesture of innocence.

"Ha! No one is ever who you think they are. In your case, perhaps, I was even farther off the mark. I've heard stories of you, the scholars were all abuzz at the impossibilities you represented. Many a discussion of magical outliers deviated to your own prime example. When you became Nicolas Flamel's apprentice, you made quite a few people both angry and nervous. The man had been turning down applications for centuries."

The man grinned at him, not a hint of concern on his face now.

"Including my own letter begging for instruction, which I confess I spent days agonizing over. The old man was quite polite when he broke my dreams."

Harry fidgeted. The wizard didn't act anything like Flamel, with his silent authority, or Dumbledore's genial superiority. He seemed completely normal, if not a little scatterbrained. But that power… it was like a storm brewing other the surface. Was that how others saw himself? That potential for violence?

Harry spoke quietly, uncertainty tainting his voice.

"I would prefer no one else know of my being here. Remus is my tutor, and Britain's werewolf legislations has recently become even more unreasonable."

Gryffon grimaced.

"Don't fear I'll tattle on you. Those like us need to look out for one another. As for those werewolf laws, I would never attempt to harm the commune here. My own friends reside here, and I bear no ill will towards those infected with lycanthropy."

Harry nodded slowly, then looked away from the wizard for the first time, though his body tensed in apprehension. He began to walk towards the low building that housed the entertainment area he had seen the first time he came here. Gryffon kept pace with him, keeping up a low hum of questions much like an eager child. Which was a distinctly odd thing to think, Harry mused, when the man had to be three times his age.

"You must tell me about Flamel. I've met the man twice before, once here at a convention in Texas on the properties of certain potion ingredients, and then at his own Centre for Alchemy in Egypt. Have you been there? Quite a grand building. Did he really always color coordinate his clothes with his eye color?"

Harry paused, glancing over.

"What?"

Gryffon grinned unrepentantly.

"Just seeing if you were paying attention. I'm quite certain he did, of course, though the man was most sly about avoiding getting his picture taken. Did you learn any alchemy secrets? Did he give you any recipes for unknown potions? The man was awesome at brewing, a true genius. I try my own hand at the art frequently in my experiments, but it was no where near that man's level. But then again, I suppose he had quite a big longer than I to perfect it."

When the man took another breath, Harry quickly answered the one question he hoped would derail any discussion on potions.

"Actually, I had no talent for alchemy or potion-making. He called me hopeless."

Gryffon looked flummoxed.

"Hopeless? But… but you were his apprentice!"

Harry shrugged, and as they reached the door, pulled it open for the other wizard who walked through with a stunned expression. Under his breath the man began to mutter.

"Figures. That's where I went wrong with my application. I wrote three pages on my qualifications as a brewer, when he was really out for a little variety. Obvious!"

Harry shook his head, breathing in the much cooler air inside the building as he glanced around desperately. Where were all the other werewolves? He needed someone to distract the man beside him.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt a hand on his shoulder, leaping away instinctively even as he turned, power rumbling inside his chest as his heart raced.

Gryffon lowered his hand, head tilted once more, eyes running over Harry as if he presented the most fascinating problem the man had ever seen.

It was absolutely terrifying.

"Amazing reflexes and speed. You aren't taking potions, are you? I always advise against recreational drugs and steroids, whether muggle or magical. Side effects always catch up to you eventually."

Harry gaped, then shook his head quickly, outraged.

"I'm not taking any potions!"

The wizard clapped his hands together.

"Wonderful! Relax, please, you're making me nervous with all that jumpiness you have going on there."

Harry's eyes widened, then he held in a groan as he reluctantly followed the wizard over to the large sofas set up, the wizard ahead of him once more chattering away.

Did the man ever shut up?

"It's always nice to meet another wizard of our caliber. Between you and me, most of the lot are old and stuffy and traditional. Theres a few my age who are decent fellows, and gals too of course." He winked at Harry before continuing. "But I only know of one other near your age. Boy in Japan, attending the Mahoutokoro School of Magic. Met him at a convention in Kyoto on asiatic magical creatures. He's an actual omniglot, spends a lot of time going around with his Sensei mediating with beasts and other sentient things."

Harry only nodded, letting the flood of information flow over him, feeling slightly dazed. Why was he being told all of this?

"I haven't heard anything about you since Flamel's death. I attended his wake in Egypt, you know, and happened to see the most amazing thing. Phoenixes, a dozen of them, singing above the Centre like a ring of fiery suns. Never seen the like."

Harry had been nodding along as Gryffon spoke, but now he tensed. He had read a few of the newspaper articles about the song he had sung, but all of them attributed it to the mysterious nature of phoenixes in general. Now, however, those piercing blue eyes were drilling into him. When he spoke again, his voice was low, solemn.

"It was a wonderful tribute to a wizard our world will regret losing. I'm sorry to bring up what must be a sensitive topic. I often do not think before I speak."

Harry looked away, out towards the windows, and when the silence began to grow he broke it himself.

"It's fine. Flamel was special to me, but I only knew him a few months. He faded quickly."

Harry wasn't sure what else to say, so he left it at that. Gryffon nodded slowly.

"Yes. There was always a question, with the Stone, how its lack would affect those under its influence. Whether they would age normally, or accelerated. I was sad to find the answer was the latter."

Harry only nodded, purposefully avoiding the other's gaze. Gryffon abruptly clapped his hands together in the same gesture as before, like a maestro calling the end to one song and the beginning of another.

"Well! Now that I've invaded your privacy sufficiently, would you like something to drink? I can probably summon something from here if we've got it."

Harry glanced over at the wizard.

"I'm fine. Summon?"

Gryffon grinned.

"I've been banned from the kitchen. Too many muggle inventions. They don't take kindly to my particular level of magic."

Harry frowned.

"Can't you simply tuck it away when you are around them?"

The wizard laughed in delight.

"'Tuck it away'! That's a wonderful way to put it. My mentors preferred to term it as 'advanced magical repression techniques'. I'm afraid I've never been good at it. The few others who've tried to teach me said I had terminal laziness, which I found hard to take offense to as it's quite true. One has to accept the hard truth about themselves."

Harry couldn't help it; he laughed.

Gryffon grinned in triumph.

"I knew there was humor in there somewhere. You are much too quiet for a boy your age. Where is all the mischief?"

Harry grinned slightly.

"My godfather has enough for the both of us. I've never had much time for it."

"How sad." Gryffon said solemnly, though his eyes actually twinkled. Harry had thought that was simply something Dumbledore did to portray innocence. Was it something every wizard with substantial magic could do? Oh Merlin, did his eyes ever twinkle? The very thought was mortifying.

A sound drew their attention over to the entrance to the building, where a group of men and women were drawing close to the door, a few talking excitedly.

Again, Zak Gryffon clapped his hands together, and Harry silently thought End Act II, let Act III commence. The man across from him was certainly dramatic enough to be some sort of drama teacher.

"Here they are! Delightful. They can go get the snacks."


Harry was able to gratefully slide into the background once basic introductions were given. He had had his timing off, miscalculating the time change by an hour, which was why he had arrived at the meeting point before all the other werewolves. Except Gryffon, who Harry had a feeling had felt his presence and came to investigate.

There were only nine wolves at the commune, like Remus had said. There was also a muggle, which shocked him, and two uninfected witches who were apparently sisters of one of the younger werewolves.

It was like watching a family gathering from the outside. Harry wasn't a part of it, but being apart from them he could see just how easily they got along. He saw none of the dynamics he had feared would be in a werewolf pack, no aggressive orders or fights. It was all laughter and light-hearted jibes.

And Remus fit right in, talking along with the werewolves in an easy manner, his eyes gleaming with amber light just like the others.

The wizard belonged in a place like this, with others of his kind. Harry could see how happy he was. What right did Harry have to ask him to stay in London, mostly alone except for visits to see Sirius? Harry should break their bond, allow the werewolf to find a more suitable alpha like Maurice, who was kind and respectful of those in his care. Who could understand what Remus was.

He felt the difference in the air when the sun began to set, an edge growing in the wolves voices, a growling undertone to their sentences. Within an hour, all the non-weres except for Harry and Gryffon had discreetly left.

Almost as one, the pack stood, turning towards the door with eager faces.

They had all taken the last dose of Wolfsbane, and now eagerness was racing over their faces, even Remus, who Harry had never known to look forward to a moon.

Harry paused at the door, watching the werewolves begin to circle around each other out in the yard, jostling and chuckling, anxious faces lifting up to the darkening sky occasionally. Beside him, Gryffon leaned against the porch railing, arms crossed as he smiled.

"It's quite something, isn't it? How in sync they are. I've tried to do some experiments on the phenomenon, but the idea didn't go well with the others."

Harry expected it didn't. No one wanted to be a lab rat.

Gryffon turned toward him and smiled.

"But I so enjoy running with them. It's quite freeing. Can't go as fast, but Maurice is nice enough to lead them in looping circles most nights, giving me a chance to catch up."

Harry fidgeted. He knew the secret of his wings was common knowledge here, but it still made him uncomfortable to show them off to others.

"Your form is a panther, correct?"

Gryffon nodded, his own face glancing up at the pale moon, then over at the last rays of the sun about to dip beneath the rim of the earth.

"Yeah. I always wanted something more like an eagle, or a bat. But Neil says a cat's personality suits me."

Harry grinned. He had met Neil, the former enforcer for America's version of a Ministry, and had to agree with the man's statement. Gryffon was exactly like a cat, indolent, spoiled, and dangerous.

There was a harsh indrawn breath from the group in front of them, and as one the mass of them collapsed, some with groans, others with cut-off screams of pain. Harry winced in sympathy, thinking of his own transformations to phoenix form and the pain involved. He envied animagi and their easy ability to transform.

As if rubbing in that fact, Gryffon launched off the porch in a lazy leap, his tall form twisting into the large silhouette of a black feline. He mingled with the wolves now getting to their feet, shaking dust off their fur and greeting one another with bumps of their snouts and light nips.

Harry simply stood on the porch, watching them, eyes hooded.

A large black wolf stepped out of the mingling pack, amber eyes meeting his own in challenge. Maurice, the alpha, had not forgot the last time Harry had flown with the pack.

Harry carefully looked away from that gaze, looking instead over at Remus, whose grey form was rolling across the ground with an enthusiastic cream-colored wolf Harry couldn't identify.

Maurice let out a sharp sound, not a bark but something different, and at once the wolves went silent, gleaming eyes turning to face him, waiting.

The alpha was the first to begin to run, a wide loping stride, claws tearing into the grass of the clearing. The others fell in behind him in a angular formation, a joyous howl rising from them.

Except one. Moony looked back over one grey shoulder, meeting Harry's eyes with longing. He stepped down, walking out to the beast. Nearby, a dark shadow moved, gleaming green eyes observing the two of them. Harry knew the wizard was hoping to get a glimpse of his wings. More information for future experiments, he thought wryly.

Remus sat back on his haunches, a slight whimper in his throat. Harry gestured after the others.

"Go. Go run."

The wolf fidgeted, then leaped to its feet, tearing off after the others. Harry felt the thin wire behind them flex and bend, gleaming nearly translucent silver in his eyes, like a thread of moonlight. Harry watched the wolf disappear into the trees, then sighed.

"Why aren't you going with them?"

Harry startled, turning to see the older wizard walking over.

"Why aren't you?"

Gryffon raised a single eyebrow. Harry looked away.

"I don't trust myself. I haven't had the best luck with interacting with werewolves."

The wizard hummed some tune absently as they stood there in the dark, then shrugged.

"Are you doing this for yourself, or your friend?"

Harry frowned. Gryffon continued, his voice casual.

"Because if this is only about yourself, it makes perfect sense to stay here. Don't get involved. You should probably release the werewolf as well, somehow. Let him go on." Harry nodded, the words following his own thoughts from earlier, though he disliked thinking of himself as selfish. It wasn't selfish to want Remus to be happy.

"But if this is about the werewolf, then you should go."

Harry grunted in dissent.

"He would be better off with this pack. It's not selfish to let him go."

Gryffon observed him, his eyes gleaming in the dark night with subtle sparks of power. Did Harry's do that as well? Why hadn't anyone told him as much?

"You are not the only one who can break that bond."

Harry startled, eyes narrowing.

"What?"

Gryffon shrugged, looking towards the trees with a wry smile.

"I'm no expert on werewolves, but I know a werewolf can choose to leave a pack. Maybe they don't talk about it much. There is more than one way. They can challenge the alpha, refuse to accept their authority and be kicked out if they fail in their fight. Or they can leave and start their own pack as an alpha. That's what Maurice and his brother did. Some go feral and rogue; others retreat into solitary exile. Most join another pack. Your friend has a pack right here under his very nose. Why hasn't he left for greener pastures?"

Harry fidgeted.

"He feels responsible for me. I'm his best friend's son."

Gryffon snorted.

"Which has little to do with him putting himself under your authority. He could be a part of this pack and still be your tutor. You can travel across continents, across the world itself, with a phoenix at your call. Distance is no problem. He's not your guardian, really, from what I have observed this afternoon. He doesn't try to regulate your movements. He asks you for things, instead of telling you to get them. If he feels at all responsible for you, I haven't seen it. He cares for you, that much is obvious; probably worries about you. But he isn't your keeper."

Harry didn't know what to say. It all made sense, too much sense. Why hadn't Remus left? He loved it here, that much was obvious.

"Why?" Harry whispered absently, watching the trees sway slightly in the gentle breeze, before glancing back at the wizard beside him.

Gryffon laughed, his voice loud in the silent night.

"Don't look at me, boy! I observe what I see; as for motives behind things, that's a greater mystery. I've only known you a day, and him a little over a week."

Harry smiled slightly, then shrugged.

"I think you just want to see me fly."

Gryffon raised his hands with a grin.

"Guilty as charged."

Harry shook his head, then stepped back a pace, looking up at the sky. For some odd reason, his heart felt lighter. He looked back at Zak with a grin.

"Thanks for your insight, even if it was motivated by selfish scholarly greed."

Gryffon's laughter followed him as he leapt into the sky, powerful down sweeps of his withdrawn wings rapidly bringing him up into the cloudless night.

He found the wolves easily, following the line of power that linked himself and Remus.

If weres could break the bond themselves, how had Fenrir bound his own pack so tightly to him? Remus seemed to have implied it was something forced upon them. But now, observing the line that bound himself with new eyes, he could see it originated from Remus himself. It was not something Harry himself had done to the werewolf; and though Harry had avoided the werewolf more than once on full moons, that bond had always been there, digging itself into his own magic. It hadn't wanted to be broken, though Harry didn't doubt he could do so if he tried. And it had been broken, while Harry was rendered magicless, and then bounced back good as new as soon as his magic returned. Harry hadn't formed that bond; it was simply there.

He soared through the open sky, glancing below at shadowy shapes that darted between and around the trees, the sound of joyous howls reaching his ears.

Harry pinned his wings back and dived, angling himself straight for the pack, picking out Moony easily from the others, lagging slightly behind the others, not quite a part of the other pack.

The wolves burst out of the trees into an open field, the signs of a recently harvested corn crop evident in the yellow-brown stumps that marched in straight lines down the open expanse. It had been picked over by wildlife, and Harry saw several darting shapes leap for cover as the wolves ran through, snapping at the air above them.

Moony lifted his snout and howled, a sound both exaltant and oddly mournful, and Harry met that gleam of amber eyes, wings spread wide to slow his momentum as his feet his the ground a few corn rows over from the pack. Moony turned at once towards him, neck arched and proud, moving up beside him, weaving through the stubble around them with silent grace. Harry saw several of the other wolves glance over at him with challenging gazes, before they began winding through the field again, noses to the ground, then scenting the air, searching, exploring, discovering.

Harry glanced down at where Moony sat beside him, the moon shining down on them with benevolence.

Remus had told him that the pack enjoyed hunting on full moons, as it gave them an outlet for both the energy of their wolf forms and for the rage and instinct it contained. But Moony seemed content to simply sit beside him, golden eyes fixed on the others with something like superiority.

The large black wolf turned towards them, muzzle lowered slightly as its ears pricked forward in curiosity. Harry shrugged, not good at reading animal body language, but guessing the alpha was curious as to why Remus was not with the others. Maurice observed them for a moment, then turned away again, padding over to the others.

Before long the entire pack began to mass, catching on to one particular scent, excitement rising around them. Harry could nearly see it, a sense of chaotic magic that both rose from the wolves and fell from the moon that was their mother.

Then they were running, flying across the ground at a rapid pace, Moony joining in behind them without prompting from Harry. He took to the air again, following from a distance as the howls rose, taking them deeper into the forest, and before long they were on the trail of something squat and bulky, fur bristling from its sides.

The howls turned vicious and challenging, and Harry circled lowered, looking the cornered creature over with wide eyes.

It was a boar. He had heard the others mention the wild hogs that had been accidentally imported into the area, and how dangerous they could be. Tusks sprouted from this ones mouth, teeth that could easily pierce a man's skin. It looked as big as a average bear in the area, perhaps over two hundred pounds.

The perfect challenge for the group of werewolves, who circled about it, growls rumbling in their throats, quick snaps of challenge as one or another leaped towards the beast and then back again as it lunged.

The boar squealed, a high evil sound, so unlike the few pigs Harry had glimpsed on ranches in Kondinin. This wasn't a docile farm animal, but something wild and fierce.

Harry waited above, watching as half the wolves backed up, laying down in a lazy panting circle, while the others darted and slashed at the sides of the boar, where it was backed into a cosp of closely grown oak trees. There was a sprinkle of blood upon the ground, deep black in the night, and Harry felt magic being to rise, a growing awareness and lust for life and the taking of it. He saw the change come over the wolves below, a turning from calculated strikes to angry snarls, fangs drawn back and bared as they growled.

From the woods, a black shape peeled away and casually jumped up into a tree, looking down at the gathered wolves with a bored air. Harry narrowed his eye at the large cat as it stared down below, and with a careful maneuver managed to drop into the branches above it, withdrawing his wings, and causing the wood to sway. The panther glanced up, and just as casually began to change, black fur receding to light colored hair, eyes gleaming a vibrant blue.

Harry climbed down to the branch beside him, the oak easily holding their combined weight, and together they looked down at the loud snarling mess below them.

"It's kind of brutal, isn't it?" Gryffon said lightly, glancing over at him. "Most can't watch."

Harry frowned. The boar had no where to turn. Its sides were heaving now, its sounds frantic and filled with rage. The wolves were growing bolder, gathering closer, muzzles darkening with blood.

"It's not easy to see something die."

Gryffon hummed.

"I could explain, again, how dangerous those animals are. How they are not native, how they can kill innocent people. And it would be true. But I've seen the wolves take down deer, as well, much easier of course. And rabbits, turkeys… even a bear, once. Now that was something."

Gryffon tilted his head, one foot dangling over the branch and swaying slightly, much like a cat's tail. He continued, voice soft so that Harry had to strain to hear it over the wild sounds below.

"We've managed to tame the werewolves, somewhat, with our Wolfsbane and our legislation and fancy Werewolf Service commissions. But none who watch a pack of the beasts hunt can claim they are under our control. A terrifying sight. And the power…"

Gryffon drifted off, eyes slitted, and Harry felt it rising, that wild chaotic light that had nearly taken him during his last ritual, when he had commanded the group to run, to run and never stop, though inside he wanted to tell them to hunt, to sink fangs into flesh, to rip and tear and feast.

The wolves abruptly broke off, dropping back, and from their midst Maurice leaped, a large black form with gleaming eyes of amber and gold, white fangs flashing as it sank into the boar's throat, cutting off its squeals with a single sharp crunch.

Exultation.

It broke over him in a wave as the life winked out of the animals eyes, as the other wolves too leaped forward, the sounds changing from growls to liquid ones that would have turned his stomach if the magic hadn't held his mind, a rising crest of moonlight and blood and life.

Harry gasped, the taste of copper in his mouth, and tore his eyes away from the gory sight below, leaping to his feet and balancing on the branch, placing a trembling hand on the trunk beside him, the bark rough under his fingers, grounding him.

Beside him, Gryffon hummed that tune again, the one that reminded him of a man trying to solve a difficult problem. Blue eyes that glimmered slightly in the darkness glanced up at him, piercing, observant.

"I can feel it, dimly, like a man standing on solid ground feels the tremor of an explosion far in the distance. I know it is a large, fearsome thing, and has done a lot of damage, will do more. You, I think, are much closer to it than I." He paused. "I almost thought you might join them."

The last was said with that same tilted head, like a pet bird twisting to observe a possible treat from every angle. The thought made him smile slightly, the tremor leaving him feeling hollow. Harry cleared his throat, his voice rough.

"My… connection to them. It tries to overwhelm me."

Gryffon nodded easily, glancing down briefly at the huddle masses of fur below.

"All great power does. The greater it is, the worse the influence. It is not easy being like us."

Harry glanced at the older man, looking so casual as he sat above the carnage below.

"You don't look that bothered by it."

Gryffon smiled slightly. "By that." He gestured below. "Or by my power?"

Harry slowly sat down again, letting his own feet swing over the wide branch.

"Both."

Gryffon shrugged elegantly, the loose shirt he wore looking clean and pressed and extremely out of place.

"I like to consider myself something of a researcher. My experiments often lend my hand to the messier side of life and death. Preparing potions ingredients is often like butchering, when it comes to the creature ingredients. Blood doesn't bother me; violence might have, though I don't see this hunt as particularly violent. They are simply doing what their instincts urge them to do, just as a dog chases a rabbit, a falcon catches a mouse. The human side, that is what makes them go for their own kind. Humans like to kill each other, often in particularly unsavory ways. Greed, envy, revenge… the wolf can feed off of that, too, and we get the rogues that go mad and simply kill to sate the emotions tearing them apart inside. Never works, that I know of."

Gryffon smiled again, his one dangling foot still swinging through the air.

"So, no, they don't bother me. Not them, not this."

Harry glanced below, where a few of the wolves had drawn back, licking absently at the gore that coated their fur. Remus was one of them, his tongue lolling out in lupine satisfaction. Harry grimaced.

"It seems a bit unfair, an entire pack against that one old hog."

Gryffon laughed, a loud sound that drew a few gazes up into the tree.

"Is this an argument for fairness? Because, young Harry, nothing in the world is."

Harry grumbled under his breath.

"That's not what I meant." Was it? Harry thought, then sighed. Gryffon hadn't answered his question about his own power, but he hadn't really expected him to, either.

The wizard turned back to him with an easy smile.

"Just remember that wizards are not always the top of the food chain, and fairness is something only those with the luxury of strength worry about. The weak ones will use any advantage they have, fair or not."

Harry only nodded, and let the silence grow as they observed the wolves below.


Harry left the pack as the early morning sun burned away a low fog.

He was momentarily disoriented when he realized Ivy and Blossom were not laying out breakfast, but a late lunch. He sighed and sat, weary from the long night and resisting the pull of the moon's magic.

Ivy placed a plate in front of him, then beside it put a sealed envelope. Harry frowned at it, looking over the elaborate letter M imprinted on the seal.

The Ministry.

He glanced up at Ivy, who bobbed into a swift curtsey. She was still wearing the green pillowcase, and had a small flower tucked behind one large wrinkled ear.

"It arrived by owl last night, Master Potter, very late. The owl did not stay after I's told it you was not here."

Harry nodded, then broke the seal, taking out the stiff parchment and unfolding it. There was only one line of text.

New developments have changed the situation. We must speak in person.

Scrimgeour

Harry put the letter down, then pushed away his untouched plate, brows drawn together in thought. What could have happened? Was this about Sirius, or the Minister? Or had Harry's questions about the O.W.L. exams triggered something?

Harry shook his head and stood, quickly leaving the room and ignoring Ivy's disapproving look at the uneaten lunch.

He had a letter to write.


The fireplace flared green at exactly six o'clock. From the flames, Rufus Scrimgeour easily stepped out with the stride of a soldier, his shoulders straight and firm, not a hint of disorientation from the floo travel in his bearing. Harry immediately envied him for that, and shifted where he sat on the living room chair.

Rufus's yellow eyes landed on him, their depths hard.

"Mr. Potter."

Harry stood, a mixture of polite and nervous.

"Head Auror Scrimgeour."

Harry gestured to another chair, then sat again himself. The elves had moved the furniture slightly for the occasion, leaving room in the middle for two chairs and a table. Blossom and Ivy had made tea and some sort of biscuits, both of which waited on the table. Scrimgeour sat at the other chair, gaze level.

"Your communication with the Wizarding Examinations Authority has made the rounds with the department heads. So far all speculation has been good-natured."

So it was straight to business. Harry straightened.

"Is that what you meant about the situation changing? I was merely asking for information."

Scrimgeour inclined his head.

"There is nothing mere about it. You are the Boy-Who-Lived; your motives will always be analysed. The number one theory is that you will attempt to test out of your year early."

Harry frowned.

"I have no year, as I am not enrolled at an institution, nor plan to be."

Scrimgeour waved a lazy hand in dismissal.

"Do not try to sidestep the issue, Mr. Potter. If I am to help you in any way, you will need to be frank about your plans. Especially those dealing with the Ministry."

Harry thought for a long moment. His finally spoke, his voice low.

"I didn't ask your for help."

Scrimgeour's voice was equally low, his eyes level.

"I'm offering it."

Harry broke the gaze, looking away. He couldn't trust this man; but they did both have goals in common. Scrimgeour had nothing to gain, either, by preventing Harry from getting emancipated. If anything, getting Harry beyond Fudge's influence would help.

Harry looked back at the auburn-haired man, and slowly nodded.

"The Ministry is trying to force me to be their ward. They know, or at least suspect, that I am in no way willing to return to Hogwarts, or any other European school for that matter. I enjoy my freedom. I do not like their interference, or what their policies are doing to my friend and tutor, Remus Lupin. I have been exploring my options. Emancipation seemed to be the best route."

Scrimgeour showed no surprise. He only nodded once, sharply.

"If you were anyone else, Mr. Potter, it would be. But it is not only the Minister that will seek to prevent you from changing your status to adult. The Headmaster of Hogwarts has considerable political pull, even outside the Wizengamot. I have no doubt he has his own spies within the Ministry."

Harry stiffened.

"He can not stop me."

Scrimgeour snorted, then shook his head.

"You do not want to make an enemy of both of the most powerful men in Europe, nor ally them against you. You may win one battle, but will lose in the end."

Harry crossed his arms, then realized how petulant the gesture seemed. He dropped his hands back to his side, fists clenched.

"What would you suggest, then?"

Scrimgeour smiled, and it reminded Harry of a lion't grin, sharp and deadly.

"I know the way the Ministry works, and I know how the current Minister thinks. He wants your support, desperately. As long as he thinks there is a chance of getting it, of gaining control of you, he will be as delicate as he is capable. But once he loses that hope, he will not hesitate to throw all of his weight into destroying a potential liability." Scrimgeour paused, the reaching out, poured himself some tea as he continued. "And you are without a doubt a very big liability. The Wizengamot has just reached the conclusion that they will put Sirius Black on trial, in absentia, for the kidnapping and murder of Peter Pettigrew. If you testify, you have the power to swing the trial in either direction. Minister Fudge wants this business tucked away, the trial done quietly with no publicity. All employees if the Ministry have been forbidden contact with the media, and the Daily Prophet has been oddly silent on the issue. But you..." Scrimgeour took a sip of tea; smiled. "You can change all of that."

Harry sat up straight, eyes wide.

"There is to be a trial for Sirius? Why wasn't I notified?"

Scrimgeour lifted one shoulder idly.

"I imagine it was completely on purpose. The less who know, the more likely the evidence can be… skewed, in their favor. Me telling you this now is obviously a breach of protocol. I honestly thought Dumbledore would have contacted you himself, as it is certain he knows. He was the one to convince the Wizengamot to reopen the case with the new evidence."

Harry felt rage curl in his belly, and stomped down on it brutally. Now was the time for a cool head, not hot anger.

"Thank you for informing me. You know I will insist on saying my part in my godfather's defense. How will this not alienate the Minister?"

Scrimgeour's smile faded, and his expression went stern.

"You will accept the Minister's offer of wardship."

Harry sat up straight, anger tightening his face despite his previous control. Scrimgeour held up a hand to stave off a outburst.

"Hear me out."

Harry wanted to snarl, wanted to argue. He forced himself to only nod, once, eyes full of denial. Scrimgeour folded his hands on the table, the fingers calloused from years of wandwork and training. An aurors hands.

"Write a letter to the Ministry, graciously accepting their offer for oversight and protection once Mr. Lupin is no longer qualified. Put in a caveat, that due to your training under Nicolas Flamel, you wish to take your O.W.L. exams and qualify to move up a grade. They are offered at the Ministry in December and July. You can take them this winter, if you are indeed ready. Let them think you are being obedient, willing to work with them, but truly believe your godfather is innocent, insisting on attending and testifying in the trial. Let them know the dreams and wishes of a child, and give them a child's face and attitude. Make them underestimate you." Scrimgeour took another sip of tea, his yellow eyes full of conviction. He place the saucer down with a soft clink. "Then, next summer, take the N.E.W.T.s, if you are as intelligent as you claim. You need only pass six of the twelve to make the point, I believe. With those under your belt, there is little grounds for the Ministry to stand on to prevent you filing for emancipation. You will be fifteen, only one year before your majority anyway as the Heir to a family that holds a seat on the Wizengamot. The paperwork should go through before the next session of the Wizengamot, which would be their first opportunity to attempt any roadblocks."

Harry sat, stunned by how neatly the entire thing was laid out by the older wizard. It seemed so simple, so straightforward. It was a lot like what he had thought himself, though he hadn't gotten to the details yet. But having to be the Ministries ward, even if only for half a year… he wasn't sure he could take it. He wouldn't be able to live on his own anymore, would have a hard time sneaking away to see his brothers in Australia, or Remus in America. What about full moons? And the Ministry would be legally allowed to regulate his financial access, as well. Harry would truly be stuck, far worse than he ever was with Dumbledore, who had never enforced the strict regulations he knew the Ministry capable of.

But it was a means to an end. And an opportunity, if he could handle it, to slip from their and Dumbledore's reach forever. He would be able to take up his titles if he got emancipated. The Lord of two powerful families would be no man's pawn.

Perhaps his godfather could be found blameless.

Harry met Scrimgeour's eerie eyes.

"Tell me more."


The Trace was a curious thing, and fundamentally tied to the wand every witch and wizard utilized. Just how it was done was a secret kept well hidden within the Department of Mysteries. This was said to be because they did not want to risk the spell being broken; others claimed it was because the Trace is never really removed.

It was supposed to deteriorate naturally when a wizard or witch reached the age of seventeen, and attained legal adult status. For many pureblood students, that could be pushed to as early as sixteen, with the proper forms and permission. Heirs in particular fell under that loophole, especially if there was no Lord of their family. In order for the Trace to be removed, however, an agent would be sent from the Department of Mysteries to "dispel" the link early.

Scrimgeour seemed to think Harry would be concerned about the Trace, and much of his explanation dealt with how to get the proper paperwork sent through and approved before the Minister could prevent Harry from completing the process. The Head Auror thought that the man's most likely option would be to stop anyone from the Department of Ministries coming to him to remove the Trace.

Harry wasn't sure how to tell the man that the Trace was most definitely not active anymore on his person. At first, he had thought it because he did not use wand-based spells very often. Later, he assumed it was because he did not perform magic in primarily muggle places. But he had enough evidence now that Harry believed the Trace must have stopped functioning years prior, probably at the onset of his first runic ritual, the magic overriding the tracking spell.

When researching emancipation options, Harry had looked deeper into the nature of the Trace, what was written anyway. Harry should have been contacted many times over by now, and hadn't been. He had no idea how such things would be traced, or how they would know who it was to perform the magic. But they would have known, and done something about it, if they could have. Ammunition for the Minister to use against him.

"Scrimgeour." Harry interrupted the man, and did not look away from his intimidating stare.

"If we discount any actions the Minister may take to roadblock the Trace removal, what other things might he do?"

The auror took a sip of tea; considered.

"Legislation is his primary means of manipulation. His lackey, Undersecretary Umbridge, an odious woman, is still a brilliant strategist, and ruthless in politics. She knows how to manipulate people, which buttons to push. This is why it is so important to act fast, not give them enough time to maneuver. After that, they could try to stall the paperwork. Keep it getting pushed around in the office, misfiling documents, simple mistakes having to be redone. Organization options, perhaps even key personnel coming down sick for a week or two with a case of Dragon Pox."

Harry frowned, and leaned back in his chair.

"The N.E.W.T.s, just like the O.W.L.s, take nearly two full weeks to complete, at least if every subject is taken. That gives them at least that long to react to what I would obviously be up to. They would know as soon as I began to take the exams that I was reaching for adult status."

Scrimgeour nodded, his mouth set in a grim line.

"Yes. We could try having you take the exams under a false identity, but that would be beyond difficult. Very few take the N.E.W.T.s outside of a school setting, and each one is well known by most in the department. Changing your face, and name, would be useless, and inventing an entire identity is difficult, especially as you would need to reveal yourself at the end of it. Getting caught deceiving the department would not look good to those considering if you qualify to be a adult."

Harry nodded, and Rufus sighed before continuing.

"There will be an element of uncertainty to all of this. But I believe this is the best method."

Harry spoke, eyes challenging.

"And if it fails, I will still be stuck as the Ministry's ward for another year."

Scrimgeour didn't try to avoid the accusation.

"Yes." he said simply. Harry's mouth twisted in distaste, but after talking it over he could see very few other ways to accomplish the feat. Once more, he questioned himself if emancipation was necessary at all. If he could simply find another tutor, one easily distracted and in name only… Harry's eyes flickered up to Scrimgeour's, and then he looked away again.

Quietly, Harry spoke.

"And what do you want from me in return for all this help?"

Scrimgeour didn't fidget or flinch, only retained his calm expression, earnest and stern.

"Your support in discrediting the Minister, through interviews or during your godfather's trial."

Harry grimaced. He thought of the distasteful articles he had already encountered, especially those by Rita Skeeter.

"I don't like reporters."

One side of Scrimgeour's mouth lifted in a grin.

"A necessary evil."

Harry kept frowning, but nodded.

"Alright. What else?"

Scrimgeour folded his hands again before him.

"I have reason to believe that there has been increased activity among the former ranks of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Little is confirmed at this point, but there may be a new element attempting to gather. What their motives might be is not certain."

Harry immediately went on alert, shoulders tense.

"What does this have to do with me?"

Scrimgeour smiled grimly.

"First, I'd like your word you will not seek to join them."

Harry felt anger beginning to rise, and forcibly squashed it. He spoke low and harsh.

"That is insulting. I would never help the people that killed my parents."

Scrimgeour didn't hesitate, eyes solemn.

"I never would have thought you would support Sirius Black, either."

"That's different." Harry hissed out. "He is innocent."

Scrimgeour inclined his head, spread his hands in an aloof gesture.

"As you say. Second, if within your power once you take up your position as Lord, I would ask for support in any agenda that seeks to prevent this group from taking advantage of the Ministry's weaknesses."

Harry pressed his lips tightly together, though a new fear was rising in his belly. Perhaps it wasn't old Death Eaters that were setting off alarms, but the Hounds. Their agenda was definitely anti-Ministry. And Harry was most certainly helping them at this point. Harry's eyes shuttered, and he nodded, once, as he spoke.

"I can easily promise to help with any legislation that prevents Death Eaters from influencing the Ministry."

Harry saw Scrimgeour's expression close off as well, and knew the other man had caught the careful wording. When the wizard spoke again, his tone was almost monotone, low and gravelly.

"The last thing I would ask of you as a favor. If the worst happens, and this group does prove to be a terrorist group of dark wizards, whether under He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's banner or some other wizard, that you will lend your own magic and influence to help us bring them down."

Dark wizards.

That would not be the Hounds, in any case. Terrorist group might describe them, however.

Harry's forced his fingers to relax from the fist they had drawn in to.

"You seem to think I could actually make a difference."

Scrimgeour smiled again, but there was no humor in it.

"I am not blind, Mr. Potter. It is not only your reputation as the Boy-Who-Lived. If you are a Lord of two Houses, you will possess considerable political influence if you choose to utilize it. As for your power… do not think you can make me think you an average teenage wizard at this point. You were the only apprentice Nicolas Flamel had taken in centuries. You do things that are incredibly difficult, that some would say are nearly impossible. It is well-known in the Ministry that several are seeking to find how you are capable of these things. I can tell, just sitting across from you, that you posses a striking amount of power. You are not the only wizard or witch in the world to bear so much magic, but are the only one who is so young, and currently the only one residing in Great Britain besides Albus Dumbledore. I do not consider your youth to be a factor against using you in any skirmish that may take place. I do not have the same scruples as your previous Headmaster. There are no children in war."

War? Harry cleared his throat.

"You did not say anything about a war."

Scrimgeour stood in an easy motion, and retrieved his cloak from the back of the chair, swinging it around his shoulders.

"Think about my proposal."

He left abruptly in a swirl of emerald flames, and Harry sat for a long moment, deep in thought, trying to get all the facts together.

Something more was going on. Based on Scrimgeour's reaction, the man probably now suspected Harry knew more than he has said. Surely the man didn't expect Harry to trust him completely, or give away any secrets.

Was is possible that the man knew, or suspected, the Hound's existence? Should he have asked, or hinted at the possibility? But that would have given himself away, and his knowledge of such a group would be suspicious.

Harry frowned down at the tea in front of him.

If the aurors knew, why hadn't James said anything? Harry doubted the man in charge of a group like the Hounds wouldn't know if they did. Perhaps it was time to have another talk with the man about just what the group was doing.

And if Scrimgeour considered them an enemy, was even thinking of an actual war… just how far had things gone, while Harry was busy with his own problems?


He had them all.

With his mark on their skin, he knew them, could call them, could bend them to his will.

But he didn't have to call them all at once.

He had contemplated for a long time which to make his own, which would allow him their complete selves. For a long time, he thought of those in prison, his most faithful, the ones that did not betray him. Then he thought of the traitors, contemplated breaking their wills to his own, taking over their minds and bodies for a new home, as he had done with the pathetic Quirrell.

He was stronger now, more whole, though not yet complete. His home within Nagini was beginning to wear thin, the serpent beginning to fade under the burden of his increased spirit.

He needed another, a servant.

And he felt it, calling through his bonds, a flood of darkness, the taint of copper and ozone. One of his own was killing, slaughtering, torturing. He grabbed hold of that, and followed it, followed the spark and taint of darkness, strong and unbent with the passing years, unlike so many others who wilted with time.

Rosier.


Evan Rosier was dead.

He had watched himself be brought down, most valiantly of course, by the team of cowardly scum led by that fool Moody. Got a few good curses in as well, he had judged, before apparating away from the bloodbath.

And the body that had fell that day had been Evan Rosier, just not the right one.

His father hadn't loved him, not really. Evan was simply a means to an end, an old man's meager form of immortality, a continuation of blood and magic. When their master fell, to a babe of all things, something had broken in the elder Rosier, like a plate of steel that fractures after too many hammer blows. To be so close to domination only to falter, fall. The knowledge that they had been betrayed only strengthened those cracks until Evan was a bit ashamed of the man for being so weak and frail.

Of course, his father had been old. Old to have a son as young as Evan, whose mother was rumored to be the pureblood wife of another man. His father had taken that particular secret to the grave, though Rosier had his own suspicions.

Rosier was willing to vanish into the ether, as any good Slytherin would when the tide turns against them. He had a few bolt holes of his own he could disappear to, with or without his increasing liability of a father. But that man had simply insisted he would not run, but fight to his own death in revenge for their conquered master.

Rosier had done what he had to, and thought the results quite splendid.

When the aurors were imminent, the knowledge thanks to his own connections with the Department, Evan slipped the polyjuice into his father's firewhiskey, and the man had straightened, had turned to him, the pale eyes they shared reflecting both knowledge and acceptance as the change took him over.

Weak, Evan had thought, but useful still.

An hour later, Evan watched his father fall, unfortunately not taking all the aurors with him. Still, three out of five was a good fraction. He couldn't quite feel sad about the loss; the man had become a liability, and never truly been kind to his son. Still, they were blood, and Rosier memorized the faces of those that killed him. Revenge would come, in time.

He traveled, and practiced his own forms of entertainment.

First Canada, then a brief stint down into America, before he decided he much preferred colder climates for his work. He went to the mountains of Romania, where he killed a dozen muggle women before the authorities caught on. He moved again, working his way across mountains, carefully selecting his victims and reveling in the screams and blood and agony.

Life was good. He had money, enough from the Rosier family vault to keep him well at hand. He had his little bits of fun, never too many, never too close together. and he got to see the world, got to explore the mountains of countries seldom explored, traveling in snow and ice and wind.

Nothing was more beautiful to him than a woman, her body cold and still on a blanket of fresh snow, red and black sprinkled around her like a devil's wings.

He was a bit mad, he knew that. Talked to himself quite frequently, tended to laugh at odd times. Things were simply hilarious and wonderful, the travel, the murders, the art.

He knew elements within the auror force had still suspected him, still hunted him, against the judgment of their peers. Old Pilliwickle had trailed him for some time in Ireland, before he lost the scent. Rosier had been a bit nostalgic when he learned the man had retired, leaving some witch in his place. Despicable, really, that wizards had sunk so low as to let a woman rule them. Did they have no self-respect? For their magic, their blood-line?

But no matter.

He was in Scotland again, back near home for the first time in a decade, and performing his own welcome home ritual.

He enjoyed the mountains here. Not the soaring peaks of his other travels, but not gentle hills either. Their peaks still bore snow, even in summer.

Before him, one of the two women whimpered through the cloth he had spelled around her face.

Rosier grinned.

"Oh yes, so sorry my lovely. I quite forgot you for a moment. Never fear."

He loved the way the emotion moved in their eyes, fear and pleading and sometimes even anger. He liked it when they fought, of course, the spunk bringing a nice flavor to the event. But his favorite were the ones who simply went limp, eyes wide and blank, flesh supine and giving before him. A sacrifice of will, complete acceptance to his mastery. A tribute.

Rosier lifted his wand, the magic gathering to leap, and the flesh on his right arm burned.

He gasped, the spark he had not felt in years reignited, the beautiful pain breaking through him like ripples of purest water. He ripped back the sleeve of his cloak, and looked with amazed delight as the faded tattoo there awoke, the serpent squirming from its bare skull, green scales slick and vivid on his pale skin.

Rosier laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

And the women screamed.


There was more than one ritual to reunite a spirit with its body. Many were distasteful things, the bodies rotten corpses, useless decaying husks. Others were twisted shapes, not entirely human, too many legs or fingers or toes or even heads, animal limbs or eyes or teeth or tongues.

A few made one normal once again, and those had no more appeal to him than the deformed ones.

Then there were those that improved.

The human body was a changeable thing, often weak, tied to needs that he despised. Doing away with those seemed only correct. He was Lord Voldemort; why should he bow before sleep, or hunger, or pain?

One ritual seemed poetic. Bone of father, flesh of servant, blood of enemy.

But it did not offer the benefits of another, and he found his previous predilection for the dramatic as another form of weakness he had fallen prey to as he split his soul. Still, the thought of having Potter at his feet, bleeding on the ground, satisfied him greatly.

Perhaps there would still be a place for that, after all, when he was ready to show himself to the boy, show his true power and mastery.

First he would build a true form for himself, one that was perfect in every way, worthy of his soul. One that was ready to conquer.

He looked down at long fingers, twisted the fragile bones of his current body. Rosier had given in spectacularly, with euphoric devotion, his clothes still sprinkled with the blood of muggle cattle.

The wizard's mind was quite a brutal place, a kaleidoscope of insanity and murderous humor, but he found it no trouble to take over, especially when given such willing access. He would use this form, the bond only stronger for the link they already shared, the Dark Mark vivid on the pale skin. He would use this wizard's magic and his own to begin again, stronger and greater than ever before.

It was time to gather the sacrifices, gather the ones that would set him free. Seven wizards was all it would take, seven to give their power and life and blood for his own in a single night, a single bloody ritual.

What were seven lives to him, to Voldemort, the Heir of Salazar Slytherin himself? All lives were his for the taking if he willed it.

They would all be his in the end.


It was an odd gathering, and the people within hadn't all met face to face together in over a decade, since the large gala's after the defeat of You-Know-Who, when the Ministries around Europe celebrated the destruction of a shadow.

Albus Dumbledore, Igor Karkaroff, and Olympe Maxime were the center of it, the heads of three very different schools of magic and learning.

Madam Maxime of Beauxbatons, her large bulk taking up a chair twice the size of Karkaroff's, scoffed loudly into the room.

"You must be crazy, Dumbly-dore! Ze Tri-wizard Tournament at ur school, after ze recent accidents?"

Igor Karkaroff, the Headmaster of Durmstrang Institute, his blue eyes narrowed to slits, nodded emphatically.

"It's madness! I was against this travesty from the start. If you still insist on holding it at Hogwarts, I must decline."

Albus Dumbledore, hands folded in his lap, raised two white brows.

"Hogwarts is one of the safest places in Britain. Our wards here..."

Igor snorted loudly, cutting off the white bearded man with a rapid hand movement.

"Wards! Pathetic, from what I hear. Two deaths, one a student. Multiple petrifications, a Basilisk, an escaped convict... If this is Britain's safest place, then my opinion of this country has sunk to a new low."

Beside them, another man, his grey hair covered in a old-fashioned bowler hat, straightened. His eyes narrowed at Igor with obvious distaste.

"Britain was willing to host this tournament, and France and Norway agreed, as did you, by owl, this very summer."

Karkaroff waved a hand at the man, the anger obvious on his face.

"Crouch, you will not manipulate my school into this tournament without more solid proof of safety for my students. The Norwegian Ministry agrees with me."

Igor gestured behind him.

A blond man sat there, having silently observed the ensuing argument with bored eyes that were still striking for their unique color. One eye was a dark vibrant green, the other strikingly blue. Heterochromatism was even rarer among wizards than among muggles.

He spoke with a soft voice that belied his muscular form.

"The Norwegian Ministry has suggested that we host the tournament instead at the venerable Durmstrang Institute."

There was silence in the room. Dumbledore stiffened in shock, while Maxime blinked rapidly. She was the first to speak.

"Who are you, monsieur?"

The blond man inclined his head slightly in a polite nod.

"I am Hjalmar Gyldenpalm, head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports."

Beside Crouch, another man with bright blue eyes sat up straight.

"I say! I've heard of you. Very decent quidditch matches have been coordinated over there. I'm your counterpart in Britain, Ludo Bagman."

Gyldenpalm observed him for a moment without expression, before turning away without the politeness he had shown Madam Maxime. While Ludo sputtered, Albus shook his head and spoke up, voice quiet yet furious.

"It was our idea here at Hogwarts to host the tournament in the name of international cooperation."

"Indeed!" Crouch echoed with a nod.

Maxime raised a single brow, her face pinched.

"It iz still cooperation to have ze tournament at Durmstrang. I agree with zis suggestion. Beauxbâtons does not 'ave ze space at zis time to offer its own grounds."

Igor Karkaroff folded his hands and smiled triumphantly. Dumbledore spoke, his voice chiding.

"I was under the impression that Durmstrang prized its secrecy. I have not visited the Institute since my teenage years, and even that was not strictly allowed. Outsiders have never been allowed inside before."

Karkaroff's face darkened, and his blue eyes went blank.

"Things change, Dumbledore. Sometimes change is necessary to achieve a desired end."

There was silence again, charged and electric.

Then, like a boulder flung free from a mountainside, Dumbledore unclasped his hands, resting them on the armrests of his chair.

"Very well. Hogwarts will go to Durmstrang, on one condition. There must be limits in place during the challenges, so that none are harmed. The tournament has a history for violence. An age limit would be expected as well."

Igor scoffed, but Madam Maxine nodded.

"I can zee this would be a good thing."

Gyldenpalm spoke up, his voice low enough that the others strained to catch each word.

"Perhaps, a compromise. Spectators enjoy spectacle. If we change the rules regarding age limits and ability, perhaps we can also change the basic structure to increase excitement."

Ludo Bagman wrinkled his nose.

"Why should we go to all the effort for that? The layout's worked great all the other times it was done."

Crouch scowled at the man beside him, then reluctantly nodded at Gyldenpalm.

"What do you suggest?"

Hjalmar Gyldenpalm spread his hands, multi-colored eyes neutral in expression.

"Only, perhaps, that each school send three students instead of one. And increase the number of challenges from three, to seven."

"Seven?!" Ludo barked, and was ignored by the others. Crouch nodded slowly.

"Can Norway spare the expense of expanding the tournament?"

Karkaroff stiffened at the implied insult.

"Durmstrang needs no support from any Ministry. Our school can easily bear the burden with no strain."

Madam Maxime laughed, a loud guffaw that made the delegates from the French Ministry, Apolline Delacour and Wyatt Crux, wince.

"We agree zen! It iz settled."

"Now, see here, this isn't..." Ludo began, and was ignored again as Albus Dumbledore nodded and spoke.

"It will still be the Triwizard Tournament. Teams of three seem appropriate, and seven challenges will increase the challenge that is lessened by having three competitors from each school."

Crouch cleared his throat, gaining the rooms attention before he spoke, eyeing the delegates from both the Norwegian and French Ministries.

"The British Ministry of Magic would like to offer the use of a new artefact, the Goblet of Fire, for use in the impartial selection of candidates."

There was a buzz of talk in the room, then Gyldenpalm gestured.

"How does this Goblet work?"

Crouch spoke, withdrawing a picture from his briefcase that showed a large wooden goblet sparkling with bright blue fire.

"Each candidate must submit their name and the name of the school they are applying under. It is charmed to pick from the selection based on magical strength and ability with impartiality. Once chosen, the candidate is automatically entered into a binding magical contract, and can not back out from competing."

At that, Dumbledore frowned.

"I was not aware it would be binding."

Maxime waved one large hand.

"Zey would not enter if zey were not willing."

At that, the room descended into talk, each headmaster and headmistress talking with the others from their respective countries. After a long few minutes, Gyldenpalm called for a vote. Of the nine in the room, there was only one person who did not vote for the use of the Goblet.

Albus Dumbledore looked even more annoyed, his bright blue eyes lacking the liveliness he was known for, his face twisted down in a disapproving frown.

As the meeting continued, and rudimentary plans were laid in place and details ironed out, the Headmaster of Hogwarts mind raced, wondering how to regain control of his own plan and turn it back to his own advantage.

Nothing was quite going the way it was supposed to.


Harry went straight to the old warehouse the Hounds were using for experimentation, observing Sirius demonstrating the differences between charms and jinxes while various muggles surrounded him, jotting notes and asking questions.

His green eyes roamed the building, and landed on the office along the far wall. He approached it at quick pace, the few muggles who noted his presence backing off without challenge.

He entered the smaller room, the large window showcasing the entire warehouse behind the silvered mirror.

He was rewarded with the sight of James, grey eyes curious while his tall form lounged back in a metal chair with casual grace.

"Mr. Potter. How delightful."

"James." Harry said shortly, then dragged a chair from against the wall over, unfolding it with a quick snap to sit across from the older man.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" James drawled, a slight smile curling the corner of his mouth.

Harry hesitated only a moment.

"Have you contacted the wizard's Ministry?"

James blinked.

"I'm sorry, but I am not in the habit of exchanging pleasantries with wizarding government."

Harry scowled.

"That's not what I meant. Have any of your…" Harry gestured through the window. "projects been discovered by my kind?"

James tapped one finger on his chair, the metallic sound echoing in the room.

"I must say, this is quite unexpected. Has anything given you cause for concern?"

Harry wanted to accuse the man, wanted to take that smirk and wipe it clean off the man's face. He wouldn't be distracted so easily.

"I don't want anything to lead the aurors to my godfather." Harry said shortly. James hummed contemplatively.

"I can't be completely positive nothing at all has been discovered. General wizarding policy is to wipe the minds of any muggles catching on to your abilities. Makes it hard to keep track who has been compromised."

Harry nodded reluctantly, but he wasn't satisfied.

"You would tell me if it had been. If there was evidence they knew of you."

James smiled brightly.

"Of course!" His eyes turned to concern. "But tell me, are you having trouble with your officials? I didn't think you the type to fraternize with those types."

Harry shrugged, looking away from those grey eyes so similar to his own godfather's.

"It's nothing, really. Nothing I'm not handling."

James leaned forward, eyes earnest.

"We can't afford to lose you, Harry. We wouldn't recommend you interact too closely with your Ministry. They are barbarians in the way they treat your kind and mine. I wouldn't trust them."

Harry only made a noncommittal noise, not looking at the other man.

He didn't trust James, either. Not by a hundred meters, not after all the man had already done to Harry's own family. He would never forget Mr. Steel's death, or Rick's hate-filled eyes.

The end did not justify the means, no matter what the other implied.

Outside, Sirius lifted his wand, casting a small avis towards the ceiling, the fluttering of multiple birds causing shrieks of annoyance and laughter from those around him.

Beside him, James began to chuckle as one muggle attempted to catch a bird with a wide sweeping net Sirius helpfully conjured, amusement dancing in his grey eyes.

Harry only frowned, his worry growing with every second that passed. How far would they all go with the Hounds? How much had Sirius already given away?

Was it already too late to back out?


Draco Malfoy sealed the box with a press of his wand tip to the wooden gaps. Inside, his books and notes on Occlumency would be safe during the flight if the owls encountered any rain.

He was satisfied with what he had accomplished over the summer, his lessons with Professor Snape increasing his own confidence.

He had created his own kind of shields, ones the older wizard found incredibly hard to penetrate unscathed.

A mix of memories from inside both Harry and Hermione's minds, fire and water, sheathed his thoughts and ran betwixt them behind his eyes, a solid veil of pain and agony and death.

The professor had gotten through only once in their last practice section, the last they would have before term began, and even then the man had gained nothing, losing his grasp on Draco's mind as pain filled it.

Sure, Draco had been rendered nearly unconscious. But he figured any attack of that magnitude on his mind would mean he was already apprehended or disabled, and unconsciousness might be its own form of safety.

A sleeping mind could not be invaded from the outside.

Professor Snape was not happy about the way Draco had chosen, but he didn't figure the man would be. He was a perfectionist, and excelled at traditional occlumency. Draco had no time to perfect anything, and no time to even try. He had needed results now, and had gotten them.

He only hoped Neville and Blaise could find their own way as well to protect their minds. Harry would assimilate and pass on the information to their two friends, though Draco had already spoken with them several times about beginning meditation and they had reported success.

Perhaps Harry should give them both those memories as well, though Draco doubted the boy would agree. Much too nice, unwilling to get his hands dirty or cause pain.

Well, Draco wasn't. He would do exactly as he needed to do.

The memory of Hermione, her large brown eyes full of both betrayal and guilt, rose in his mind. He squelched it with an angry twist of his lips, then tied the large wooden box to the three owls he had commandeered for the purpose.

He wouldn't think about her. As far as he was concerned, they were back to square one. Until she could trust him with her secrets…

Draco shook his head again, turning with an aggravated growl.

She wasn't his. She didn't matter. None of it mattered.

He sat, pulling out the last of his notes, going over them again and again, eyes focused.

As long as he kept busy, he didn't have to think about what might have been.


Harry finished writing the three letters, attaching to each a copy of both books and notes on Occlumency. Draco had forgotten that Luna would also need to protect her mind, though the girl claimed she already had the means to do so.

Harry wasn't sure whether to doubt her or simply believe her. She could be downright odd at times. If anybody's mind would be hard to understand, it was hers.

Still, he sent her a copy as well. Couldn't hurt.

He figured, after the official start of term, they would all begin to practice the art together. Except Hermione.

Hermione.

Harry leaned back in his chair, rubbing tired eyes with his fingers. She was glad her mind was safe, but upset that it set her apart from the others. She hadn't told him much, but implied enough that Harry knew Draco and her were on the outs with each other. He didn't understand why Draco would be angry with the witch, but he also didn't understand why Hermione was so angry with the blond in turn.

She wouldn't give him the entire story, claiming it was childish and stupid.

He repressed his own curiosity and let it be. The two of them had spent more time with each other than he had with any of his other friends. He missed her presence in his house, missed the distraction and company.

He would visit them, Harry decided abruptly. Nothing was stopping him from going to Hogwarts. Perhaps Dobby could find them a better place to meet, one farther in the school than their usual room that would soon be taken over by the combined study groups. Harry had met Boot and Smith before, and Greengrass of course had been in Slytherin with him. The others he did not know, and was he not comfortable sharing his abilities with any of them.

More people that would have to be able to protect themselves. More people that could be hurt.

Better to find a separate place to meet with his friends, alone, and far from curious eyes.

Harry sighed, then stood, glancing out his window before jumping through flame to go to Grimmauld Place.

It was time for Sirius and he to talk about the potential for an upcoming trial, and exactly how they could use it for their own advantage.


The Great Hall was full of chatter, mindless talking and loud laughter, excited voices all ringing together in rapid waves of conversation

The sorting had been fast, each student sorted with minimal fuss.

Hermione and Neville sat, for the first time in nearly a year, at the Gryffindor table, a small space on either side of two setting them subtly apart from the rest. McGonagall had given them both a subtle hint before entering that it was expected for all students to sit with their House for the sorting feast.

It was still incredibly uncomfortable, Neville thought, glancing beside him where Hermione was daintily eating with furrowed brows.

She had been oddly quiet since the train ride. Normally she was the one that filled their compartment with bubbly enthusiasm for a new year, with ideas and expectations. She had seemed fine enough when it was just the two of them and Luna, though still scornful of the blonde girl's exuberant ideas. But when Blaise and Draco entered, she had gone completely mute, staring out her window, only responding when asked a direct question.

Neville wasn't blind, and he and Blaise had exchanged confused looks between the Gryffindor girl and Draco Malfoy, who had been determinedly staring in the opposite direction of the bushy haired girl.

It had been a chore to keep up the conversation with just the two of them and Luna contributing to it, though a perusal of The Quibbler and the arrival of the sweet trolley had livened things up a bit.

Neville had tried to ask Hermione about it once they separated, but she only insisted that absolutely nothing was wrong.

The very way she said it, avoiding eye contact and flushing with guilt, was enough to prove she was lying. She was absolutely horrid at it.

Before them, the food and plates abruptly vanished. Neville started, blinking quickly, before looking up at the head table.

Headmaster Dumbledore stood, smiling benevolently over them all with twinkling eyes, before going into the normal start of term announcements.

Neville snickered along with the rest when it was mentioned that any Weasley products were banned from the premises. The twins had been getting increasingly bold with their tricks and pranks, and he had already seen several pass hands on the walk into the school.

"And last, I have a grand and exciting announcement."

Neville perked up, glancing at Hermione who was staring at Dumbledore with her complete attention. Neville tried to see what she saw. The Headmaster continued, voice booming in the cavernous hall.

"This year, for the first time in two centuries, there will be a Triwizard Tournament."

The hall erupted into excited chatter, and the Headmaster waited smiling for it to die down before continuing. Hermione had stiffened, eyes wide. Neville only shook his head in amazement. His Gran had told stories about the disaster the last one had been, her own grandfather a student at the time that all the Heads of the schools participating had been injured when a cockatrice got loose.

"In the spirit of international cooperation, this revival of the venerable Tournament will be held at Durmstrang Institute, the school opening its doors to outsiders for the first time in its history."

Again there were murmurs, especially from the Slytherin side of the school. Neville cast a glance at Draco, who was leaning forward with eager eyes.

"For the safety of our students and with the knowledge of modern times, a committee was held between Durmstrang, Hogwarts, and Beauxbatons. It was decided that certain rules must be set in place. First, no student under the age of seventeen will be allowed to participate."

At that, more than half the school erupted into groans, and Neville saw Draco nearly wilt with disappointment. Hermione relaxed slightly beside him.

"Also, it has been decided that teams of three will compete from each school in seven competitions, instead of the traditional one in three. A list of further rules and regulations will be posted in every common room. Any wishing to participate should contact their Head of House for the permission slip for parents and guardians. Four students will be picked by the Head of Houses from every House to travel to Durmstrang to place their name in the goblet of Fire, which will pick three from those twelve. Grades and behavior will take precedence in this initial selection. Good luck to all who wish to participate. Eternal glory and a reward of 1000 galleons go to the Champions of the Triwizard Tournament!"

He sat, and there was an indrawn breath, a moment of silence.

Then desert appeared before them, followed by the roar of renewed conversations and excited chatter. Neville turned to Hermione with wide eyes.

"You read about this Tournament? I can't believe they are bringing it back!"

Hermione nodded, fiddling with her fork as she gazed down at the empty plate in front of her.

"I'm glad they are changing the rules. Should make it much safer. Still, Durmstrang… will they even allow muggleborns the chance to compete?"

Neville was confused a moment, before it cleared. He had heard that Durmstrang Institute only allowed students who could prove the wizarding ancestry of at least one parent to attend.

"The Headmaster would have mentioned it if they wouldn't. Would you have tried?"

Hermione blanched, shaking her head quickly.

"No! Never. People have gotten killed. Not worth whatever glory they say you might get."

Neville shrugged, sliced himself a piece of chocolate pie.

"I figure more are interested in the prize money."

Hermione snorted.

"One thousand galleons. How are they going to split that with three contestants anyway?"

Neville frowned down at his dessert.

"I don't know."

Hermione only shook her head.

"Well, at least it's not here. Shouldn't interfere with any of our own stuff. In any case, it will mean less competitors in the Dueling competition!"

She brightened at that, and Neville grinned. Now that they were in fourth year, they could finally start participating in both the Dueling and Academia competitions that were held every year.

"Exactly!"


Harry put down the hasty letter from Hermione, stroking Hedwig's white feathers as he thought.

The Triwizard Tournament.

He was glad it wasn't at Hogwarts, and his friends would be nowhere near the event. He knew hardly anything about it, other than it being disbanded as too violent for competitors and audience alike.

He gave Hedwig another treat, then quickly wrote an acknowledgment, tieing it to the snowy owls leg before letting her out his window into the cloudy night.

He supposed he ought to at least research the Tournament, though from what Hermione had said many of the rules would change.

Harry looked out his window, watching the white shape grow smaller and smaller, Hedwig straining against the wind as she flew.

Perhaps he should get a subscription to the Daily Prophet, as well.


Hjalmar Gyldenpalm was known as a mild-mannered man, a quiet genius, sober and celibate with no known faults or political affiliations.

He had graduated from Durmstrang as Orlogskaptein, Commander, the Institute's version of Head Boy, his grades perfect, respected by his peers even as he was hated for his easy ability.

To the Norwegian Ministry of Magic, Hjalmar was the perfect fit for the Head of Department of Magical Games and Sports. He was from a well known noble family. He offended no one without great cause, and was brilliant at designing and coordinating events both small and great.

Many would say that the only thing that truly set him apart and made him memorable were his eyes, their differing colors attracting and holding the attention of all who met him.

None would ever have expected him to be one of the Dark Lord Voldemort's most feared assassins.

Of course, that was exactly the point.

Svart did not have blue and green eyes, but solid black as his swedish name implied. His hair was not a short blond, but long and sable, plaited down his back with sharp silver spikes inside each knot for anyone unfortunate enough that tried to grab it. And he was marked not on his arm, as the usual ranks of Death Eaters were, but across his forehead, the silver skull resting in the middle of his temple, the snake sweeping down to his right cheek, its fangs occasionally gleaming against his pale skin.

And around his neck there always rested a single chain bearing a large black stone. Obsidian, jet-black and sharp and full to the brim of magical power. A Vessel that was said to hold the magic of those he killed for his master.

Hjalmar held no patience with such superstitions, though he was not afraid to use its ignorance. The Vessel had always been in his family, and worked as the perfect focus for wandless magic, the perfect tool in assassinations, no wand to tie him to a scene. His father had taught him the technique as his father taught him; how to withdraw his own magic and replenish the stone every night, building a force of increasingly amazing power.

Durmstrang had cemented in him the belief fostered by his pureblood family; there were those meant to rule, and those meant to be ruled. He had found in the Dark Lord a wizard with vision; one who hadn't been seen since Grindelwald, who had also sought to unite the separate worlds though in a very different way. A man he could follow, believe in, serve. He had found among the other Death Eaters a great many pawns to both play with and devour, an endless means of furthering his own goals and desires.

Of course, nothing good lasts forever. All men must die, and the greater the wizard the greater the fall.

Jo mektigere trollmann, jo hardere fall.

Hjalmar had been wise to hide his true face, and wiser still to hide his true nature. Only the Dark Lord himself had known Svart's true name, and only his master would know how and where to contact him. Hjalmar was safe from those seeking Svart; for all intents and purposes the Dark Lord's Shadow had vanished alongside the wizard.

Hjalmar never expected to receive another letter bearing his alternative name and the dark chunk of raw obsidian, the size of a thumbnail. Proof of origin, proof of power.

He had read the letter with calm eyes, his fingers gentle on the parchment. He then folded it carefully afterwards, burning it inside the hearth.

The next day, he donned the new golden mask and led others in distasteful revelry among the throngs of the Quidditch World Cup, easily picking out the weak from the crowd, using them as human shields when the aurors finally arrived to try to stop him.

When the numbers against him grew too great, when his masked and robed fellows had abandoned him, he raised a single hand into the air, casting the mark into the sky the way one would throw a ball, watching the skull rise and its jaw gape, the serpent sliding forth in smoky green fog, ruby eyes alight and fangs gleaming as if to swallow the crowds below whole.

Their screams echoed in his ears when he apparated away, when he gracefully slid into his leather chair, placing his mask upon the wooden dining table as he contemplated his new orders. He would gather them, the scattered flock, the scared sheep that called themselves dark. They did not know true terror, true darkness.

His master would rise again, greater and far more terrible than ever before. The tint of madness was losing its sway, and Hjalmar had looked into red eyes within another man's face and bowed to them, deep and low, a bow he had given no other since his time as a youth.

He was perfectly placed to bring the revenge of his master into his hands. Perfectly placed, this time, to spy, to gather knowledge, to whisper suggestions and manipulate friend and foe alike.

He was not Svart, not this time, for the Dark Lord did not need his assassin. He needed Hjalmar; needed the clean politician, the gentle man.

Hjalmar would be whatever his master desired, the perfect servant.

And in return, he would sleep easily at night, knowing everything he did was done for a cause, for another. Hjalmar was innocent; he bore no guilt at fulfilling his master's will.

He was only doing what he was told.


Ten students sat in a wide room, the ceiling arched high overhead, the walls splashed with large windows. They were in a rough circle, but there was an obvious divide between them, six on one side and four on the other.

There had been short bursts of conversation until the last two to arrive, Sue Li and Daphne Greengrass, sauntered in. Once they took their seats, everyone simply looked at each other in both confusion and uneasy fascination.

Terry Boot was the first to speak.

"Ahem. Here we are." He glanced around, began to flush. "I guess we need to discuss, ah… stuff."

"Eloquent." Zacharias Smith drawled, and Terry reddened further in embarrassment. Immediately Hermione spoke up, glaring at the Hufflepuff.

"We definitely need to discuss the expected behavior of certain members of this new study group."

Zacharias huffed out a laugh, causing the Gryffindor girl to nearly growl. Blaise broke in before the entire thing could deteriorate further.

"Right. Well, we need to compare schedules. Obviously we won't always be able to meet together at all times, but we need to make time at least every Saturday or Sunday for group practice for dueling, and create partnerships for Academia."

Neville spoke up tentatively, nearly raising a hand before he jerked it down.

"I don't really want to do the Academia event."

Anthony brushed back a strand of blond hair that had fallen into his eyes, then spoke.

"I do. Maybe we need to decide that first. It's completely different than the dueling."

Padma took out a sheet of paper and a self-inking quill, and there was a slight scramble as some rose to place their names on the sheet. Sue Li began to write out the differences in schedules for the different Houses.

Before long, the awkwardness began to fade, though Neville noticed that neither Draco nor Hermione said more than a single word to each other the entire time.

Draco leaned over to where Neville and Blaise were sitting, the others discussing the prize of a hundred House points for winning the Academia challenge for each year group.

"It's a shame, isn't it, that we can't try for the Tournament? That would be a real challenge, much better than simple Dueling."

Neville only shook his head.

"Dueling is enough for me. Haven't you read up on the Tournament? Sometimes even the audience gets mauled!"

Draco shrugged elegantly. Blaise laughed at his friend's expression.

"You just want to get into Durmstrang. I can't believe they are opening up the school. You only ever hear rumors about what it's like in there. I heard it is a small school."

Padma glanced over with a frown.

"Probably because they only take pure bloods and half bloods."

Beside her, Anthony nodded.

"And I heard they don't sort people by Houses like we do. And students can skip grades if they pass certain tests."

Hermione sniffed.

"You can technically go up a grade here at Hogwarts, too. Just nobody does it."

Zacharias grinned at her.

"You think you are smart enough for it?"

Hermione's eyes narrowed.

"I've never thought about it."

Zacharis rolled his eyes. Neville broke in this time, not liking the way the two were eyeing each other, one with obvious anger, the other with humorous nonchalance. It was going to be a trial to keep Hermione from hexing the Hufflepuff. He turned quickly to Padma.

"Do you have the rules for Dueling and Academia, Padma?"

The Ravenclaw drew out two hand books, holding them aloft with a grin, before setting them at the table.

"Have at it."


Both Academia and Dueling were extracurricular events much like quidditch, though both were set up in different ways.

Academia was a set of tests, increasing in difficulty, that were taken on an individual basis within each year group. The winner of each year received one hundred points for their House at the end of the year. There were three tiers, instead of the round-robin style of quidditch. In tier one, everyone who wished to compete took a single qualification test. Two girls and two boys from each House would continue on to tier two, where they all compete against each other in a game of wizarding trivia that students could watch if they wished. The four winners would then compete against each other at one time in tier three, trying to answer questions before the others for the most points to win. Academia never attracted the crowds like quidditch and Dueling did, though there were unofficial betting pools among the older students on who would win each tier and what House would receive the points.

Dueling, however, was much more complicated, and one of the events that many students looked forward to every year.

The Dueling challenge begins with teams of ten, made up from any House or year group within the school, though often it was only competitors inside a single year or House that competed together, and most often those were sixth and seventh years. There were four official rounds, each with its own rules and winners. The first round began with teams of ten against other teams of ten, each winner going on to round two. In that round, the teams are split into individuals who each must fight the individuals from another team. If six of the ten duels are won, then the team qualifies to compete in round 3.

That began the true competitions, a long day of dueling where all the teams left fight round-robin style until the top two emerge. Depending on the year, there could be anywhere from seven duels to only three for each team to compete in. It was a test of endurance as much as skill, and having a battle plan was a must.

For the final round, the two finalist teams fight each other until only one member or team is left. The winning team gets a hundred points for their House or Houses. There hadn't been a completely fourth year team to even reach the final round in two decades, and they were determined to break the record.

It would all be much easier, Neville thought, if Harry were still here.


Harry stepped through the flame directly into the study room they had used the year before. It was dark, far past curfew, though dim light shone in through the wide windows.

A figure whirled around, then relaxed.

Hermione smiled wide and leaped over, sweeping him into a quick hug.

"I was hoping we would be the first here! How is Dread?"

Harry laughed, shaking his head and drawing back to look down at her.

"He's home. Enjoying freedom from my, in his words, "dull thoughts"."

Hermione grinned, her hands warm on his arms. Inside his mind, he felt an odd echo, as if by touching skin he could nearly hear her thoughts like a buzzing in the back of his mind. He heard her words as she spoke, and the preceding echo of them.

Tell him I've thought of some new words to learn.

"Tell him I've thought of some new words to learn."

"I will." Harry said with a smile, though he felt slightly muddled by the odd sensation.

What was that?

Hermione frowned, beginning to speak, before a grating noise came from their left.

They turned at the sound of the door opening, Neville slipping in with wide eyes. Hermione stepped back from Harry quickly, an odd red tint to her face. Neville's eyes darted between the two of them before he smiled at Harry.

"Good to see you, Harry. Wish we didn't have to meet this time of night, though. I hate dodging professors."

Harry sighed.

"I'm going to ask Dobby to find us another room to meet in, one your other group does not use. That way my presence won't be noticed if I came during the day."

Neville nodded, then turned as the door opened again, Draco and Blaise both stepping inside.

Harry greeted the two with a smile, then got straight down to business.

"It's time we make sure everyone can protect their minds. I have reason to believe that any one of you may be approached by someone seeking to learn more about me. As long as I keep my distance publicly from you all there is probably little problem. The most likely target is Hermione, but she managed to complete her own mental shields over the summer, as did Draco."

Neville blinked, looking between the two who still wouldn't look at each other, Draco with his jaw clenched and Hermione fidgeting, standing close beside Harry. The boy spoke softly, eyes curious.

"I didn't realize you had gotten so far. I can barely meditate at all, and clearing my mind completely seems impossible."

Harry gestured to Draco, who nodded as he spoke

"I was tutored over the summer by Professor Snape." Neville paled, and Blaise's eyes glimmered in surprise. Draco continued, voice aloof. "I developed a hybrid method of Occlumency, a mixture of meditation, mind building, and aggressive legilimency. It is not as effective at keeping people out of your mind, but it does allow you to hide things within it."

Hermione shifted, but remained silent. Harry glanced at her, but she was looking down. What in Merlin's name had happened between his two friends? And why wouldn't Hermione tell him?

Draco continued, voice smug.

"I've managed to keep out Professor Snape in our last session completely. I created a castle within my mind, and hid both Harry's secrets and my own behind various traps. I took my worst and most painful memories and sheathed the entire thing in it, making anyone who attempts to enter first experience that pain before they can enter. I then constantly bombard them with that, until they leave."

Blaise frowned.

"But that would be painful for you as well."

Draco's cool expression did not falter.

"Yes. This is why it is not as effective as true Occlumency."

The Slytherin nodded, then glanced at Harry.

"I think I will go the normal route. I've gotten pretty far along in clearing my mind. I find the meditation soothing."

Draco nodded, then glanced at Neville, who looked at Blaise before looking to the side.

"I guess I'm with Blaise. I don't really have any memories painful enough to keep anyone out." The Gryffindor flushed a bit, but kept his chin up. Harry nodded.

"That settles it then. I'm willing to help test any shields, though I'm not the best to practice against. Did you get any tips on Legilimency?" The last was said to Draco, who oddly enough seemed to pale.

The boy cleared his throat.

"Some."

"Then perhaps you should test the others." Harry offered. When the blond slowly nodded, Harry saw an opportunity. He turned to face the blond fully.

"Perhaps I should test your own shields? I'm a bit interested to see if they will keep me out as well."

Draco blanched, and what color remained in his white skin drained away. The expression was gone in a heartbeat, but Harry caught it, and could tell Blaise did as well by the way the other Slytherin shifted.

Draco shook his head, the motion small and meticulously controlled.

"I don't think that's necessary."

The words were firm and careful. Harry's eyes narrowed, but he nodded and turned away.

Whatever had happened between his friends was obviously something he wasn't supposed to know, which made him wonder if he himself was the problem. Had Draco confronted Hermione over stopping their Occlumency practice? Had their fight really been that bad?

Beside him, Hermione leaned forward, laying a hand on his arm. Harry felt it like a shock, and three words echoed in his mind.

Leave it, please.

Harry turned to face Hermione, blinking in surprise, the words meaning lost in incredulity at the method of communication. She could speak to his mind now? Was skin contact necessary? She smiled at him when she saw the message had worked. Harry smiled back, giving a single nod, and squeezed her hand in return, sending a message back.

We will test this later.

She nodded.

In front of them, someone cleared their throat. Harry startled, realizing he had been simply staring at her, his mind racing with the opportunities the discovery presented.

Neville smiled nervously.

"So, I think I'll head back now, before it gets even later. Hermione?"

He asked pointedly, and Hermione nodded reluctantly. She glanced at Harry, pulled him into another quick hug, then led the way from the room, Neville closing the door behind them. Harry watched them go, then turned back to Blaise and Draco.

The Slytherins were having a whispered argument that broke off when they saw Harry watching. Blaise straightened and spoke, Draco scowling at the floor with a mutinous look.

"Sorry Harry, we were having a… discussion. The prat won't hardly talk to Hermione. You know what's going on?"

Harry raised a brow at the directness, then smiled as Draco squirmed.

"No, actually. Wouldn't mind knowing myself."

Blaise nodded in exaggerated agreement. Draco frowned harder, then looked up, a deep rage in his eyes.

"It's private." He spat, and then to Harry's surprise, turned and left the room. Blaise blinked in stupefied amazement at the display of anger.

"Well. That was… unexpected."

Harry only nodded in agreement, watching the closed door with confused eyes.


The next week was spent in quick practice, both study groups getting used to working with people they had barely talked to before that month. Some got along better than others.

Zacharias Smith remained an outsider, quick to give a biting remark to any who tried to talk to him.

Hermione and Draco still did not talk to each other, though a subtle truce must have been made, as the two mutually ignored one another, not fighting and yet not friendly either.

Neville got along well with all but the prickly Zacharias, and enjoyed testing new spells and working on formations.

It was obvious to him, though, that his own group had much more skill than the others. Blaise and Draco were already used to working as a team, as they had in the months before Harry joined them the year before. They knew how to work together, how to make each other understand during a duel what tactics would be used. Draco had already fallen into his natural position as Team Leader, and did not like being challenged by Daphne or Zacharias. All four of them knew far more spells, and none of the others could even produce the mist of a Patronus.

Of course, neither could Draco, a fact Neville hadn't had confirmed until it came up in one of their study sessions. The Slytherin had scowled the rest of the day.

Still, he thought it nice to work with more people. He found Anthony and himself had the most in common, able to work together quietly and easily, neither challenging the other. Both of them excelled in defense charms as well, though Anthony could also cast several mean jinxs.

Today, they were supposed to have their first meeting with all members present since the one last week. They found Saturdays were the only days that their schedules truly meshed enough for all to easily get together.

Hermione, who had been in the library, walked in at a quick clip with a sheet of paper and a frown. She was the last to arrive that day.

"We have to pick a name."

There was silence, then Sue brightened.

"A team name! For Dueling!"

Hermione grimaced.

"Right."

The boys exchanged looks. They would have to register that weekend for the competition, and had tossed around names before. None had decided on a particular one yet. Padma grinned.

"I saw some that had already signed up. Prancing Unicorns, Fanciful Felines..." Beside her, Anthony winced.

"Merlin, no, please."

Zacharias sniffed.

"All the team names consist of two words, a noun and an adjective, that I've seen so far. Giants Gumption won last year, and the year before Reptilian Rage and Leaping Lions, Slytherin and Gryffindor respectively, tied with both teams knocking the other out at the same time. Teachers split the points both ways."

Draco grumbled under his breath. Neville remembered that, now. It had been his first year. He had been too worried about Harry to participate in the angry arguments over that one.

Hermione met Zacharias's gaze and grinned sweetly. Too sweetly.

"There is also Phoenix Rising, the Hufflepuff and Gryffindor group. They came in second behind Giants last year."

Sue Li spoke up with a grin.

"They might not be competing this year. Several of their members are being chosen to try for the Tournament."

"Cedric Diggory." Padma sighed, echoed by Daphne and an emphatic nod from Sue. Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Still, doesn't help us."

Draco spoke up, a quick glance taking in the Gryffindor witch before he looked away.

"How about Daring Dragons?"

Zacharias snorted.

"That the best you can come with, Draco?"

The Slytherin narrowed his eyes, fingers clenched. Terry Boot broke in, casting a wary glance at Zacharias.

"Well, we are all from mixed Houses. How about something that represents the school as a whole?"

Hermione bit her lip.

"Well, the school motto deals with a dragon. Sleeping Dragons? Draco Dormiens?"

Draco looked pleased despite himself, and actually smiled at Hermione for the first time since school had started. Just as quickly, the two looked away from each other. Neville blinked at the quick interaction.

Again, Zacharias spoke up, this time with a grimace.

"I don't think our team should have the word sleeping in it. Makes us sound like pushovers, or lazy."

Before Draco could says something, Hermione cut in again.

"Well, I doubt we want anything with hogs in it either."

Sue giggled, covering her mouth with one hand as she offered a suggestion. "Helpful Hogs."

Padam laughed, then countered. "Prickly Pigs!"

"Brusque Boars?" Daphne said, raising an eyebrow. There was a moment of consideration, then they all shook their heads.

Hermione sighed.

"What about a chimera? Lions head, goats body, dragon tail. Not a creature associated with just one House."

Anthony tilted his head.

"What would go with it? Does it have to start with the same letter?"

Blaise shook his head in the negative. "No, though most do. Makes them catchy."

Sue blinked, then grinned. "Catchy Chimeras. Chirping Chimeras. Cheerful Chimeras."

Zacharias drawled out, bored. "Choking Chimeras chase Chiding Chimeras." He was ignored.

Neville straightened. "Chimera Claws? Clawing Chimeras?"

Blaise raised a brow. "Not bad. A bit wordy."

Draco sighed.

"I like Draco Dormiens better. It's part of our school motto, and no one has taken it. Plus, the point isn't that they are sleeping, it's what will happen when they wake up."

Zacharias rolled his eyes and lifted both hands.

"I don't care. Just settle this so I can go. I'm sick of hearing bad rhymes."

Hermione glanced over at Neville, then to Sue and Padma.

"A vote?"

Later, with a quick glance at the raised hands, Draco grinned.

"It's settled then."


That Monday, the students chosen by their Heads to try for the Tournament were posted in the common room of every House.

Almost immediately, there were both groans and excited yells. Watching the people milling around the lists, Hermione turned to Neville with a roll of her eyes.

"You would think all four are going to be competing, the way they are carrying on. We might end up with none from Gryffindor at all. Only three will be chosen."

Neville shrugged.

"I saw the names. If they do get chosen, our quidditch team is going to be missing both the captain and co-captain."

Hermione laughed.

"I haven't seen it yet. I bet that's going to upset the quidditch enthusiasts."

Neville grinned.

"I heard Wood say he was going to put the Weasley twins in charge as captain and co-captain if both him and Angelina get picked."

Hermione gaped, then bent over in laughter, the image of the two mischievous red-heads leading a quidditch team absolutely hilarious.

"I think the other teams would forfeit in terror!" She gasped.

Neville joined in the laughter.

"What's so funny about that?"

A obstinate voice hissed. Hermione felt a chill wash over her, and straightened, turning to see Ron Weasley glaring at them.

She cleared her throat.

"Hello, Ronald."

The red-head narrowed his eyes, then jerked his chin up and stomped past, leaving the room without another word.

Hermione glanced at Neville, who sighed.

"He hasn't spoke a word to me at all this term. Neither have the other boys, really. Sometimes I feel like I'm just a portrait on the wall, watching the other boys go about, ignored."

Hermione's eyes softened.

"I'm sorry. I'm not much better, but the other girls do try to at least speak to me. We simply don't have anything in common, really. I've tried to be friendly, but..."

Neville nodded slowly, a sad smile on his face.

"But it just doesn't work out."

Hermione nodded, and turned to watch the students still milling about the posted sign.

"Precisely."


He kept an eye on them. He imagined he was a like a hit wizard, always keeping one eye on the exit and another on the enemy, always two possible avenues of action.

Fight, or retreat to fight another day.

It was better now that the lying Snake was gone. That one's friends laughed, met each other in a room on the third floor he had followed them to, made top marks in their classes. They didn't seem to be up to much, though he hoped they got trounced in the Dueling arena. He wouldn't go watch it personally, of course, not unless he managed to pull off the invisibility charm he had been practicing for longer periods of time. Didn't want them to know he cared.

Ron had learned something from his mother's cousin, Healer Freida, who had come over to visit him several times over the summer.

Disguise who you truly are, and even your enemy may trust you in time.

She had been nice enough at first, though she tried to get him to talk about his feelings. Tried to blame his anger at the Snake on misplaced grief over his sister; tried to tell him that what he knew was truth was all a lie that he had told himself.

She had even been getting to him, a little, Ron admitted to himself. That is, until she told him that not all Slytherins were false, manipulating liars.

"How do you know?" Ron had asked her.

She had smiled beatifically, laying a peaceful hand on his shoulder.

"Dear, you like me, don't you?"

Ron had frowned and nodded, unsure where she was going with the question.

The healer had smiled.

"I was sorted in Slytherin at Hogwarts. I..."

She had continued, with drivel about how sorting did not matter, how people changed and made decisions and some of them were not always good. But Ron had stopped listening to her, realizing she had been manipulating him all along, making him think she was a good, caring person. It had all been a lie, and he could trust nothing she had said.

It was a relief, in a way, for he had begun to feel like he might have been wrong.

He wouldn't see her again, and Ron had seen the sorrow in his mother's eyes. He pitied her, that she couldn't see what he could. She was blinded by Dumbledore, who claimed one thing but did another. Ron didn't trust the Headmaster, either, not after the man took the side of the snakes.

Ron didn't trust anyone anymore, except perhaps his oldest brothers, Bill and Charlie, who had not been corrupted by the Headmaster. They believed him about the Snake and his friends.

They knew Ginny shouldn't have died.

Dean and Seamus were alright blokes, but they too no longer wanted to hear Ron's thoughts on the Snake. They were cowards, they feared him. None of his old followers would even listen to him, when he wanted to organize a group to counter the Snake's friends. They were all intimidated.

But Ron wasn't. Ron was a true Gryffindor; he was brave. He would watch them, and he would wait, patiently. He was a lion in the grass, ready to pounce.

He would crush the Snake, in time. Until then, he would play nice, while the odds were against him. He would be what his parents so desperately wanted of him, another Gryffindor son, their youngest. He would make them proud, make them trust him again and release the restrictions they had placed upon him after third year.

He had time.


Harry lay back on the grass, staring up at the sun as it crept up over the rim of the trees.

Around him, the werewolves laughed and jostled, talking in excited voices about the previous night's moon and the great run they had had.

There had been no hunt like during August's moon. Instead, to Harry's relief, they had simply run, their feet eating the miles at a rapid pace. He could hardly believe the distance they had covered during the night, leaving far behind any fields and going deep into the wild forests of the reserve, at one point crossing a swamp and wading across small inlets. He had been happy enough to fly above them, enjoying spending a night in the sky, stretching his wings and feeling the unique magic of the moon.

Gryffon had been left far behind, the panther unable to keep pace with the wolves.

Harry sighed and closed his eyes, breathing in the fresh air, a fresh breeze keeping the humidity at bay.

Someone sat beside him with a soft groan. Harry cracked an eyelid, and watched as Remus settled down beside him, absently stretching out sore muscles, a wide grin on his face.

"How's it going? Didn't get much time to talk before."

Harry closed his eyes again, shrugged.

"I'm following the outline you gave me, and feeling confident about taking the O.W.L.s this winter."

Remus made a soft sound.

"Are you still sure you do not need me there?"

At that, Harry sighed again.

"No, Remus. All you would be doing is watching me read. It's basically only theory I'm learning. What is supposed to be done to cast spells. The actual practical aspects are easy enough. I'm just learning to fake being normal."

Remus snorted out a laugh.

"That sounds about right. Well, you know where I am."

Harry nodded, eyes still closed, enjoying the peace that seemed to pervade the clearing they had found themselves in as the sun rose. The grass was long and wild, and currently trampled down underneath him. The trees, some sort of coniferous ones he did not recognize, swayed slightly in the wind that came off the ocean, bringing with it the smell of brine. He had seen, when he flew above, that a large body of water was only about a dozen kilometers away, not quite the ocean but what led to it, what the werewolves named the Albemarle Sound.

"I read the letter from Sirius."

Remus's voice was soft. Harry waited, and the wizard continued.

"I don't know what to make of this trial. It seems obvious to me that he should be found innocent. You can't kill a man twice. And the fact that he had already spent so long wrongfully imprisoned in Azkaban… how could they convict him again?"

Harry sat up, brushed a hand through his hair, picking out the pieces of grass that had clung to it as he spoke.

"I don't plan to let it happen. Sirius and I have discussed using a pensieve, let them all view his memories of that night and the fiasco in London with Pettigrew. That should clear him easily enough of those charges. He should get quite a bit of recompense for being put in Azkaban at all, and for so long. He has only committed two crimes that I can see. He broke into Hogwarts, vandalized, which at most would be a hefty fine, especially as once cleared he would be a Lord. That kind of political power will go a long way."

Remus was silent a moment, then spoke.

"Then he killed Peter."

Harry growled under his breath.

"Stupid. So stupid. We had it all planned out, delivering the rat to the aurors once we had our own proof. Instead, we get this."

"The situation is very different." Remus insisted. "It wasn't premeditated, for one."

Harry snorted.

"You think whomever tries to charge him won't argue the exact opposite? He was staking out the school, he slashed open a portrait, scared a few kids out of their wits. Unless he is willing to take Veritaserum, I'm not sure we can use that in our favor."

Remus's face twisted, one hand idly plucking grass as he thought.

"Temporary insanity?"

Harry laughed.

"That is probably the truest thing about it you could say." Harry paused, looking at the wizard for a long moment, then up at the vivid blue morning sky. "I've been studying wizarding law as much as I can. I plan to speak during the hearing."

Remus blinked.

"Sirius didn't mention that."

Harry's mouth twisted.

"He doesn't know. He doesn't think he needs someone to speak. Seems to think his innocence will speak for itself." Harry laughed bitterly. "But that's foolish. The trial isn't looking for the truth. It's looking for a way to paint him black, to taint any purpose he had to make him look worthy of what was done to him. We need someone who can speak the same language to prevent or undo any damage they do. The Wizengamot doesn't normally allow anything like barristers or counsel to speak on behalf of others within the trial itself like they do in muggle courts, but in this case, with Sirius not being present, rules are being changed. I do not think they will stop me."

Remus nodded firmly.

"I agree."

Harry turned again, meeting Remus's eyes.

"There is only going to be one trial. Once they make a decision, appeal is nearly impossible. They will announce the official date of it in October to the public, when the Wizengamot meets to discuss current business. I'm guessing it will be set in January. I'm sure they wanted to have a private trial, but with the newspapers spreading the story they had no choice but to make it public. If it goes poorly…"

Remus nodded slowly, his eyes bleak.

"Then that's it."

Harry looked down, absently clenching and unclenching his fists, watching the runes on his skin stretch and contract with the movement.

"Yes. That's it."


Harry sat at his desk, reluctance in every bone of his body, his teeth gritted, as he carefully composed the letter to the Ministry, opening the discussion for possible wardship.

He included a hint of his desire to move up a grade of material, and his willingness to take the O.W.L.s to prove his ability.

It made his blood boil as he wrote the words of a young boy, innocent and slightly clueless, questioning about paperwork and rules to apply for aid. He did write of his distress about the current rumors of losing his well-liked tutor, Remus Lupin, due to the proposed anti-werewolf legislation. He made a note of pointing out his inability to find another appropriate tutor that he got along with, and his desire for independent study under the Ministry's guidance.

Bullocks, all of it. Utter rubbish.

He hoped Scrimgeour was correct about this. Hope the auror was reading the political climate appropriately.

Because if it didn't work, Harry wouldn't sit around and let himself be a pawn. He would leave first, leave Britain, leave the wizarding world completely if he needed to. They wouldn't yoke him to their failures, wouldn't cage him. The Hounds were correct in many aspects, and their hate for wizarding government was one of them.

The more he studied wizarding law, the more disappointment and hate he felt. It was no where near equal to its muggle counterparts, bearing many of the downfalls and few of the benefits. There was no jury of peers, no multiple hearings, no wizarding lawyers or attorneys to navigate the twisting labyrinth of law for the common citizens. No lower courts, no appeal options. There were few rights at all, not just for muggleborn but for the average magical citizen. Only the pureblood semi-aristocracy had a measure of comfort and freedom from their own government.

What use was a government if it only failed the people it was bound to protect?

Harry tossed down his quill in disgust, looking over the letter and sealing it with a violent gesture.

"Dobby."

He spat, and the elf appeared with a swirl of smoke. Harry handed him the letter, growling out the destination with a angry voice. The elf did not question his mood, and Harry was grateful for it. He pulled out another sheet of parchment and tried to focus, tried to calm down his angry heart.

Then he began drafting another letter, this one to Hermione. He hadn't had time to tell her of his new plans, of taking the O.W.L.s that winter. He knew she would want to know, and also knew she would immediately try to help him even if he didn't need it. The girl simply loved studying, and considered exams to be like the finish line of a race, proof you pulled it all off.

By the end of the short letter, a smile had finally wormed its way back on his face.

This time, when he called Dobby, his expression wasn't violent, but held a measure of peace.

"Yes, Master Harry?"

He handed the elf the letter and smiled.

"Hermione, please." He hesitated, then frowned. "Did you ask the other elves about a possible room for my friends and I to meet in?"

Dobby nodded rapidly.

"Dobby has, sir! There is a room that would be perfect, hidden and secret, I can show you, sir!"

Harry shook his head.

"Tell Hermione. Or show her. If she says it will work, that's fine with me."

The elf nodded, smiled brightly, and disappeared with a snap of long fingers.


It didn't help her get along with her year-mates when a house-elf bearing the Potter crest on a starched white pillow case appeared in the middle of her dorm, startling a screech from Lavender and Parvati.

Lavender looked accusingly at Hermione.

"Tell Potter to stop sending his blasted elf to our dormitory! It's creepy!"

Hermione took Dobby's letter, then glanced at the elf where he wilted away from the other girl, his eyes wide.

Hermione lifted her chin and narrowed her gaze at the other girls.

"His name is Dobby. You should show more respect for them, they clean our rooms, make our food, and don't complain a whit about it!"

Parvati sniffed, flicking a piece of imaginary lint from her long nightgown.

"That's because they are house-elves. They want to serve us."

Hermione began to flush, but she turned away from the other two with a huff of anger. They had been through this before, almost the exact same conversation the last time Dobby had delivered a letter. She tamped down on the anger, and put on a smile for Dobby.

"Thank you, Dobby. Tell Harry I said hi. I'll send a reply with Hedwig."

Instead of vanishing as he usually did, Dobby twisted his hands together.

"Master told Dobby to show Mistress Hermione the room Dobby found."

Hermione winced. The other two girls, who had started up a snide conversation, stopped abruptly, two pairs of ears straining to listen. Hermione flushed again and bit her lip.

Nothing to do but go on with it, she thought.

She nodded solemnly at Dobby, glad she hadn't yet changed from her school robes.

"Lead the way, then."

She followed the elf to the door, and heard the whispered exclamations break out behind her.

"Mistress Hermione?"

"He said a room!"

She wanted to snarl at the two busy-bodies. She could just figure on the gossip being blown wildly out of proportion by the very next day. That last thing she needed were any more rumors!

Hermione glanced at Dobby as they entered the common room, only a few students playing wizarding chess sitting on sofas on the other side of the room. It was nearly curfew, and many students had already returned to their dorms.

"What room are you showing me?"

Dobby glanced up, his large ears wobbling.

"The room Master Potter wanted to meet with his friends. Secret, safe."

Hermione nodded as they entered the wide stone halls of Hogwarts, jolting when she nearly ran into another figure about to enter the common room. The older girl, Alicia Spinnet, stopped her.

"It's nearly curfew, Hermione."

She nodded quickly. The girl frowned at her, then shrugged.

"Up to you. Don't lose us any points."

Hermione sighed in relief when she walked away, then looked down at Dobby.

"Is it far?"

Dobby bounced, shaking his head.

"No, Mistress Hermine!"

Hermione worried her bottom lip, remembering how the girls in her dorm had reacted to the title. She spoke, striving to sound casual.

"Why do you call me Mistress? You didn't always."

Dobby glanced at her in confusion, his bright green eyes wide.

"Because you are Mistress Hermione. That is who you are."

Hermione blinked. That wasn't really the answer she was looking for. Abruptly Dobby stopped, smiling brightly.

Hermione stopped as well, glancing around. They stood in a empty corridor on the seventh floor, not to far from where the entrance to the Gryffindor common room was.

There wasn't a single doorway. She glanced at Dobby, who was still grinning.

"Um?"

The elf bounced, then gestured around him in a sweeping movement.

"This, Mistress Hermione, is the entrance to what Hogwarts elves call the Come and Go Room. You must walk up and down three times." He held up three fingers in a solemn gesture. "And think very very very hard about what Mistress wants. Then, the room appears! Wizards used to call it the Room of Requirement, cause anything yous require appears inside. Many students has used it and not known it, Mistress, and professors too."

Hermione nodded blankly, then shrugged and began to walk up and down the corridor, passing one large tapestry that depicted a bunch of trolls that appeared to be learning ballet, of all things.

In her mind, she repeated what she needed over and over again.

I need a secret room, I need a secret room, I need a secret room.

For a brief moment she felt something at the edge of her mind, like a questioning hum.

Then it was gone, and directly beside her a elegant arched door appeared. Hermine stared at it, then grinned, stepping up and pushing it open.

Inside, the stone room was draped in dark golden cloth, the floor made up of rich wooden planks. One window took up the far wall, letting in the glimmer of stars. There were a few chairs scattered about, each looking new and plush.

Too bad there isn't any desks, Hermione thought idly, and jumped when two large wooden desks appeared, accompanied by chairs. She laughed aloud, whirling to look at Dobby.

"This is brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!"

Dobby flushed, his skin wrinkling as he bowed with a wide smile.


Cornelius Fudge smiled brightly as Dolores Umbridge finished reading the letter.

"I say, Dolores, this is going along just like you predicted! You are magnificent!"

Under-Secretary Umbridge smiled demurely, smoothing down her pink lace sleeves.

"Oh, Cornelis, don't say such things."

Cornelius waved her humility away with one pudgy hand.

"Perfect. With Harry Potter as my ward, the opportunities are endless! This could reverse the bad press in a heartbeat, a few pictures, maybe a quote or two from the boy."

Umbridge sipped from a delicate cream and gold saucer, her eyes resonating satisfaction.

"I would have thought the boy would be more stubborn, perhaps choose another tutor instead. I can only assume he has seen the wisdom of my proposition."

Cornelius nodded quickly, raising his own cup in a salute.

"To you, madam!"

Dolores smiled brightly, the kitten on her large oval pin purring in soft content.


"So we will be going against the Howling Harpies." Anthony said with a grimace, as he looked over the schedule for the first duel that would take place in a week.

Padma nodded, looking over at the rest of the group.

"The Howling Harpies are an all-girl group in Ravenclaw, mostly fifth years with one fourth and sixth year student."

Hermione frowned.

"Does anyone know their strategies?"

Sue Li shrugged. "They keep it secret, just like everyone does. Last year they only made it two rounds. Rumor in our House is they only compete to look impressive on potential job resumes. Dueling looks good as an extracurricular activity."

Blaise leaned forward, his dark hands resting idly on his knees, one hand loosely holding his wand.

"So they are not known as a serious group. We can use that."

Beside him, Draco noded, relaxing back in his chair as he spoke.

"Practice coming in hard and fast. As soon as the duel starts, all out offensive. Take them down before they can raise shields."

Neville spoke up now, an eager look on his face.

"They won't be expecting much from us. First time dueling, and only fourth years."

Hermione made a sound of agreement, looking down at the rulebook in her hands.

"There are very few rules. Whoever is the last team standing wins. I say we all use simple stunners, nothing fancy. That way we don't give away our true abilities. Perhaps the next team we face after will discount a first win to luck."

All around, the other nodded.

Zacharias Smith spoke sarcastically from where he lounged, feet stretched out in front of him.

"Well, we'll live up to our name. A duel so boring it will put the audience to sleep."


Harry looked around the seventh floor corridor with a frown. Beside him, the figure of Barnabas the Barmy was pointing a short finger at a group of trolls dressed in ridiculous oversized tutus.

Why had Hermione wanted to meet here? There was no room that he could see.

A sound drew his attention, and he turned as the bushy-haired gryffindor quickly trotted up, eyes furtive but energetic. She let out a whoosh of air as she stopped beside him, glancing back the way she came.

"I nearly thought Filch would catch me, this time. Mrs. Norris heard me, I think. Better hurry."

Harry raised an eyebrow and glanced around, and Hermione grinned.

"Oh, this is so brilliant, Harry! Watch!"

She quickly jogged back and forth in front of him, whispering under her breath, before stopping in triumph and looking in front of her.

A second later, a door appeared, tall and arched. Harry started, eyes widening at the casual display of magic. He hadn't even felt any more power extending from Hogwarts than the sentient castle normally expended. Did that mean the room was always there, merely hidden?

There was a sound behind them, a loud meow. Hermione gasped, grabbed his hand, and pulled him to the door and through, slamming it behind them and leaning against it with a loud laugh.

"Told you she heard me!" She laughed again, looking up at him with her brown eyes full of excitement.

"What do you think?" She said with a grin. Harry looked around.

The floor was wooden, the stone walls covered in floor-length cloth that might have been yellow or cream, hard to tell with the dim light. As if in answer, torches appeared from the ceiling, bathing the room in bright flickering light. Harry jumped, and Hermione laughed again, dropping his hand to gesture around.

"Dobby said it's called the Come and Go Room. Apparently, it can be whatever you want, when you walk outside you have to focus on what it is you need. Then, once inside, it can make nearly anything you wish! Isn't it great? I wish we had this years ago! Imagine how convenient it would be. Perfect for studying, or practicing, anything! I mean, I'm kind of sad we can't use it for our dueling group, though we are getting along quite well. First match is tomorrow, against a Ravenclaw group that we don't think will be too tough. Any way you could watch?"

The flood of words and information ended with the abrupt question, and Harry grinned.

"I was thinking of it, under an invisibility spell. Get to see you in action."

Hermione smiled.

"There won't be much action, we hope. Out first strategy is all-out offensive, hurling out stunners before they can react. We figure they will underestimate us."

Harry took a seat on a wide sofa that seemed to have appeared at his side, sinking into the soft material with an appreciative smile, before looking up at Hermione.

"I'm sure they will. Any other groups made up of fourth years?"

Hermione shook her head and sat beside him.

"No. There are a lot of fourth years on other teams, but most don't really form their own dueling group until fifth year. The group we are going against, actually, was the only fourth year group last year, and they only made it to the second round."

Harry nodded, turning to face her fully.

"How many teams this year?"

"An even twelve." Hermione said. "Which means it will be down to six by the next duel. After that, it's not strict elimination, but whomever wins at least half their teams duels get to move up."

Harry tilted his head.

"How much will you split up?"

Hermione began to tick off the numbers on her fingers as she answered.

"Round two has us all splitting into individual one-on-one duels, against other teams members. We won't all necessarily fight the same team, either. As long as our team wins at least six of the duels, we qualify for round three. That's when the team fights as a whole again, round-robin style, until only two teams remain."

"What happens if there is an odd number of teams in round three?"

Hermione grimaced. "If an odd number make it, like three or five, there may be one single three way battle. If four make it, or six, though that's only happened once or twice since Hogwarts has had Dueling, one will duel the other, then the winners from those fight each other. Same day."

"So there is an element of luck." Harry said, and Hermione nodded with a slight smile.

"Just like in real life."

There was a moment of silence, and Harry abruptly wasn't sure what to talk about. Hermione solved it by reaching out a hand, laying it on his arm with a frown, her head tilted as she spoke.

"We never really talked about what happened the other day. Simultaneous communication through touch. Is this related to the rune?"

Harry turned his arm over, absently holding her hand in his, and frowned in concentration as he purposefully sent across a single word.

Yes.

Hermione's eyes widened, and she grinned.

"Telepathy. This could be so useful." She lifted her hand from his, then placed a single finger on his palm.

Now?

Harry nodded, and Hermione lifted her hand, glanced him over, then put her finger on his knee.

How about now?

Harry nodded again, and she hummed in thought. She bumped her elbow, this time, against his own.

Now?

Harry laughed. "Are you going to try using your feet next?"

Hermine grinned, eyes dancing. "Good idea!"

She stretched out her foot, tapping it against his.

Ha!

It wasn't a word as much as a feeling of laughter, and Harry echoed it, bumping his own boot against her shoe.

Hermione laughed, clapping her hands together once.

"We need to practice with this more. How is this possible? I thought the rune was simply to protect my mind."

Harry felt the humor fade, and a frown begin to grow on his face.

"I'm not sure, really. Those things are… complicated. They don't always do exactly what I plan for them to do, and sometimes the effects are unexpected."

Hermione idly took his hand again, her eyes solemn.

"The phoenix form."

"Yes." Harry sighed. "It wasn't meant to be painful. With this, already you've managed to develop the ability to communicate with Dread. Perhaps this telepathy is linked with that. You know you can't understand all snakes, just him; so perhaps it isn't even really speaking, but a form of telepathy on its own."

Hermione frowned.

"Can I speak to others, then?"

Harry shrugged. "I don't know. It could simply be between us, as the rune was meant to copy the effects of Mem unto you without you conducting the ritual yourself. Instead, I'm afraid it might have actually established some sort of link. A connection."

He watched as, oddly enough, Hermione paled.

"The house-elves."

Harry's brows furrowed. "What?"

Hermione pulled back from him, shaking her head.

"I can talk to Dread, and you. Maybe that's because there exists a link between the two of you, and part of that was transferred in turn to me. Didn't you notice your elves? They've been… I mean maybe it's nothing, but... when I was at your house, after that last ritual, they started calling me Mistress. They never did that before. At the time, I thought perhaps it was because they knew you and I were such close friends. A form of respect. But I asked Dobby about it, and he said 'that's who you are'. Nothing about anything else, so I'm probably wrong, but still..."

Harry reached out, shaking her slightly to disrupt the rambling words, his frown growing.

"I did notice, but thought the same as you. I never thought about the coincidence, for it to only happen directly after that last ritual."

Hermione looked up at him, confused. "What does that mean, exactly?"

Harry shook his head slowly. "I don't know. I just don't know. Perhaps it not only copied my own form of protection, but also the bonds my mind has with others. If that's the case, you may have some sort of link with Remus as well. I don't even know how we would test that."

Hermione shuddered under his arms, and Harry pulled her into a hug, sighed against her hair.

"It's alright."

She chuckled weakly. "I guess I shouldn't be upset. I mean, I now kind of have house-elves, and I can talk with you inside my head. Why should I be upset about that?"

Harry closed his eyes, guilt curling inside. He had done this, without intending to, sure, but done it nevertheless.

"You have a right to be upset, Hermione. This wasn't what you signed up for."

Hermione huffed, and pulled back, her eyes narrowing on his.

"Don't you dare try to blame yourself, Harry Potter. I chose this, knowing it might turn out wrong. As it is, I just got a few extra benefits. So." She poked his chest, hard. "Stop." another poke, voice stern. "It."

Harry smiled, reluctantly. "Yes, Mistress Hermione."

She blanched, then laughed, the sound ringing in the large room. She relaxed against him, shook her head.

"It's fine. It's all fine."

Harry wasn't sure if she was telling him, or herself.


Hermione glanced around the small crowd, even knowing she wouldn't see Harry if he was out there. He had promised he would come, but he would be under invisibility charms. She had told the others he had said he would be there, and seen how Neville straightened unconsciously. The quiet boy had grown a lot from the nervous shy Gryffindor they first met, but he still acted sometimes as if he needed to prove himself worthy of Harry's friendship.

It was ridiculous, of course. Neville had proven himself ten times over already.

Hermione brought her attention back to Draco, who was going over their strategy again, avoiding her eyes with easy grace. They still hadn't spoken about what had happened over the summer, and the few times she had tried to approach the blond he had managed to escape with one excuse or another.

She sighed, glancing around again. Most of the people around them were Ravenclaws, there to watch the Howling Harpies duel. They were also mostly boys, she thought snidely, and saw one of the students blow another a kiss, while one boy winked at the assembled female duelists on the other side of the large room that had been set off for the duel.

It was ten-sided, and she spent a moment considering what shape that made the room. A polygon, obviously. But what kind? Octagons were eight-sided, so if it had ten sides that would be a…

"Hermione?"

Hermione startled, turning back to Draco, spitting out the first word she thought of.

"Decagon!"

The blond slytherin frowned.

"What?"

Hermione flushed, then lifted her chin, meeting those grey eyes with defiance.

"I was simply remarking on the fact that this room is decagonal."

She said simply. Across from her, Smith snorted. Draco only shook his head.

"I asked if you got the plan."

Hermione nodded, folding her arms.

"Yes. Stupefy, dodge, stupefy again. If any more remain, Neville and Anthony cover with shields while we regroup, then fire on any stragglers."

Draco narrowed his eyes, but nodded, then glanced at the others.

"Right. We ready?"

Everyone nodded, Sue bouncing in excitement while Padma and Daphne both stood with nearly identical bored looks on their faces.

Draco straightened, grinned viciously, then marched away towards Professor Flitwick, who organized and monitored all the duels.

Almost immediately after Draco spoke to the short wizard, the onlookers in the room were being marched back to the sides, where they could watch the duel behind wards to prevent any spellfire from hitting a bystander.

The Harpies gathered on the other side, forming a loose arrow-like formation, all wearing their ravenclaw robes, many not even looking the other team over as they talked among themselves or looked towards the audience.

Hermione's group stood side by side in a line, giving them each a clear shot at the other team. Beside her, Daphne growled under her breath.

"They aren't even acting serious. Do they think it will be that easy?"

Hermione didn't have time to respond. Professor Flitwick lifted his wand, a wall of light falling from it between the two sides.

"Bow to your opponents!"

Hermione bowed stiffly, keeping her eyes locked forward, her wand clenched in her hand.

"Wands to the ready!"

Hermione lifted it up, sliding one foot back in the dueling stance they had practiced, her body facing nearly sideways to make her a smaller target.

"Duel!"

It was like an indrawn breath had just been released. Hermione whipped her wand up and twisted, shouting the spell they had practiced so much she felt as if she cast it in her sleep.

"Stupefy!"

She was echoed nearly simultaneously on both sides, and ten streams of scarlet light flew at a rapid pace across the arena. Hermione did not wait to see if they hit. She immediately did as they practiced, ducking down in case of return fire, stepping to the side and trusting that Daphne had moved as well, before launching another stunning spell across the room.

It was unnecessary, she saw at once.

Seven of the Harpies had been hit in the first volley, and the other three had tried to put up shields only to have the quick and sloppy work shattered by the combined force of the left side of her teams secondary cast.

There was a moment of stunned silence, then the crowd began to rumble, some cheering, others talking in excited tones. Hermione turned to Daphne, and grinned exultantly.

"Well, we showed them how easy it was, didn't we?"

The Slytherin grinned and tossed her long brown hair behind her shoulder, laughing in an uncharacteristic display of delight.


Neville was amazed by how fast the news of their successful duel had spread. Only a dozen or so students had even been watching, and already three boys had come up to ask him about it. He didn't doubt they thought him easier to approach than Draco or Blaise.

Still, he was unnerved by all the eyes. It reminded him too vividly of the year before, when he and Hermione had been outcasts in their own House.

"Neville?"

Neville blinked, turned and saw Luna standing there, her pixie-like face tilted to the side, a quill behind one ear.

"Luna?"

He parroted back, and she smiled, her voice soft as she spoke.

"Congratulations on your duel. I wanted to watch, but got distracted by the pattern of the wood on on the doors of the Great Hall. I really think they are the brothers of the Whomping Willow, and possessed by an angry spirit. They creek most alarmingly sometimes."

Neville only smiled and nodded. Luna began to walk alongside him, her chatter filling the air with nonsensical theories that only made sense when you didn't think too hard about them.

He firmly believed the girl beside him was a genius.

And with Luna by his side, he didn't have to worry about anymore annoying questions. The Ravenclaw unnerved people, for some reason.

Luna looped her arm through his, startling him for a brief moment, and began to tug him toward the stairways, her steady stream of words filling the air around them.

"I have to show you this portrait I found yesterday. I think it can predict the future by looking at the hair of the people that walk by, which is really quite spectacular..."

Neville smiled, and let himself be lead.


The second week of October, the Wizengamot convened for official business. They heard reports, settled disputes, and would announce an agenda for the next year, approving schedules and passing motions.

When that week was over, a bulletin was posted in all the newspapers of the country with an overview of what had, and would, be done.

That year, there were two items that stirred the masses of wizarding kind, selling papers and starting arguments.

The first was the revised Being Protection Act, which was considered to be more for others protection than the Being's themselves. Tucked neatly inside was all the anti-werewolf legislation that had been heard of in rumor, preventing them from holding nearly any type of job in the wizarding world, while also leaving them open to new punishment and conviction.

All Beings would also now be required to be registered, so the Ministry could better protect them from persecution.

The second was the announcement that there would be a public hearing held for ex-auror Sirius Black, Lord of the Black Family. It was to be held January thirteenth, on a Saturday.

The rest of the week, the Daily Prophet headlines read speculation on the history of the wizard, and what the outcome might be for the trial. Nearly all mentioned Harry Potter as well, speculating on the boy savior's thoughts and emotions on the once thought betrayer of his family.


Harry winced as he heard something shatter overhead. He glanced beside him to where Kreacher stood stiff and straight, his glittery eyes narrowed at the stairs in disgust. When he spoke, his voice was condescending.

"That… one upstairs is attempting to ruin this most noble house. Kreacher would appreciate Master Harry stopping his childish antics."

Harry grimaced, but ascended the stairs, arriving in time to watch Sirius hurl another antique vase, the crystal shattering as it crashed against the far wall. His godfather growled, low and furious, and whirled, his grey eyes searching for another object. They landed on Harry instead, and the wizard's face went blank as he straightened.

"Harry. Didn't know you were coming today."

Harry looked the man over, saw his robe was torn, his hair disheveled. He spoke carefully.

"I figured you had seen the papers. They've set the date."

Anger twisted over Sirius's face, but he spun around, throwing himself into a chair with a violent gesture.

"It's insulting, what the papers are saying. I can usually laugh things like that off, but not this time. I'm sick of being stuck here, in this house. Meeting the muggles was great and all at first, but even that's getting dull, casting such simple spells over and over. I want to visit Diagon Alley; want to get a drink in the Leaky Cauldron. I don't want to keep hiding."

Harry only nodded along, figuring it wise to keep silent. Sirius continued, eyes dark.

"The tone, the bloody tone, of those articles implies I'm guilty. Like it's a foregone conclusion. Like I have no chance."

Harry stiffened. Sirius looked over, smiled grimly.

"I don't want you to tell me that's not true. I don't want to even talk about it at all. I knew this was coming, and also knew it would be an uphill battle. For too long people have thought me guilty. It will be hard to change their minds."

Harry nodded on last time, then sat up straight with a careful smile.

"Game of chess?"

Sirius smiled slowly, true humor beginning to grow.

"Why not? I enjoy beating you at something."

Harry summoned the set, and settled down to get trounced.


The Hounds had been gathering, a pack of hundreds, soon to be thousands.

Phase II was recruitment. It was the spreading of information, the channels open now between the packs. Hounds who had never met in person now communicated by email and instant messenger, leaving messages on forums that only lasted for days. They were to seek out those who could be convinced the easiest, not giving away much but leaving the groundwork for more.

There wasn't much to prove, yet. Circumstance, many potentials argued. Lunacy, others said, and turned away. Only those open to the idea were convinced at first; but they were a start, and many a hurricane of action had been started with idle winds. Let those society considered to be dregs be convinced first, let the pagans and nut-jobs and ignorant flock to the banner of truth.

They would have the last laugh, in the end.

But it was now time to give themmore proof. Now time to gather something more than words, and dates, and names.

It was time for something that could be seen. Something to convince those that were nearly ready to believe but hesitated. The doubting Thomas's of the world needed to touch magic; or at least, touch the evidence of it.

And James knew just what could be given to them, and who to speak to to administer it. Another step in the plan, another cog in the wheel. But he would have to travel to him personally.

Another top dog in the global pack, one James both admired and, he would admit privately with a feral grin, feared.

It was time to meet face to face for only the second time with Stephan K. Wilson, the man who had been organized before even James himself, and whose nearly military arrangement James had copied to form his own pack of truth-seekers in Great Britain. Without the stuffy ethical slant the man preferred, of course.

Only the strong could afford to pity the enemy.

He simply hoped he could convince the older man it was finally time to release those bloody pictures. He didn't see any reason to take more himself, when the work was already done, and so very well. And he would give freely the first prototype of his Pub armor. That would make him happy.

Let all the Hounds know; they would be defenseless no longer.

Such joyful news should be shared after all, and of all the Hounds in the world, Wilson was the perfect messenger.


Sirius frowned at the yelp that sounded behind him.

He whirled, his wand held firm in his hand, and saw the lovely Hannah bending over slightly, grimacing down at her arm. The two muggles beside her straightened from a crouch, looking around warily.

"What happened?" Sirius demanded, walking towards them.

The man on the right, Rodger, his white hair disheveled, scowled at him.

"We were testing the reaction of various electrical devices to the spells you were performing. That one there exploded."

The muggle men Sirius had been working with jogged over eagerly, beaming.

"What spell was it?"

Sirius eyes didn't leave Hannah, and he could see a thin trickle of blood running from between her fingers. None of the other men seemed concerned.

Sirius had been asked to cast random spells in various directions, but hadn't been told why. Anger burned in his belly at that; he was beginning to tire of the men's games. Especially now, when they seemed so unconcerned about their woman companion.

"It was lumos." Sirius said gruffly, before stepping close to Hannah. "Let me see."

The woman looked up, her beautiful blue-violet eyes striking him again. She straightened and attempted a smile.

"I'm fine. I'll just head over to the clinic, I don't think it's deep."

Sirius huffed in disgust.

"Let you go to those muggle doctor butchers? They actually cut into people!"

The Hounds around him exchanged glances. Sirius grabbed her hand and turned her arm, looking over the thin slice. A piece of metal must have skimmed across her arm. The wizard grumbled, but lifted her wand.

Next to them, Roger stepped closer, pen poised to write. The man opened his mouth to speak, but Sirius beat him to it, knowing already what the man wanted.

"The spell is a basic healing one. Incantation is episkey."

And so saying, Sirius cast the spell, watching as the slice heal over. Sirius took the opportunity to run a light finger over the healed skin, her arm warm against him. Sirius smiled at her, and the brunette tentatively smiled back.

Sirius continued to speak, describing the spell for the waiting man.

"It can do basic skin wounds, nothing too deep however. Won't heal broken bones, either, though it can reset them. There is a different spell for breakages"

This started up excited chatter, but Sirius shook his head with a savage gesture.

"I'm done for today." Sirius waited for their groans to pass, then looked at Hannah with a mischievous grin.

"Let me take you out. Recompense for my spell causing you pain."

Hannah flushed, glancing at the other men who had begun to leave, discussing the event among themselves. She waited for them to get out of earshot before she answered them.

"It wasn't on purpose. And you fixed the damage, quite easily in fact."

Sirius smiled disarmingly.

"Still."

Hannah looked uncertain, then bit her lip.

"Alright."

Sirius grinned in triumph, then paused as a hitch in his plan suddenly occurred to him.

"Ah… I don't suppose you know a good place to eat? For… ah…"

Muggles didn't seem polite to say to her, all of a sudden. But Sirius couldn't exactly take her to his place, or any wizarding establishment.

Hannah laughed.

"We'll take my car."


Halfway through dinner, Sirius abruptly realized that his galleons were absolutely useless. Hannah laughed again when he winced as he mentioned it to her.

"I didn't expect you to pay. I did wonder if you had gathered regular money. If you had a way to do so. Don't worry, I can get it."

Sirius groaned internally. He was losing his touch. A man never lets a woman pay.

Hannah looked down at her plate, her fork idly moving food around. Finally, she looked back up at him, and her face was serious.

"Mr. Black. Sirius." She quickly reconsidered, when he narrowed his eyes at her, then continued. "This… this is something I wouldn't normally do. If James was not out of town I wouldn't have dared."

Sirius sat up straight, his entire attention now focused on her and not his own internal debate.

"What do you mean?"

Hannah set her fork down, eyes solemn.

"You are important to our cause. We wouldn't want to do anything that would turn you away from us. But… I don't think it is appropriate to form any sort of relationship with you. You are a good man, for a wizard, I know. But… well, you're a wizard."

She stopped, looking conflicted. Sirius felt bitter humor turning in his chest, and laughed, the sound hollow.

"I see. I'm still the enemy."

Hannah looked startled, and she quickly shook her head.

"No! Not at all. I… it's just, James wouldn't approve. Mixing business with… pleasure."

Sirius's eyes glimmered, and he leaned forward, reaching across to gingerly touch her arm. When she didn't pull away, he felt renewed hope rise in him.

"I don't mind, that you can't use magic. I'm getting used to it. I don't see why we can't... see where this goes."

Hannah didn't look convinced. Sirius smiled brightly.

"How about you let me take you out again. I'll get some… pounds, right? I'll treat you, this time. As friends."

Hannah slowly nodded, but there was a serious slant to her face, as if a part of her was holding back. She spoke, quietly, the warning clear in her voice.

"I don't want you to get hurt."

Sirius laughed, the thought preposterous to him. If anyone would get hurt, it would be her! What did she possibly think could happen to him?

"Don't worry, my dear Hannah. Don't worry about me."


Hannah didn't like it.

She never did, when she felt like she was being used for her appearance.

As a child, she had been the mousy sort, always staying out of the way, always just a bit less pretty than the other girls in her class. She had been quiet, studious.

But with age, she had bloomed. Her mother's words, as if she was a delicate flower. And many times after that, Hannah had felt as if she were being plucked.

Of course, every part of her could be transformed now, if she wished.

Not with magic. She had read of what magic could do, and seen some herself now. But wizards would never understand the easy ability for a person without magic to look like someone completely different. To act different.

Hannah had been a model, and successful at it. She learned how to change her personality; how to show an emotion for a camera. She also learned to do her own makeup, and her hair color was as easily changed as the weather. At times, she forgot what she had looked like as a child.

James had found her. Hannah had been just successful enough at her job to stay afloat, but never quite comfortable. London could be an expensive place to live; and a model could never be sure there would be another job, another client.

She had met the black-haired man at a bar, she twenty and he seeming only a bit older. He had been so nice. So easy to talk to.

A few drinks later, well… it wasn't only her problems she had shared with him.

And he had offered her money, enough to live a year off of. She only had to make friends with a teenager, a boy, and gain his trust. Hannah hadn't bothered to ask many questions. The money was enough for her to get ahead, and it wasn't as if the man had asked her to sleep with Rick. Just get to know him, and gather any information the boy spilled. Becoming his secret girlfriend, the timid Hillary, had been the easiest method, and a few sweet kisses had made the boy as pliable as a wet string.

Hannah hadn't ever met with James again in private, without the ever present aide of his. At times, she had wondered if she had been targeted on purpose, if perhaps their meeting had not been chance. The more she learned, the more she suspected it.

And as she heard the tales from Rick, heard about Mr. Steel and passed along the information, she began to realize that there was something more going on. When the boy came to her place after a few months, scared and in shock, she had not hesitated to contact James. Rick had told her it was real; magic, everything he had previously told her was an old man's fantasy. That a boy who had lived with him was one of them; a wizard. James had come then and bundled the boy away so neatly, with ease that spoke of practice, and she had received her money.

She had also received perspective; and when James contacted her again, with another one of his "missions"... well, it was invigorating. Discovering a secret society of people within her own city, using forces she could not understand. She had felt like a secret agent; like one of Charlie's Angels.

But now it was beginning to wear thin. She was getting tired of the ruse; tired of always pretending. She wasn't supposed to be an actor, a fraud; and yet, she was so good at it.

For this target, it was decided to go with something more unusual, something apart from her usual personas. Her eye color was picked to be just slightly unusual; Hannah rather liked the contacts that made her normal hazel eyes a beautiful shade of purple tinged blue. Her hair was now brown; she was to be timid, a scientist, a researcher. A faithful Hound.

She was to distract the wizard, if he fell for it. She was relieved it was an older man this time, and not the young boy she had glimpsed a time or two. She was allowed to dress her age, to be mature. A woman.

But she rather liked the humourous man. Despite all the wonders she had seen, it still surprised her that Sirius Black was so normal. He didn't act like a self-satisfied, arrogant alien in human skin. He slipped up a time or two, showing his ignorance. He called them muggles as if it wasn't an insult, but a simple description. He no longer acted as if they were ignorant, yet intelligent animals. He treated them as people; he looked them in the eye and saw them.

He was funny, and a gentleman. He had kissed her hand.

And he had fallen so neatly into her trap. She had learned never to be too easy to get, and yet to always leave a sliver of hope. She had quickly targeted the man as one who liked to break the rules; for all that he was a wizard, he was also in many ways a typical male. She set James up to be a rival, an adversary. Made herself the prize. Knew that Sirius would love every minute that he met with her in secret, would thrive off the thrill of the chase.

And she hated what she was supposed to do to him if the time ever came.


Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was to arrive at Durmstrang Institute the day before the drawing of names, to enter their own contestants and mingle with the other schools.

It was expected that they would arrive in a spectacular fashion.

Professor McGonagall counted, confirming that all twelve students were present, then turned back to the Headmaster with a severe smile.

"All present."

Albus Dumbledore smiled genuinely.

"Thank you, Minerva. Take good care of Hogwarts for me while I am gone. She can be temperamental."

Minerva sniffed, looking towards the gleaming castle.

"I doubt anything too spectacular will occur while you are gone. I will await the arrival of the students who are not selected the day after tomorrow. Be well."

Albus inclined his head with gentle grace.

"I hope I do not disappoint with my simple means of transportation. I've heard Beauxbatons planned to arrive in a carriage pulled by an entire team of golden winged horses."

Minerva grimaced at that, her mouth pulled down in a severe frown.

"We don't need flashy displays of wealth to prove we are a worthy school."

Albus turned and smiled again at the dour woman, patting her shoulder with one wrinkled hand.

"None of us should have to prove anything, my dear."

Minerva raised an eyebrow, a glint of mischief in her serious eyes.

"Yet we are proving something. Power. There are few in the world who have the allegiance of a phoenix."

Albus's blue eyes twinkled, and he turned, calling out to the other students with calm authority.

"Take hands, everyone. Anything you wish to take with you should be on your person. Ready?" He glanced around, his eyes ending on his Deputy-Headmistress, who stood with a ramrod straight spine. She nodded nearly imperceptibly, and Albus grasped the hands of his students, a large smile growing on his face.

"Well, then. Let's go!"

Fawkes let out a trilling song from where he perched on his shoulder, and scarlet flames rose to engulf them in heat.


The day had been spent at one function and then another, all three schools meeting the other potential candidates in half-hearted kindness. Albus Dumbledore could sense hostility from more than one of Durmstrang's professors, especially towards the few of his number that were muggleborn.

Now, his students chattered excitedly around him where they sat in Durmstrang's formal dining room, the noise rising as the time to draw names approached.

Albus contemplated the school he had not been in since his time as a teenager, breaking into the secretive school with his best friend Gellert Grindelwald.

Not much had changed, from what he remembered. The many halls were still cold, the stone walls cut from the mountain itself to form passageways and rooms. Durmstrang had not skimped on decorations or comforts, providing the Hogwarts delegation with large rooms of their own, separate from the dormitories of the regular students.

The students still wore red, their robes and cuffs lined with brown fur for the chilly hallways and rooms.

And Albus was surprised to realize that he still felt vaguely claustrophobic, the lack of windows reminding him that they were not inside a mere castle, but deep inside a mountain among the peaks of the scandinavian countryside. Fawkes had abandoned him that morning, gone from the perch he had brought when he arrived. He was sure the phoenix would be back, the bird simply disliked being underground as much as Albus did.

He was brought back to the present by a light tap on his side. He turned to see Oliver Wood, the Gryffindors quidditch captain, looking up at him nervously.

"Yes, Mr. Wood?"

The boy fidgeted, glancing around.

"If we get chosen, we have to stay here? Follow our regular studies with… them?"

Albus smiled gently.

"Yes, and no. You are not expected to attend classes with the Durmstrang students. Unless you can speak Norwegian?"

Mr. Wood shook his head rapidly, eyes apologetic.

"Sorry, sir."

Albus patted his shoulder.

"Never fear. If your name is chosen, I will handle your studies personally."

He was rewarded by Mr. Wood's quick nod, a cover for the enthusiasm bubbling under the surface.

Albus preferred the Gryffindors. They did not try to hide their feelings, and if they did, were generally horrible at it. It made Albus consider them much more trustworthy for that.

There was a loud sound suddenly, breaking through the conversations around him and ringing around the room like a booming gong.

Headmaster Igor Karkaroff lowered his wand with a self-satisfied smile, blue eyes sweeping the room.

"It is time."

He certainly has a flare for the dramatic, Albus thought, carefully arranging his own features into polite attention. Around him, all his students had went silent.

"When your name is called, please exit the Dining Hall and proceed through that door for further instruction."

Karkaroff gestured to the side, where a open archway lead into another corridor. Then he clapped his hands together and stepped up to the large roughly-hewn wooden goblet, its rim nearly brimming with vivid blue flames, the heart of them a striking white heat.

Then they flared red, and from the goblet shot a single slip of parchment.

It drifted down to rest on the pedestal, and Durmstrang's Headmaster picked it up, his face triumphant as he read.

"First, from Durmstrang Institute... Viktor Krum!"

There was a wild cheer from the assembled students, and Albus watched as one of their number, a tall muscular boy, stood and began to leave the room. He had heard of Krum; the boy was already a professional quidditch player. Beside him, Mr. Wood craned forward to watch the other boy leave.

Again, the Goblet flared red, and Karkaroff grasped the slightly charred paper. A new light entered his eyes as he called the name.

"Second, for Durmstrang, Johanna Karkaroff!"

The cheer was more subdued this time, though still rousing. Albus watched a girl with vibrant red hair stride past, her features set in subtle superiority. That must be Igor's niece, Albus thought with an internal grimace.

The last from Durmstrang was another boy, Adam Faulkner, whose handsome features were as expressionless as Viktor's had been.

The goblet continued, this time announcing the winners from Beauxbatons. The first was a girl, Fleur Delacour, who Dumbledore recognized as the daughter of Apolline Delacour, an official high in the French Ministry's Department of International Magical Cooperation. If he wasn't mistaken, Apolline had also been at the meeting they had held at Hogwarts several months before.

Another girl, Gaëlle Dumarais, was called, and after her a boy, Felix Garaile, whose dark coloring and name marked him of spanish descent.

Then it was Hogwarts' turn. Albus felt the students holding their breath, some faces pale and nervous, others red with excitement.

Karkaroff grasped the first peice of parchment, his voice ringing out.

"First from hogwarts, Cedric Diggory."

There was a gasp, then wild cheers from his students as Mr. Diggory stood, his face split in a wide smile. A Hufflepuff, Albus thought with delight, was the first called. How wonderful!

The goblet again flared red, and Karkaroff read the name with a satisfied smile on his face.

"Second, Cassius Warrington!"

Albus would have groaned, if he were able. As great a pick as Cedric was, Cassius was just the opposite. The burly Slytherin stood, a smirk on his face as he strolled forward. Albus clapped politely, eyes on the goblet as it spat out the final piece of parchment.

"Last for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Angelina Johnson."

There was a yelp, the Gryffindor girl jumping to her feet with incredulous features. Mr. Wood slumped slightly, even as he clapped and cheered his co-captain on. Albus's smile widened in satisfaction. A Hufflepuff and a Gryffindor would easily balance out a slytherin. He wouldn't have picked Mr. Warrington himself, but that was why the goblet was used, he supposed. He unfortunately found it hard to be completely impartial. Experience had taught him many things.

Igor Karkaroff finished clapping, raising his voice.

"Raise a glass in toast for the chosen of the Triwizard Tournament!"

There was wild applause, and then it stuttered, died. There was a gasp, and Albus turned back from where he had looked away, eyes widening.

The Goblet flames had not died, as they were supposed to. Instead it flared deep red again, spitting out a single piece of parchment. Even as Igor, is face beginning to flush with anger and confusion, reached for the paper the Goblet's flames shuddered and died, collapsing into the silver goblet with a flash of light.

Albus felt foreboding churn in his belly, sick expectation rising in his throat.

Surely they couldn't have...

Then Karkaroff waved the parchment, looking around in disgust.

"What is this? We agreed only three schools would participate."

Albus stood, beginning to walk forward, seeing his counterpart from Beauxbatons doing the same. Igor continued, rage purpling his normally pale face.

"This is that American school, The Academy! Who invited them into the tournament? Dumbledore?"

Relief welled in him, even as his confusion deepened. Had one of the Durmstrang students played a prank? Signed another school to their own signature?

Albus frowned, shaking his head and trying to peer at the paper before Maxime snatched it from the Durmstrang Headmasters waving hand, looking it over with narrowed eyes.

"Ze Academy? I've 'eard of zis school. There must be some mistake. And only one name!"

Igor grunted, his eyes narrowed.

"They must be trying to bully into the tournament! Well, they didn't know we've changed the rules, did they? What do we do?"

Maxine straightened and waved the parchment.

"Well, zis girl will 'ave no choice. She must participate, the contract is quite binding."

Karkaroff stuttered in outrage. Albus extended his hand towards Olympe.

"May I see it, Madame?"

She passed him the parchment, before beginning to argue with Igor about the entrance of another school. Albus had heard of the Academy as well; it was one of the foremost schools in North America, located inside the capital of the muggle United States. Albus frowned, looking at the elegant script across the top of the paper, written in wide flowing letters.

The Academy.

Then his eyes flickered down to the name underneath, the letters still elegant but more practical and feminine.

His heart skipped a beat.

Horror began to rise inside his chest, and he gasped, ears suddenly deaf to anything but his heart drumming wildly in his ears.

The parchment slipped from his weak fingers, fluttering down to the ground, where it lay face up, the name there burned into his eyes.

Hermione Granger.

It had to be a mistake. It had to be.


Rosier laughed, his wand raised over the seventh wizard, a large man with a shock of white hair crowning his head.

"Acer Linum!"

Silvery wire sprang from his wand, looping around the wizard in wide sweeps, before curling tight against the man's skin. With a grin, Rosier dispelled the previous bonds that had held him, allowing the wizard to begin to slump against the wire.

Immediately the man cried out, the wire cutting into his skin like a knife into butter. One of Rosier's very favorite spells, the Sharp Thread, a dark spell that twisted incarcerous into something of pain and blood and terror. The metallic threads would cut into the skin until dispelled, and were resistant to the magic of any but the castor, making them the perfect tool for both binding and torture.

Rosier laughed again, enjoyment rippling through him, before he turned, striding outside the large seven pointed star that had been carved into the solid stone below them.

He thought it perfect irony that the ritual called for a septegram, a sharp seven-pointed star that was often considered holy among Christian religions. Some even claimed it was the symbol of God.

Yet how very appropriate, for his god would soon rise whole from it.

At each point, a wizard kneeled, bound tightly under Acer Linum, afraid to even move lest the sharp wire cut into their skin. Some whimpered; others sat blankly, eyes already nearly dead with shock and pain.

From the center of the circle, a large green snake curled, red eyes shining from her features, her hissing voice overlaid with sibilant english words.

"Now, Rosier."

Rosier laughed again, every nerve in his body singing with pleasure, stopping behind the first wizard, a thin knife held tight in one fist.

The snake hissed, and from it rose a chant, two voices crying out, one full of feminine hisses, the other male and dark and powerful.

"Ab omni, mea sunt."

A pause in the chant. Rosier leaned forward, breathing in the scent of the bound wizard, sweet fear and acrid grief, a small part of him sad it could not be witches he held, witches he killed.

Then he sliced the blade across the man's throat, letting the blood burst free, the life and magic flowing with it, pooling in the grooves around the man cut for that very purpose. It began to run towards the center, where snake and soul lay.

The chant began again, and Rosier moved to the next.

"Ab omni, mea sunt."

Another cut, slick and easy, Rosier's chuckles sounding in the man's ears as he leaned over.

"Ab omni, mea sunt."

Another.

"Ab omni, mea sunt."

Another.

"Ab omni, mea sunt."

Rosier could not hold it in. He laughed, loud into the night, a crescent moon above them, blood beginning to stain his right hand and sleeve, and he couldn't help but run a hand through the long hair of the limp form in his arms, breathing in the smell of life and death.

"Ab omni, mea sunt."

It was Samhain, of course, a holy day for magic and those that worshipped it. A day for rituals, a day for dark deeds. Rosier knelt behind the sixth man, caught a glimpse of the man's terror, the realization and helplessness as he struggled against the spell that bound him, wounds forming every place the wire met skin.

"It's hopeless to struggle." Rosier whispered in his ear, sighed as he ran the blunt edge over the man's throat in a mockery of what was to come. "Your death is worthy, never fear. It is meaningful."

He reversed the blade and sliced, letting the man slump and fall to the stone.

The center was pooled with it now, dark red and black, and the air crackled with magic and power and darkness. He couldn't quite see the form of the snake anymore, the green serpent rolling in the spilled life, its chant louder now, impossibly deep, not even a voice as much as a welling of emotion, of taking, of magic stolen and devoured.

"Ab omni, mea sunt."

There was a pause as the last chant was cried out, screamed. Rosier fell to his knees behind that last wizard, pulling him into a macabre embrace, for a moment imaging it was himself there, bound and bleeding, awaiting the knife to resurrect his master.

Then he cut one last time, and the man fell away like a star tossed from the sky, and his life mingled with the others, pooling into a nexus of twisted magic and death.

The blood no longer ran from the fallen forms. It was drawn, pulled from the limp bodies like thread is pulled from a unraveling tapestry, made into something new and powerful.

And from the center, a figure began to rise, pale white skin and deep crimson eyes, like the light inside a giant ruby gemstone, an emerald serpent wrapped about its naked shoulders.

Rosier laughed as his master looked him over, laughed as his arm began to burn, the pain hotter and hotter and hotter.

His Lord began to speak, in a light baritone voice that hissed on its edges, hinting at the power within each word.

"I won't call them all. Not all, not now. Only those whom I trust the most. Rise, Rosier. Our work is not yet done tonight."

Rosier leapt to his feet, the smile wide across his face, an unavoidable chuckle escaping his lips.

Lord Voldemort smiled with thin lips, his eyes slitted with pleasure as he flexed his fingers, before curling them in a light fist, speaking again in a casual tone of voice, one hand coming up to hold the head of the snake around his neck.

"Ah, Nagini, my dearest. Soon I will have my revenge. So very soon. And the entire world will know it, when they see the body of its savior, displayed openly for everyone to observe and fear."

This time, when laughter rang in the stone circle, it was not Rosier's chortling sounds of glee, but darker, purposeful, and filled with murderous intent.


~*~To Be Continued: Fear ~*~


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