I would like to thank thekingofsweden1 for betaing! The story has been improved a lot thanks to his help!

Chapter 37: The Prophecy

Cyril Meadwater-Baker didn't know much about the war. He knew why he wasn't allowed to go outside anymore: It was because of You-Know-Who. The same You-Know-Who who had been defeated by the Boy-Who-Lived, as every Harry Potter novel he owned stated at least once. You-Know-Who had returned from death, though, like the Cuban Zombie Lord, and Harry Potter hadn't used the Blessed Salt on him yet. Until the Boy-Who-Lived defeated You-Know-Who again, Cyril was stuck.

But he didn't know much more about the war. His parents and grandparents didn't tell him much, and he wasn't allowed to read the Daily Prophet anymore. He wasn't allowed to visit all of his friends either - some of them, his parents said, were 'too exposed', or 'too dangerous'. He didn't know how that worked. The last time he heard that, it had been about a very small robe, and a very fast broom.

It wasn't that bad though - he was living at his grandparents' house now, the big 'Meadwater Mansion', as his mother called it, and all of his cousins were there as well. Those who, like him, were not at Hogwarts yet, at least. And the cousins who had finished Hogwarts, but those were adults, and didn't count - he couldn't play with them. Well, he could play chess with Alphons Meadwater-Tryce, but he would lose all the time unless he could play with his grandfather's set. But after his mother had heard the things the pieces said when they were taken he wasn't allowed to play with that set anymore either.

He was about to ask Meribeth Meadwater-Brown to play seeker with him again - grandfather had allowed them to fly their toy brooms indoors, provided they avoided their grandmother's rooms and the kitchen - when he saw his father enter through the door. That was weird- he usually came through the Floo connection, and much later in the day.

"Cyril! Come here!"

"Yes, dad!" The boy trotted over to his father, who was still wearing his office robes. His mum thought they were too boring, but dad said they fit his work at the Ministry.

Dad hugged him, as he usually did when he came home, even though Cyril was almost old enough to get his Hogwarts letter, far too old to get hugged like a baby!

Pouting, Cyril asked: "Shouldn't you be at work?"

"I took the afternoon off so we can go shopping for your birthday present."

"Oh?" Cyril perked up, smiling, then frowned. "You said that was too dangerous, and we'd owl-order."

"I said that, but things have changed." His father looked a bit distracted, Cyril thought. "And I think you deserve a big gift, with the war and all."

"Oh!" His granny had said the same thing. Cyril had gotten far more dessert and gifts ever since they had moved in with his grandparents, even more so than he usually got at the big mansion. "Can I get the new Cleansweep 9 then?" Most of his cousins wanted a Firebolt, but Cyril knew they were too expensive, and the latest Cleansweep was the best overall broom on the market.

His father nodded. "Don't tell your mother though, not until the birthday."

Cyril beamed. "Let's go then!" He turned to head to the Floo connection, but his dad held him back.

"We'll apparate. It's a surprise, remember?"

Cyril nodded, took his father's hand, and the two went outside. He'd get a Cleansweep 9 for his birthday! This was a great day!

The apparition was weird, far worse than Floo travel. It felt as if a giant stuffed him into a small tube, then wrung him out again. Or so Cyril imagined. Floo travel was far better. But it was for a Cleansweep 9, so he'd not complain.

They didn't arrive in Diagon Alley though, but on some field. "Dad, did you get lost? This isn't Quality Quidditch Supplies!"

"Oh, no, Cyril. I already bought you the broom." Dad pulled out a small package in broom form.

"But…" Cyril liked going shopping. There were so many things to look at. He had heard there would be a new joke shop opening even, soon at least. On the other hand, what really mattered that he got the broom he had told his parents so much about.

Another wizard in a ministry robe appeared. Cyril hadn't heard the popping noise from apparition, so… had he been invisible? And why?

"Meadwater." The man had a harsh voice.

Dad looked distracted again, even as he nodded. "Macnair."

Cyril had heard about Macnair. His mother called him 'the butcher', and his father didn't like him either. But Cyril knew he had to be polite even to people he didn't like. Especially to people he didn't like. "Hello, Mister!"

The wizard bent down and grinned at him. He looked scary, and Cyril gripped his dad's hand tighter.

"Hello Cyril. Did you know there's a prophecy about you?"

"The Lestrange brothers are dead?" Neville Longbottom sounded as if he thought this was too good to be true. He looked hopeful though, sitting on one of the couches in the unused classroom that Harry and Hermione had taken over. The last classes for the day had finished, and if not for that news, they'd be already studying until dinner. And they'd study soon enough, if Hermione's expression was any indication.

Harry Potter nodded at his friend. "Yes. It's not been officially announced yet, so keep it a secret, but both were killed in the Balkans. Dumbledore told us so." Sirius had told him that, to be precise, but his godfather had heard it straight from the Headmaster's mouth in an Order meeting.

"I… I have to tell Gran." Nevill said. He was breathing heavily. Ginny, sitting next to him, put her hands on his shoulder and thigh.

"Of course, Neville." Harry was carefully ignoring the hint of tears in his friend's eyes. He glanced at Hermione, sitting at his side, then at Ron. Both looked as uncomfortable watching their friend's emotional reaction as he felt.

"Just don't spread it around, it'll be mentioned in the Prophet soon enough," Hermione cautioned the Gryffindor.

"And in the Quibbler!" Luna added. "Would you have a quote for us?" The Ravenclaw witch leaned forward eagerly, her pad and quill floating out of her enchanted bag.

Aicha rolled her eyes, grabbed Luna's collar and pulled her friend back to her seat. "There's a time for interviews, Luna. And it's not right now."

"But…" Luna pouted. "Dad said a good reporter is always working."

"And a good friend knows when not to work."

Neville made a sound that was as much a chuckle as it was a sob. "It's been months since they escaped… knowing they were out there, waiting… Merlin, I hope they died slowly and painfully." He looked up at Harry, hopefully.

Harry shook his head. "We didn't get any details. We don't even know who killed them."

Neville blinked. "But… Gran needs to know. I need to know."

"She'll have to ask the Headmaster then. But I doubt he'll tell her. It might endanger whoever did it," Hermione said.

"Bellatrix Lestrange," Neville stated in a flat tone what everyone had been thinking. The dark witch would certainly attempt to avenge her family's death.

"Do you think she'll go on a rampage?" Ron asked. Padma flinched at that.

"If she did she'll likely get caught or killed," Hermione said. Harry knew she thought that this would be, overall, a good thing. Fortunately, she didn't share her opinion, nor let her expression show it. His girlfriend was sometimes a bit too ruthless for her own good.

He opened his mouth to reassure Neville that Bellatrix wouldn't go after his grandmother when his forehead erupted in pain. Bending over, he barely could hear the others gasp, barely felt the blood running down his face, or Hermione's arms around him, and then he was somewhere else, was someone else.

The boy was staring at him, tears running down his cheek. The child couldn't move his eyes due to the Full Body-Bind Curse that held him, but he could still cry. He bent down, almost gently brushing the tears away from the child's left eye. Next to the child, a muggle, tied with magical ropes and silenced, was desperately struggling. Both the boy and the muggle feared what was coming, even if neither knew what was about to happen to them. He laughed at the sight of the muggle screaming without making a sound, his feeble brain struggling to comprehend his situation as much as his body was to escape, both attempts doomed to fail.

He raised his wand at the muggle. If he had the time, he'd draw it out - the ritual worked better if the sacrifice died slowly. The more pain, the more gain. But he lacked the time to do it properly. A silent Cutting Curse cut the man's throat, and he bled out in less than a minute. A flick of his wrist had the blood float up, and gather in a golden bowl. He poured the red liquid down on the boy's forehead, the ritual magic causing the blood to form his mark on the child's skin as it dried far quicker than was natural. More blood was used to form runes all over the child's head.

A jab with his wand caused the dried blood to flare up, smoke rising from the forehead as the blood seemed to burn off over the course of several minutes, leaving unblemished, unmarked skin. The boy was still stiff, unable to do or say anything, despite the agony he had felt during the process.

Only one thing left.

"Obliviate."

Hermione Granger, shuddered as she retreated from the Headmaster's pensieve. To think that Harry hadn't just seen, but felt, lived through that… She hugged him, hard, comforting him, and herself.

It took Dumbledore a bit longer to leave the pensieve, but when he did, he looked very concerned. Almost shocked. And tired - but he had looked tired already when they had finally managed to meet him, late in the evening, after he had returned from a Wizengamot session.

"That didn't look like the Horcrux ritual we saw before," Hermione said, looking at the old wizard.

"It was not." The old wizard led them back to his office. When all were seated, he conjured three glasses and floated a bottle of whiskey - muggle whiskey, Hermione noted - over. She briefly considered refusing, but decided against it. One small glass might do her good.

It didn't. The burning sensation in her throat was not quite as bad as shooting fire out from her mouth, but it came close. That was not some normal whiskey!

The Headmaster spoke up again: "It was not, and yet it was - or so I think. I will have to study that ritual in more detail, and consult a few books to check the runes he used."

"They looked like Harrapan, I think," Hermione added. "The Indus script." She didn't know much about Magical India's traditions, but she had read a book about ancient languages in her second year, to prepare for her third year.

"Oh? I do hope it doesn't involve Kali," the Headmaster looked at her with sudden interest, but didn't elaborate.

According to her muggle source, the script was still undeciphered. But if the wizards of India had kept it in use… no, if they had kept it in use, more would be known about it. The Statute of Secrecy was only a few hundred years old, after all. "Do you have experiences with Indian magical traditions, sir?"

"Unfortunately I lack real experience. Or fortunately, given the subject matter. India's Magical Castes are very insular, and do not share their knowledge with those not born into the caste. I suspect Tom acquired the knowledge he just demonstrated through underhanded or violent means."

"To turn a child into a Horcrux," Harry spat out. Hermione saw how tense he was, how angry and disgusted. She understood - she had been focusing on the academic aspects, and tried not to think of the consequences of that ritual. "Why did he do that? He has to have a reason!"

"While it is possible that he simply wanted to add another soul anchor, hidden from everyone, I do suspect another motive. Today's session at the Wizengamot was unusually long, due to several delays and obstructions of the planned proceedings. If that was done to keep me occupied and unable to interfere, then that would strongly indicate this ritual was more important than his others."

"If the delay was the work of his agents and spies, can they be exposed due to that?" Harry asked.

"I fear that they were working through unwitting pawns - something the Wizengamot sadly is not lacking in." Dumbledore sighed with a tired smile. "But I will mention this to Amelia, who can authorize an investigation." He looked at Harry and Hermione. "I do not have to stress that this needs the utmost secrecy. If Tom realises that Harry can see what he is doing during rituals…"

Hermione nodded repeatedly. "I told our friends who witnessed it that they can't tell anyone about this, and they only know Harry's scar started bleeding."

"It would have been better if they had not seen anything, but it'll do for now." Dumbledore sighed again, and Hermione had the distinct impression that he was considering other measures to preserve the secret of Harry's connection to Voldemort. She didn't say anything though - she knew perfectly well how important that secrecy was for Harry's safety.

"I think that is all for now. Here is a pass in case you encounter a prefect."

Harry took the pass before he left the office with Hermione.

Outside, Hermione saw Harry sigh, and lean against the wall. He looked as tired and exhausted as the Headmaster, right then. Hermione glanced around. No one else was nearby. There shouldn't be a prefect patrol either at this hour.

She stepped up and embraced her boyfriend. If he was surprised at her breaking her act as the dutiful retainer in semi-public, he didn't show it. He just hugged and kissed her.

The early light of the rising sun shone into Albus Dumbledore's office when he closed the last book he had consulted. He had studied the memory in the pensieve for hours, all throughout the night. It had taken two Pepper-Up potions to keep going without getting sloppy. Minerva and Poppy would be incensed if they knew what he had done. But it had been needed - he was now reasonably certain what Tom was planning. But that did not mean he knew what he could, and should be doing about it.

Those Indian runes all were related to Perception and Possession. The boy had not just been turned into a Horcrux, but into a vessel for Voldemort's senses. One he could control from afar, unless Albus was greatly mistaken. And one that shared part of the Dark Lord's soul. A vessel that would be able to access the prophecy in the Department of Mysteries.

The old wizard didn't know the name of the poor child, now doomed, but he was likely the subject of another prophecy stored in the Hall of Prophecies, and therefore would be allowed to enter. Unless Albus alerted Saul of the danger.

But could he do that? Voldemort would be certainly stopped, but he'd not be hurt. And he'd know that somehow, Albus had known of his plan. It wouldn't take him long to eliminate the possible leaks and spies. But would he find out that Harry could see through his eyes? That was very likely, even more so with Harry's friends, not trained in Occlumency, having witnessed that scene. Obliviation sounded more and more like the best course of action. On the other hand, if Voldemort wasn't stopped - or not by measures taken right after his ritual, there remained the possibility that Saul's current precautions would stop him - then he might assume, should he hear about Harry's reaction, that the boy simply felt pain whenever Voldemort worked ritual magic. Might - it was by no means certain, and Albus knew well how dangerous and foolish it was to hope an enemy made a mistake. He could start rumors that Harry was a seer, but that was unlikely to fool the Dark Lord. It remained a possible cover story, though. Albus would have to discuss it with Sirius and his godson.

But that didn't change the fact that no matter how he twisted it, he had to decide if protecting the prophecy was worth revealing Harry's connection.

Albus stood up and started to pace in his office, waking Fawkes up, who trilled at him in concern. "I am alright, old friend, just thinking," he told his companion.

The answer was that the prophecy wasn't worth it. The Dark Lord hadn't let his lack of knowledge about its contents hold him back much, if at all. And as he was getting more desperate by losing so many followers, he'd throw caution in the wind anyway. Further, Harry already was marked by the Dark Lord, both literally and figuratively, as the symbol of Tom's first defeat. He already wanted to murder the boy, knowing that they were destined to face each other wouldn't change that.

No, protecting the prophecy wasn't worth the possible loss of more insight into the Dark Lord's plans and rituals. Especially not with that disturbing sacrifice of a werewolf.

So Albus wouldn't inform Saul. Would hope that either the Unspeakables' protections were strong enough to stop the Dark Lord, or that Voldemort would bypass them without hurting anyone. And would hope that in the end, his gamble would be proven correct, and not turn out to be one of his many grave mistakes.

And he'd hope against hope that the unknown young boy the Dark Lord was sacrificing would survive, somehow. Even though he knew that as a Horcrux, the child was doomed already.

Cyril Meadwater-Baker kept bouncing from one foot to the other. There was a prophecy about him! He was special! His dad had told him so this morning, and was now taking him to see the prophecy! Cyril was so excited, he had managed to forget all about the fight between his mum and his dad, when she had found out about his birthday gift shopping trip. Cyril hadn't understood why that had been a bad thing, just because she hadn't known about it. But that was why she shouldn't know about this, or about the new robe his dad had gotten him today as well - mum was 'too emotional'.

"If you'll follow me, Misters Meadwater-Baker," the man with his face hidden by his robe - the Unspeakable! - said, motioning for Cyril and his dad to enter into the Department of Mysteries! It was like in 'Harry Potter and the Magical Mystery'!

They were descending in a special lift, even his father had never been in that one, and he had been working for the Ministry since before Cyril had been born!

"Welcome to the Department of Mysteries," the Unspeakable said. Cyril wondered if he was smiling, under his cowl. "I'll lead you to the Hall of Prophecies, after a quick check for curses."

The wizard - or witch, the voice was … weird … took out a wand and started casting. Cyril flinched, he didn't know why - he wasn't cursed, after all. But neither he nor dad were cursed, or under any spell, at least no spell that wasn't a normal spell. Cyril didn't know why his dad seemed embarrassed.

"You'll have to wait here, sir. Only the direct subjects of a prophecy are allowed inside the hall," the Unspeakable said, holding up his wand.

"What? I'm his father, I need to know about the prophecy concerning my son!" Dad sounded angry, but not as angry as last evening, when he had fought with mum.

"Security reasons, sir. You understand."

Dad grudgingly nodded, looking a bit like when mum had convinced him to move in with their grandparents. Cyril didn't really pay that much attention though. The other wizard led him through a door, into a room with a dozen door, a room that moved around itself!

And then they were walking down a shiny stone hallway, with lots of pillars, towards one of the biggest doors Cyril had ever seen. It was bigger than the gate back at his grandparents' house! When it slowly opened, Cyril also could see that it was thicker than their family vault door at Gringotts. It had to take powerful spells to move it at all!

When he stepped into the Hall of Prophecies, Cyril held his breath, but no spell struck him down - he was meant to be there! Just as his dad had said. Looking around, he spotted rows upon rows of shelves, all packed with blue globes. "Are those…?"

"Yes, Cyril. Those are the prophecy records. Each stores a prophecy, and only those it concerns can access it." Cyril stared at him, and he added "Only those who are mentioned in the prophecy can take one and listen to it." Ah!

Behind them, the massive door closed, and for a second, Cyril was deathly afraid. He just knew, somehow, he'd not leave this hall again.

It was his last thought, before he started to scream with pain.

The Dark Lord Voldemort didn't take more than a second to push his consciousness past the weak resistance the boy provided and take control of the child's body. Long enough for the Unspeakable to realise something was wrong, but not long enough to do stop him before he took control and dodged the first spell, rolling behind the next shelf.

His now small hand dipped into the concealed pocket in the robe, where the wand Steinberg had provided had been hidden this morning. As soon as he touched it, he felt a rush of power. It wasn't a perfect match, like his yew wand, but it sung to him anyway.

The Unspeakable was good and smart. He was disillusioned already, and retreating. But he wasn't good enough, not when facing the Dark Lord - no matter what body he was currently using. He wasn't a mere shade anymore, not after his resurrection. A flick of his wrist had the floor around the vault door rise and seal it off. Whispered words put up Anti-Disillusion and Apparition Jinxes. Just in case the Unspeakables had found ways to ward the hall against apparition and still apparate inside it.

He could feel the wand struggle slightly with those spells. It seemed to burn with the desire to cast dark spells. Smiling cruelly, he obliged it, sending a volley of dark curses at the other wizard. None of them hit, but they forced his opponent to move where he wanted him to move to. And the spells Voldemort was using were so easy to cast… far easier than he was used to.

He didn't even feel the pain from the possession that had sent the boy into a screaming fit and had needed an effort from the Dark Lord, intimately familiar with pain in all its forms, to ignore. His smile widened as a his next barrage forced the hooded wizard further back.

The Unspeakable was not giving up though, and sent curses of his own at Voldemort. He must have realised that he wasn't facing a child, and judging by the selection of spells hitting the protective barriers around the prophecies, he was quite versed in the Dark Arts himself. The Dark Lord was forced to dodge, and conjure shields of stone and metal to absorb some of the curses.

The outcome though was never in doubt. A Head-Shriveling Curse almost hit the man, a Heartcrusher sent half his robe smoking, and an Organ-Rotting Curse made him jump back, right onto the patch of marble the Dark Lord had spelled when the fight had started. Stone vines shot up from it, twisting around the man's legs and piercing them with barbs longer and sharper than a shark's teeth.

Voldemort chuckled when he heard what a desperate scream sounded like, with the Unspeakable's voice-changing enchantment working. He had to finish the fight before help could arrive though, and couldn't enjoy himself. Floating up behind a shelf, he pointed his wand at the struggling wizard.

"Avada Kedavra!"

The Unspeakable was good. Faced with the choice of letting the stone vines crush and impale him, or letting the Killing Curse hit him, he managed to stop both by blasting the vines' base and flinging them into the path of the curse. The stone fragments that were sent flying from the resulting explosions hurt him further though, and he didn't manage to stop or dodge Voldemort's second Killing Curse.

A quick detection spell originally developed for libraries pointed the Dark Lord at the one prophecy mentioning Harry Potter. The vault door was starting to open, but was blocked by his sealing spell. It wouldn't hold out for long, but neither would his body - the damage from the possession and the feedback from Steinberg's wand was too great.

It didn't matter though. All he needed now was to listen, and both his spell and this body would last long enough. He flew to the shelf and grabbed the orb, then touched it with his wand. At once the unearthly voice of a seer caught up in a vision filled his ears.

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord…"

He was laughing when the Unspeakables broke through his sealing spell, laughing as the child's body he was possessing was breaking down, bleeding from his mouth, ears and eyes, and laughing when he was back in his own body.

Bellatrix, who had waited at his side, guarding his body in his absence, smiled at him. "My lord? You succeeded?"

He nodded.

"I did. I now know the full prophecy." And he knew he had been a fool.

Harry Potter stared at the Headmaster, who had just told him that Voldemort had managed to learn the contents of the prophecy linking the two of them together. Despite the precautions taken by the Unspeakables. He stood up, anger filling him. Anger and dread. "How was that possible? You said only those mentioned in it could access it! Did they let the Dark Lord walk into the Ministry?" He barely noticed Hermione standing up as well and placing a hand on his shoulder, nor Fawkes flapping his wings.

"In a manner of speaking," was the calm reply. "He possessed the boy you had seen in the vision, who was a subject of another prophecy, and therefore allowed to enter the Hall of Prophecies."

Possession… so that had been the ritual's purpose! But… "Like Quirrell?" he asked, remembering that night when that teacher had died. Had been killed. By Harry.

"Yes. He did not burn to ashes, but he did not survive the Dark Lord possessing him."

Harry sat down, leaning forward and covering his face with his hands. Another innocent victim dead because of the Dark Lord, and he hadn't been able to do anything but watch! Hermione gently rubbed his back and pressed her thigh against his.

"Do not blame yourself, Harry. There was nothing you could have done," Dumbledore tried to console him. It didn't help much. Harry knew he couldn't have done anything, but that didn't change how guilty he felt.

"Sir?" Hermione spoke up. She sounded uncertain, nervous. Harry put his hands down and glanced at her. The muggleborn witch was biting her lower lip, and twisting a finger around a lock of her hair. She was nervous. He reached for her hand, trying to comfort and reassure her.

"Yes?"

Harry's girlfriend pushed her chin up a bit, almost defiantly. "Did you let the Dark Lord get the prophecy?"

What? Why would Hermione ask… Harry whipped his head around to stare at the Headmaster.

The old wizard sighed deeply. "You are as perceptive as always, Miss Granger. I suspected what the Dark Lord was planning this morning, after analyzing Harry's memory all night. And yes, I had decided not to inform the Department of Mysteries of my suspicion."

"But why didn't you…" Harry blinked. Why had the Headmaster let the Dark Lord get the prophecy, after all the efforts spent to deny him that knowledge?

"The price would have been too high, Harry. If his attempt to get the prophecy had been foiled, the the Dark Lord he would have started to look for the spy that revealed his plans to me, and would have become aware of your connection. That would have led to him taking steps to sever it. Or he might have attempted to attack you through it." Dumbledore looked at them over his reading glasses.

"But he has the prophecy now!" Harry retorted.

"That he did - but he already knew half of it. Knowing it entirely does not change much, if anything at all. As much as I loathe to say it, he was already planning to kill you, since you're responsible for his first defeat."

Hermione's grip on his hand grew stronger, and Harry swallowed. He had known that the Dark Lord wanted to kill him for years now, but to spell it out like that…

"I understand." He did, but he still didn't like it. "But there will be a time when the price will not be too high." He met the Headmaster's gaze without flinching.

"I hope that when that day arrives, that your situation will have changed," Dumbledore answered, glancing at Harry's scar. As did Hermione.

There wasn't much Harry could say to that.

Kenneth Fenbrick shook his head as he entered the Auror offices in the Ministry of Magic. "And again we're getting the most volatile case! Investigating a murder in the Department of Mysteries! A murder where the main suspect is You-Know-Who himself, according to Bones! Someone must hate us!" He wasn't fond of the Unspeakables, despite the help they provided to the DMLE on occasion. Who could trust people who hid their faces from everyone?

His partner, Bertha Limmington, raised an eyebrow at him while she checked the paper aeroplanes and parchment rolls that had piled up on her desk during their most recent absence. Kenneth studiously ignored his own stack.

When she saw that her eyebrow had no effect on him - he was used to it, by now - she said: "Would you rather do combat duty than run an investigation?" She didn't have to add 'like a Hit-Wizard'; he understood her meaning perfectly well.

Pouting, he said: "I'd like to have a simple case, for once. Not one involving the Unspeakables and the Dark Lord."

Bertha shrugged. "The better you are, the harder the cases assigned to you get."

"And the more dangerous."

"That's probably your fault," Bertha stated, in a deadpan voice, while she sorted her memos and letters with her wand.

"What?"

"The boss probably fears that without enough danger, you'll get bored." Bertha grinned when he gaped at her for a second, before he realised she had made a joke. She chuckled, briefly, when Kenneth huffed. Then she grew serious again. "It also may mean that we're the most trusted Aurors in the DMLE. Especially with a case that strongly hints at the involvement of at least one covert Death Eater and the Dark Lord himself!."

Kenneth didn't know if he should be proud or worried if the two of them were the most trusted Aurors. He sighed instead. "Let's check the Hall of Prophecies, before it gets lost in another dimension."

Bertha raised her eyebrows at him, and he held up his hands defensively. "Hey! I listen to the grapevine! They never found that missing Unspeakable, and that was ten years ago."

The trip down to the Department of Mysteries and then to the Hall of Prophecies didn't take long. When the door slowly opened, Kenneth quipped: "Does Gringotts know that someone stole their most secure vault?" The Unspeakable escorting them didn't say anything, but Bertha glared at him. He shrugged. He had to say something before he got creeped out by their silent escort and the rumors of what was stored in the other rooms of the department.

The hall was large and filled with shelves of those blue orbs, prophecy records. "Did the intruder and the victim fight here?" Kenneth asked their escort as they walked to where the victim - or the first victim - had been found.

"Yes." The hooded figure answered in that voice that made it impossible to even guess their gender. If it still had one.

"There's no damage visible to the shelves or the room." The Auror looked around.

"Very strong protective enchantments. Non-standard ones." Bertha was studying the closest shelf. The Unspeakable didn't confirm or comment.

Kenneth sighed and studied the shelves himself while Bertha crouched down and ran her wand over the dead wizard on the marble floor. "Cause of death was the Killing Curse. Multiple stabbing wounds in the legs, though no visible source. Lots of residue from multiple dark curses," she dictated to her floating quill.

Kenneth was certain not all of those curses had been cast by the Dark Lord. There were rumors about the Unspeakables, after all. Even though he didn't believe that demonstrating all three Unforgivables was a required test to get hired, and a way to force them to keep the departments secret by the threat of a life sentence in Azkaban.

He took a closer look at the victim. "That looks like the work of an Amazonian Murdervine. But a huge one." He remembered the pictures he had seen in that Herbology lesson very well. 12-year-olds were easy to impress. Or to traumatize. Sprout had stopped using that particular example for the dangers magical plants could pose even to a skilled wizard afterwards, or so he had heard.

Bertha flicked her wand. "No traces of plant matter."

"It might have been a transfigured one. But there's no sign of any changes to the environment." The shelves he could understand - they gleamed with enchantments. But the floor, or ceiling?

"The room is enchanted to restore itself," the Unspeakable informed them.

Kenneth sighed, and Bertha even glared at the wizard. "Why weren't we informed of that at once? We would have come straight here before possible evidence vanished."

"According to procedure, information about the department's organisation and layout can only be divulged with special permission."

Kenneth scoffed, but didn't press further. He had long since learned that to argue with the bureaucracy was fruitless. That didn't mean he'd not do it anyway - but he had also learned not to burn bridges, especially not during a case. "Let's look at the child." When he saw that the Unspeakable cast a bubblehead charm in response, Kenneth had a sinking feeling in his gut.

The corpse of the boy, Cyril Meadwater-Baker, looked like it had rotted for months. It probably smelled worse. "He looks like he broke apart at the seams." Kenneth peered at what had been an arm. "Did the first victim hit him with a curse?"

Bertha shook her head. "That's the effect of the possession. Though it usually takes far longer to reach that point." She looked at the Unspeakable.

"Time was not manipulated in this vault," was the answer to her unspoken question. The witch looked relieved. Kenneth knew Bertha's logical mind had issues with time travel and similar magic.

He nodded at the remains spread out over a square yard. "So, something sped the process up. By a lot." It didn't take a genius to know that the Dark Lord was probably responsible. "The question is: What did it?"

"The cause of death is deterioration of the body caused by possession. That means the second death is confirmed as another victim," Bertha summarised.

"Unless it was willing possession," Kenneth cut in.

Bertha nodded. "Unlikely, but possible. Where's the prophecy record the possessed accessed?" His partner stood up, and Kenneth couldn't help but noticing how her new robes fit her body. She had changed her style, ever since that undercover mission they wouldn't be talking about.

"That's classified and not germane to the investigation," the Unspeakable droned.

"What? That record was the culprit's goal!" Bertha exclaimed.

"Yes. And all you need to know is that it was a prophecy mentioning the Dark Lord." The inhuman voice of the Unspeakable sounded even creepier right then.

"I'll lodge a protest with our superior," Bertha spat.

The Unspeakable didn't answer, which Kenneth took to mean that this would be useless. Judging by Bertha's expression, she shared his impression.

"Let's go talk to the victim's father." The witch all but stormed out of the Hall of Prophecies. Or would have, if the Unspeakable hadn't taken his time to open the door.

Kenneth really didn't like the Unspeakables.

Kenneth studied the wizard sitting in the small room across from him and Bertha. Jaime Meadwater-Baker. Gryffindor, like Kenneth, but five years younger. Young enough for Kenneth to not recall ever speaking to him at Hogwarts. Meadwater-Baker looked like the broken man he probably was, after losing his son to the Dark Lord.

"My condolences for your loss," Kenneth said.

The wizard shakingly nodded. "Thank you… I don't know how this happened, but it is all my fault. If I hadn't taken him down there yesterday morning…"

"Mister Meadwater-Baker, at that point your son had already been possessed. Something must have happened earlier," Bertha explained. "Can you remember anything out of the ordinary?"

The man gave an account of his last two days, interrupted by crying fits. On the day before the incident, he had worked in the morning on expansion charm controls, and spent the afternoon broom shopping with his son.

"Your memory shows signs of having been tampered with", Bertha summarized the results of her tests once the man had finished.

"What? But…" Meadwater-Baker trailed off, gaping.

"Yes. We'll look into this shopping trip. Where did you buy the broom?" Bartha said, cool and collected.

"Quality Quidditch Supplies… Cyril wanted a toy broom as well, matching the model, but I told him he could get a real broom, or a toy, not both… at least I remember it like that…"

Kenneth fought not to wince. Losing his son, and then realizing his last happy memory with him might be a fabrication… that was terrible.

Bertha, of course, was all business. "We will check with the shop and the clerks working two days ago. Do you remember any of the staff?"

Meadwater-Baker nodded, but his description focused more on the Quidditch robes the staff wore than their actual appearance. It would be enough to check up on though.

Someone had controlled the man, and modified his memory.

Kenneth swore they'd find the bastard and arrest him.

Paige Caldwell stared at the man, the wizard, who had appeared in the garden of her current residence. It looked like a decrepit house from the outside, but she had managed to repair the inside and she had a deft hand for transfiguring furniture out of debris. A deft hand, and a lot of experience - life as a werewolf in Britain had given her ample opportunities to practise such spells, since she'd never had a place that hadn't been in dire need for repairs. She wasn't good at warding though, which was a very bad thing in the current war, and due to her curse, she wasn't welcome at her family's mansion. 'Dark creatures are a risk for the children', as the woman who had been her mother put it.

"Who're you, and what are you doing here?" she spat out, challenging the visitor. A smarter witch would have been more polite, a more cautious witch would have moved back inside her home for some cover, but she was a cursed witch. She was a decent wand at fighting, often out of necessity, and with the way she and other werewolves were always pushed around by the Ministry, with new regulations seemingly implemented each year, she was rather averse to giving ground in her home, her territory. If the wizard tried to push her, she'd push back, and worse.

"I'm Phineas Brown, and I'm here to speak to you, Miss Caldwell," the man said, politely. He didn't meet her eyes, or challenged her in any other form.

She felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. "What about?"

"Your life."

She gasped, and raised her wand. He raised his hands, empty of his own wand. "I'm just here to talk. I have a proposal for you."

"Speak!" She tensed up. If he made any kind of threatening move, she'd curse him and charge forward. She knew she was faster than most, and close to the full moon, the urge to beat, tear at something, someone, was slowly growing.

"Might we talk inside? It's a private matter."

He wanted to step into her home. Her safe place… she almost growled, but then nodded. She wasn't a beast, she was a witch, and she had manners. Even if she didn't always show it.

She saw he was looking around with interest in her living room, which she'd turn into her bedroom once she was about to sleep by transfiguring the couch into a bed.

"Impressive use of charms and transfigurations, Miss Caldwell." He nodded at her, the compliment somewhat ruined by his patronising tone. She wouldn't summon her tea set for him, that much was clear.

Paige still nodded, accepting the compliment. She knew how to conduct herself in polite society.

"And yet… for a witch of your talents, this is a rather poor venue to live in."

She snarled at him. He had to know very well why she had to live like this. "I manage."

"Oh, no one would ever doubt that. But should you be content with 'managing', or would you prefer to excel? To live in a land where being cursed with lycanthropy doesn't lead to such discrimination? Where you can live the life you deserve?"

Paige scoffed. If there was such a country, she'd already be living there. Apart from the Scandinavian Communities - and after dating a berserker for a few months she knew all about their own brand of lunacy - there was no country that hadn't some unfair anti-werewolf laws. "There's no such thing."

"Not yet, there isn't. But it will be, and soon."

That offer… the obvious fake name… "You mean Britain."

His smile widened, flashing white teeth at her. Too white, too polished, That one never had fought for his life with teeth and claws. "Indeed."

"And you're telling me You-Know-Who would make the country a better place for me?" She didn't want to believe it. She knew how cruel, how evil the Dark Lord was. How many he and his had murdered.

And yet, she had also known that she was her parents' daughter, that they would always protect her, that they would never hurt her. One tragic event had shown her the error of her beliefs. Why should she trust those who kept harassing her with more and more rules and regulations each month?

The wizard was smiling still. "He is generous to those who are loyal to him. And he has a long tradition of appreciating your kind."

She also knew the Prophet claimed You-Know-Who had been losing wands left and right. But why would she believe that rag, given the lies it published about werewolves?

"I'm listening."

Ron Weasley should be happy. He was strolling around Black Lake with his girlfriend, Padma Patil. The sun was shining, and the weather was warm, but not yet hot, perfect even if neither of them were wearing charmed robes. He had no study session scheduled, no training awaited him, and the Chudley Cannons had won their latest game. He should be happy, but he wasn't. And the reason for that was walking at his side.

"What happened to Harry?" Padma asked, not for the first time.

"Nothing," he answered, not for the first time either.

"But…"

He cut her off. "No 'but'. Nothing happened." She pouted at him, like Parvati often did. He didn't mention that, of course. "Didn't you hear Hermione? We're not talking about this." He made sure his privacy spells were still working, just in case.

"She meant not talking to anyone else, we were both there, we can talk about it." Padma was stubborn about this. She hadn't let up for the whole time they had been walking together. That wasn't how he had imagined their stroll.

"We won't though." Padma already had seen too much, Ron knew.

"Why not? Don't you trust me?" The Indian witch wasn't quite sniffling, but Ron knew she was close.

"Of course I trust you, but this is simply too dangerous to trust anyone with it." He wrapped his arm around her shoulder, trying to comfort her.

It didn't work. She didn't shrug him off, at least. "But you, Harry and Hermione know about it."

"Well, yes." As soon as he said it, he knew he had made a mistake.

This time she shrugged him off and walked a bit faster, obviously angry. His longer legs caught up to her easily. Before he could say anything though, she was talking already. Or ranting.

"I'm always the odd one out, the one no one trusts! The one not good enough! Everyone else knows so much more, can do so much more, and now I am not even trusted to talk about something I saw with you!" she sobbed, and he saw tears running over her cheek.

"I trust you!" He tried to hug her, but she took a step back.

"You don't act like it!"

"I can't talk about that. It's too dangerous!" He was getting angry himself now. Why didn't she understand that he loved and trusted her - but that this was for her own good?

"But you talk with Harry and Hermione about it!"

She knew that already. He nodded. "Of course!" they were his best friends.

"What do I have to do so you trust me as well as you trust them?" She stared at him, sobbing still, her whole body tense.

He didn't know what to say. It wasn't as if he could give her a to-do list, to earn that kind of trust. It didn't work like that. And the kind of things that did create such trust he didn't want her to go through. Or suffer through.

But he had to answer, before she ran off, hurt even more. "It takes time." That sounded lame, even to him.

And Padma stormed off anyway. Ron let her go. She wasn't taking this well, all the pressure from the O.W.L.s, the war, and from Parkinson. And, he finally realised, he didn't, couldn't trust her to stand up to that kind of pressure. To not blurt the secret out in a heated row.

He had to talk to Harry and Hermione.

"Sir?"

Albus Dumbledore looked at the young witch while he levitated Yennington's body back onto the bed in the corner. "Yes, Miss Granger?" He was tired - the session had been productive, but exhausting - but the witch might have caught something he had missed, unlikely but not impossible.

"Will you be obliviating our other friends as well?"

Albus smiled. "I think they can be trusted not to let anything slip." He didn't have to add 'unlike Miss Patil'. Harry, Miss Granger and Mister Weasley had told him about her, after all.

"It would be hard to learn Occlumency by the end of the school year though, especially with the studying needed for our O.W.L.s. I'm quite glad Harry, Ron and I learned it already."

"Quite. But memories can be removed, and later restored as well." Albus didn't know if the young witches and wizards would go along with that. He hoped they would. If not… he'd do what he had to. And had done.

"Ah." Miss Granger smiled, relief obvious on her face, and she was notably less tense during the trip back to his office, and the waiting Harry.

Once the couple had left Albus's office, he pulled out a scroll of parchment that had arrived earlier that day, carried by a nondescript owl. Saving Gerhard Steiner from a life sentence in prison, or even execution, for a mistake Albus would have made as well, at that age, had certainly turned out to have been a very wise decision. Without the Transfiguration teacher at Durmstrang Albus would have been unable to keep a close eye on Igor.

Durmstrang's Headmaster had held out against the influence from his former master for an admirably long time, but every man would break under that pressure, sooner or later. And according to the letter, Igor had reached his breaking point now.

Albus pulled out a scroll of parchment and summoned his quill. It was time to act.