Chapter 38: Breakthroughs and Betrayals

Igor Karkaroff, Headmaster of the Durmstrang Institute, arrived late in the Mess Hall. His students were sitting at their tables already, silently waiting for the food to arrive, waiting for him to start dinner, the stupid worms. He looked at the Bulgarian table, where Krum had sat during his time at school. Ungrateful wretch. He looked at the staff sitting at his table, saw them staring at him. Backstabbing blood traitors, whispering behind his back, plotting, hoping he'd fall. His wand slid out of his wrist-mounted holster into his hand. He wanted to blow the table, the hall up. Turn the tables into kindling, pepper the little pests with splinters, make them bleed and cry, kill the blood traitors before they opposed his…

He took a deep, shuddering breath and fought the urge down. He hadn't killed anyone in years. Not since the Dark Lord had been defeated in Britain. He wouldn't start now!

He waved his wand, and at once the dishes started to float out of the kitchen into the hall, spreading out over the tables. The students transfigured or conjured their plates and silverware - that late in the year, even the first years had learned that, and wouldn't need the very plain ones provided by the school, though not many of them would be up to conjure the kind of elaborately designed plates the older students used to show off.

"Smacznego."

As the students started to eat, Igor sank down into his chair. He ignored the looks, the glares from the staff as he summoned some food on his plate, then started to eat without tasting anything. It wasn't the food, he knew that - it was him. As soon as he had finished he stood up, nodded at the rest of the staff and left.

Back in his quarters, secure on the lowest level of the institute's basement, behind the strongest wards he could have had installed, he allowed himself to vent. Screaming with rage, he ran past his office, to his living room, and started blowing up his furniture. He only stopped when the room was a cratered mess. He was panting, but the urge to lash out at those wretches, to kill them, hadn't abated. He transfigured the wreckage into animals - wolves, stags, dogs, cats - and killed them with the darkest curses he knew, but even seeing them writhe in agony, their entrails strangling them, their flesh rotting off their bones, did not satisfy him. They were not alive. They were not even dumb animals.

For a moment he felt like visiting the pond of the Institute. Kill some of the creatures held there. He could claim they were too dangerous for the students. He shook his head. No one would believe it. Maybe if he killed the werewolves at the school… his hand started to tremble. No, they hadn't done anything. To him, or to the Dark Lord.

He slid his wand back into its holster with enough force to bruise his wrist, then went to his office. He had work to do. There were reports to read and exams to check. Before he could finish his first roll of parchment though, his door announced a visitor.

He had his wand out and ready to curse before he even bothered to look at the small crystal ball on his desk that told him the name of the visitor. Steiner. The blood traitor. His Transfiguration Master. What in the Nine Hells was the old fool up to, disturbing him in the evening?

Igor flicked his wand, closing the door to his quarters - he hadn't yet restored his living room - then opened the door to let his visitor in. Steiner entered, his eyes opening in surprise when he saw the wand aimed at him. "Good evening, Headmaster." He sounded sycophantic as always. Igor knew he was after his position. He knew the man had never really renounced Grindelwald's ideals. He was a double traitor - a blood traitor, and one of Grindelwald's wands.

Igor longed to send the wizard away, but properties had to be followed. "Good evening, professor. How can I help you?" He kept his wand aimed at the man - Igor trusted his wards, but Steiner was a few decades his senior, and who knew what a former Storm Wizard could do? The things he had seen in the Institute's archives…

"You're feeling his presence in your mind, don't you?"

Igor felt as if the blood in his veins froze. How did the professor knew about this? He glanced at the man's left arm, hidden by his seemingly modest teacher's robe.

Steiner shook his head. "I'm not one of his." The professor sneered. "I'd never be one of his."

Igor snarled at him. Of course the man'd never follow anyone but Grindelwald. "So, whose wand are you?"

Steiner frowned, but Igor went on before he could lie. "You're someone's creature. If you were not, if you were fit to lead, you'd be the Headmaster, not me."

Steiner glared at him now, but didn't deny it.

"We're both traitors, but I at least decided to stand up for myself," Igor scoffed. "So, who…" then he knew. "Dumbledore. You're his." The only one who'd know what the Dark Lord was up to. What he could do.

Steiner didn't answer, but his expression told Igor he was correct. "What does my dear colleague want then?"

"He knows that you're slowly being corrupted by your master's mark. That sooner or later he'll win, and turn you into a slave - or a mindless animal," Steiner stated as if he were talking about the weather.

Igor ground his teeth. He knew that already. Hated it, of course. "I asked what he wanted, not what he knew."

"He offers you sanctuary, until your master has been dealt with."

"The Dark Lord cannot be easily 'dealt with'," Igor said through his clenched teeth. He felt rage when the insolent wizard sneered slightly in response - as if he was not acknowledging his master's power. His former master's power, Igor corrected himself. He almost cursed the professor, but controlled himself. "Nor can he be quickly dealt with. He came back from the dead, after all."

Steiner showed that insufferable, almost invisible sneer again, though his voice was polite when he said: "If you'd prefer it, you'd be unconscious for the duration of the war."

Igor snorted. "Unconscious, unable to defend my own mind? Would Dumbledore actually try to trap me like that? He might as well offer me a quick and painless death!"

Steiner's expression didn't change, and Igor once again really wanted to curse the insolent, mocking wizard. "That's what he offers, right? He offers to kill me before the Dark Lord takes control?" As if he'd let himself be slaughtered like a dumb animal. He'd kill himself. Once the time had come.

The other wizard nodded. He looked wary now.

Igor bared his teeth. The plotting worm probably looked forward to killing him, wanted to replace him. And Dumbledore would control two schools. "I reject his 'gracious offer'," he spat out. "I'll handle my affairs myself."

"You're running out of time. The longer you're waiting, the greater the danger you're posing for our students." Steiner stared at him. The hypocrite, as if he cared about the students!

"That's what you think, right? You want to kill me. You think I'm weak, and a coward, for betraying the Dark Lord. Even though you did the same!" He was standing now, facing the traitor.

Steiner's smile was answer enough for him.

"Avada Kedavra!"

His Killing Curse flew true, but was stopped when the stone floor of his office rose as a wall in front of the professor. The wall was shattered by the spell's impact, but the Transfiguration professor had his wand out now.

Igor wasn't that worried though - they were in his office, inside his own wards. The best his gold had managed to buy! And it felt good, no, glorious, to finally cut loose, to vent his rage on a deserving target!

He sent spell after spell at the man, using curses he hadn't cast since the last war. Steiner used more transfigured walls to protect himself. The Prussian didn't even try to return spells, he had to know the wards would render them powerless! And his walls were shattering under Igor's curses! And the door was locked so he'd not be able to escape!

The Headmaster was laughing when he launched a Blighting Curse followed by an Organ Rotting Curse at his wanna-be murderer. He would kill the upstart, and then he'd show Dumbledore the folly of trying to get him killed - of offering to kill him!

Steiner had run out of walls, and his shield crumbled under the first curse, with his robe barely absorbing the next. The fight would be over in a few seconds - unless Igor decided to drag it out. He shook his head at the temptation - he couldn't afford to play around right now.

He started to move his wand when he noticed that his arm felt heavier, slower. Then the pain started. What had Steiner done? He had trouble standing, but managed to drop into his seat rather than falling to the floor. His wand clattered on the floor when he lost any feeling in his fingers.

"P-poison?" he managed to stammer, laboring to keep breathing already. But how? Why hadn't his enchantments warned him, or prevented this? "H-how?"

Steiner shook his head at him. "I'm no alchemist. I simply transfigured the poison so it would deliver itself, so to speak."

Alchemy? This was Dumbledore's poison? Igor wanted to scream, but he couldn't do anything. Not even breathe. And the pain had become even worse.

"It doesn't look painless to me. I assume that making certain you'd die was more important than doing it painlessly." Steiner looked down at him, his features showing both pity and satisfaction.

The pain had become unbearable when Igor finally died.

Ron Weasley listened to his girlfriend explain about a particularly tricky arithmancy equation she had solved. Padma was happy, despite the looming O.W.L.s and the study sessions needed for that. She was happy because she didn't remember the latest, biggest fight they had had, nor the reason for it. She had been obliviated.

And he was unhappy because he was responsible. Their other friends had volunteered to have the memories of Harry's vision removed and stored until they had mastered Occlumency. Padma hadn't been given that chance. Because he hadn't trusted her to take it.

"... and that means this can be used to analyze wards," Padma finished, beaming at him.

He forced himself to smile. "That's great! You'll get an 'O' in Arithmancy for sure!"

"I hope so. Unless the expert poses questions that haven't been answered yet, to see how we attempt to solve it." The Ravenclaw witch pouted.

"They do that?" That was the first time he had heard of that. He wondered if Hermione knew about it.

"Sometimes. There was a scandal ten years ago when the problem actually had no solution." Padma shook her head, frowning. "They fired that expert though, and had the exam redone during the vacation."

"Pressure from some Wizengamot member?" Ron could see that happen. There were always rumors about parents pulling strings for their children.

Padma shrugged, which did interesting things to her chest, distracting him. "I don't know. Maybe." She perked up. "But it's rather unlikely to be repeated. The current expert hasn't done this in five years - we've got transcripts of all his exams."

"I see." No wonder the Ravenclaws were so Ravenclaw - the only Gryffindors Ron knew who prepared for an exam like that were Hermione and Percy. And Hermione's friends, including himself, of course - she wouldn't let anyone of them escape.

"Are you done as well? Do you want to take a walk around the lake?" the Indian witch asked with a hopeful expression.

Ron froze. He distinctly remembered the last walk around the lake, the fight, and the Obliviation that had followed. "Ah… I think I better study some more. O.W.L.s are important." He forced himself to smile at her, and ignore how his girlfriend briefly looked hurt before she nodded in agreement.

The Hogwarts Self-Defense Club's meetings had been turned into practise sessions for the DADA-O.W.L.s, Pansy Parkinson thought. Instead of students learning how to defend themselves from attacks they were learning how to cast spells needed for the exams. The Slytherin student wasn't sure if she liked that. Good O.W.L.s were important, but she was quite certain she'd do well on her exam already. On the other hand, Greg and Vincent were profiting, and she usually managed to dump them on someone else for tutoring in those session, freeing her to practise herself. The two lugs were loyal and brave, but trying to teach them something more complicated than cursing someone was often an exercise in frustration. She sometimes wondered how Draco had managed to stand that - or if he had ever tried teaching them anything.

The witch stretched, limbering up for some duelling training. She was one of the few outside Potter's friends who still trained dodging and shielding, fighting instead of academica. As she bent down to touch her toes with her fingertips, she noticed Weasley watching. Acting as if she hadn't noticed, she took her time to stretch, making sure he got an eyeful and would realise just how tightly her duelling robes fit her.

He had noticed, she was certain, since he looked away brusquely after staring. And his girlfriend noticed too - the Ravenclaw was glaring at Pansy. The Slytherin acted as if she was oblivious to the attention, until Patil started some spell exercise with Potter's retainer. As soon as the other witch was busy, Pansy stood up and approached Weasley.

"Mister Weasley? Would you care for a duel? I think I've already done all the spell revising I can stomach for today."

She saw Ron starting to smile - as expected, he was sick of the revising too - then school his features and nod at her. "Alright, Miss Parkinson. Standard rules?"

"Yes." Pansy looked around for a referee, but Professor Lupin and Mister Black were both occupied observing spell practise.

"Aicha? Would you mind refereeing?" Weasley called out. The Arabian witch nodded, and came over to them, followed by Lovegood. The blonde Ravenclaw smiled widely, rubbing her hands together. "Oh, this should be entertaining!"

Pansy wasn't certain how to answer that. The eccentric witch was an enigma for her. She seemed to be interested in Granger, but as far as the Slytherin knew, she had never made a move. It wasn't shyness - Lovegood was known to often be very blunt. But what else would keep her from trying to get what she wanted? Pansy didn't know. And so she simply nodded with a polite smile, and stepped on the slightly raised dueling platform. The wards that prevented stray spells from leaving the area - if not always successfully - made her skin tingle for a second.

Ron followed her example and faced her, wand raised. He cut a dashing figure in his customized robes. Pansy used the opportunity to ogle him, under the guise of studying her adversary.

Antar clapped her hands together.

"Bow!"

Pansy took a deep bow. She knew she was likely to lose - Weasley was very good with his wand. And he usually went all-out in duels too. Within the rules.

"Wands ready!"

Pansy's wand moved into the 'guard' position.

"Start!"

Pansy dropped to the floor and rolled to the side. Three brightly colored spells flew over her head - as expected, Weasley wasn't holding back at all. She returned fire with two spells of her own, both missed, but gained her enough time to cast a Shield Charm.

That saved her from Weasley's next two spells. She conjured a dozen rocks - or at least ten and two pebbles - and banished them at the redheaded wizard. His shield protected him, without shattering like hers had. She wasn't beaten yet, though. A quick hex filled the dueling platform with smoke while she rolled to the other side, and when a gust of wind dispersed the smoke… she was staring right at the tip of his wand.

"Stupefy! Stupefy!"

Parkinson's duelling robes absorbed the first spell, but the second, right behind it, took her out.

She woke up - was woken - right afterward, or so she thought. The revising was still going on.

"That was quite good, Parkinson," Weasley stated, grudgingly.

"Thank you. But not good enough." Pansy didn't bother with flattering Weasley, she simply got up and nodded. "Another round?"

Again Weasley smiled for a second, before his face settled on a neutral expression, and he stepped up to the platform. "Of couse."

This time Pansy didn't last as long. But she managed to make her opponent flinch at least. After the fifth round, he kept his smile when talking to her. Pansy hoped that was because she had impressed him somewhat, and not because she had been hit with all sorts of hexes, and was in considerable pain. Patil's frown pointed to the former, at least.

"Thank you for your help."

Kenneth Fenbrick smiled at the shop attendant in 'Quality Quidditch Supplies'. He was just being polite though - as expected, none of the staff of the shop recalled Meadwater-Baker visiting them the day he remembered as having spent broom shopping. As the Auror left the shop, he glanced at the Firebolt on display. Ah, if he could afford one of those! Maybe once the new model came out, and the war had ended...

Outside he looked at his partner, Bertha Limmington. "Polyjuice?"

The witch shrugged. "She wasn't obliviated, or confunded. We'll have to go through the list of people who bought a broom here that day, to narrow the possibilities down."

"Unless they simply imperiused someone to buy the broom for them." Kenneth wasn't quite as optimistic as Bertha. Hoping the enemy had made a mistake was a bad habit for an Auror. Even though most criminals made more than one mistake.

"As unlikely as it is to give us a result, we still have to investigate, if only to eliminate it as a lead for the investigation," Bertha said while they were walking towards the Leaky Cauldron. They were under a privacy spell, but both were wearing their Auror robes - these days, any Auror showing his or her colors in the streets was a good thing for the country's morale.

"Do we visit each and everyone of them?" Kenneth didn't whine, even though he felt like it. That would take more than a day.

"No. We'll check first if anyone on the list recently reported a theft or a break-in. If imperiused, they'll not be able to withdraw gold from Gringotts, so they will have taken the money from the gold they keep at hand, and that might get noticed quickly - especially in shops," Bertha explained.

Kenneth hadn't thought of that. While it was often dangerous to make assumptions, this seemed sound, and wouldn't delay them much if it didn't pan out. A brief Floo trip later, they were back in the Ministry, and on their way to the DMLE offices.

"Mister Floxroot? Please have a seat. My name is Kenneth Fenbrick. This is my partner, Bertha Limmington. We're investigating the theft from your shop."

Kenneth smiled at Killian Floxroot, the owner of 'Prized Pets', a shop in Diagon Alley specializing in exotic animals - magical and muggle ones. A day ago he had reported the theft of a sum of gold from his shop that matched the price for the broom Meadwater-Baker had given his son.

The wizard looked surprised at facing two Aurors. "When I reported the theft yesterday, I was given the impression that it wasn't a high priority."

Kenneth didn't mention that he had heard through the grapevine that Floxroot wasn't too popular in the DMLE, after a few of his stock - the kind Professor Hagrid would call 'interesting' - had escaped and caused trouble in the Alley. "Well, we're on the job now."

Bertha drew her wand. "May I quickly check you for signs of memory alterations?"

"Memory… you think I've been obliviated?" Floxroot's eyes widened in shock.

Bertha simply nodded. "Yes."

"Of… of course."

Bertha cast several charms, her expression darkening slightly with each spell. Finally she holstered her wand. "Indeed, you have been obliviated. It seems very likely that the thief compelled you to buy a broom with the missing gold, and and then removed the memory of that action."

Floxroot gaped, then shivered, hunching over. "I've been imperiused?"

Kenneth sympathized - to be mind-controlled was one of the worst things that could happen to a wizard. And having to suspect your memories of being false, to be unable to trust your own recollections, was almost as bad. To never know, to always wonder what you had done, had been forced to do…

Bertha nodded. "That's the most likely spell, yes."

"Merlin…. who'd do such thing? It's not as I've lost a fortune…"

"Let's just say you're lucky to be still alive." Kenneth smiled at the man, ignoring the glare from his partner. When he saw the man understood what he had just hinted at, he hastily added: "You were used to buy a broom, nothing more, as far as we can tell." That seemed to reassure the wizard. A bit at least.

"Mister Floxroot, we need your memory for the entire afternoon that is suspect."

"Of course. Do you think you can restore my missing memories? Remove the fake ones?"

"We can remove the manipulated ones, but restoring obliviated memories is still impossible," Bertha stated, bluntly and coldly.

Kenneth almost sighed - she was brilliant, but sometimes she missed what impression she left on those who didn't know her as well as he did. "Do you know how to copy a memory, sir?"

It took ten minutes of coaching, but they got the memory, and the still shaken wizard left their office - presumably to head home, but Kenneth was certain he'd hit a pub first, or buy a bottle or three of Ogden's Finest.

"Do you think you'll find anything in the tampered memory?" Kenneth didn't think the Dark Lord's agents would have been sloppy enough to miss something. But no one was perfect.

"I hope I can use his and Meadwater-Baker's memories to find possible witnesses who didn't have their memories erased, and then get copies of their memories," Bertha explained while labeling the vial she had stored the memory in.

Clever. Even if the culprit had erased more than just his presence, he couldn't have erased everyone's memories. And both in Diagon Alley and in the Ministry, there was a lot of people walking around at any time of the day. A lot… "Merlin! Do you know how long this will take?"

"I've reserved the pensieve for a week."

Kenneth stared at his partner. She was serious. She also had found what was probably their best chance to crack this case and find the agent. "I'll have forgotten how the real world looks after a week spent in memories!" he grumbled.

Seeing Bertha frown at the way he had just mangled logic was a small consolation for him - he had a very long week ahead.

Hermione Granger stared at the ugly knot of pulsating strands she saw thanks to her spell and shivered. This was it. This was the core of the Dark Mark. This was where Voldemort's soul was bound to the Death Eater's. This was how the soul was anchored.

She suppressed the growing but by now familiar nausea, the headache, and the spark of longing, as she analyzed the structure and changing patterns of the entwined strands. Forcing the bile rising in her throat down, she used her wand to very carefully prod the point where the strands disappeared into the flesh beneath. When she pulled it back to study the changes that had caused, she was shivering despite the charms on her robe. It was a warped, yet elegant construct, alluring and repulsive.

The witch finally understood the mark. And if she understood something, she could find a way to destroy it. She already had a hunch how. To tweak that strand there, and cut this one… it was only when her detection spell was suddenly and silently finited that she realised she had her wand pointed at the Dark Mark.

"I think it is time to stop for today, Miss Granger," the Headmaster stated in a calm voice.

Hermione whipped her head around, staring at the old wizard. She had forgotten his presence. Hadn't seen him either. All she had seen was the Dark Mark. The Horcrux. Her heart was beating rapidly and she was panting, and if not for her charmed robe, she was certain she'd be soaked in sweat as well. She certainly felt filthy. And her head… "Merlin," she muttered while rubbing her temples. While she had been focused on her task, she had been able to ignore the pain, but now it was back with a vengeance.

Dumbledore nodded gravely, his wrinkled face showing both concern and understanding.

"Thank you, Headmaster." Hermione stood up, on slightly shaky legs, and took a few steps back from the body, to lean against the wall. She would have conjured a chair or seat for her, but she'd rather not attempt that in her current state, nor so close to the Horcrux.

The wizard levitated the Death Eater away, over to the cot on the other side of the vault, before turning to her.

"I'm alright, sir," Hermione pre-empted his question.

He didn't look like he shared her opinion, and Hermione briefly wondered if she wore the same expression whenever Harry told her he was fine after a rough Quidditch game or training. "Was it worth it, Miss Granger?"

She nodded, took deep breaths until she wasn't in danger of losing the contents of her stomach anymore. "Yes, sir. I know what I'm facing now."

Dumbledore pursed his lips. "So you do. And you know the temptation of the Dark Arts now, as well."

"Yes, sir." Her headache hadn't abated, and she pulled out a vial and drank it. When her head started to hurt less, she sighed with relief.

"It is a constant temptation. The lure of more knowledge, an easy way to deal with an enemy. Or a danger. Or a problem. Or an inconvenience."

Hermione looked at the old wizard. He sounded as if he was speaking from personal experience. He probably was, she realised, given his experiences. "I will resist it."

Dumbledore held her gaze for a few moments longer - she half-expected him to try to read her thoughts - then nodded. "Very well. Do you require further sessions with the mark?"

"One more, I think, to double-check my findings." Once she had a concept, she'd have to do some testing too.

"After the O.W.L.s then. I dare say you need a bit more rest after today."

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again and nodded reluctantly. As much as she hated to admit it, he was right. She hadn't felt that weak, that sick, that hungry, before.

She was still shivering when the vault door closed behind them and they made their way back to Dumbledore's office. Back to Harry.

Albus Dumbledore kept a close eye on the young witch as the two returned to his office. She had stopped trembling halfway there, and had gained some color to her face as well, but she still looked exhausted. She didn't seem driven though - or at least not as much as he had feared. That was a good sign. He had seen how easy it was to drive oneself to exhaustion and beyond, researching the Dark Arts. Seen, and done it himself, once.

He closed his eyes for an instant, remembering the days of his youth. Gellert. Their plans. Their research. And their mistakes. His fatal mistake. His shame. He saw a lot of his younger self in Miss Granger. More than he liked, if he was honest. A brilliant mind, great ideals, and a ruthless determination. Fortunately, Harry was no Gellert. He wasn't delving into the Dark Arts with Miss Granger - his connection to Voldemort would make studying the Dark Mark far too dangerous - and he would rather rein her in than spur her on. The boy was an anchor for Miss Granger. He would, hopefully, keep her from falling to the lure of the Dark Arts. And if she did… Harry had the power to control her, in extremis.

Albus was not feeling well himself - studying the horcrux took a toll on him. Both on his body, and his soul. He had done what he could to spare the young witch the same burden, but it hadn't been enough.

They entered his office, where Harry was reading a book. Albus recognized it at once. "Are you reading 'Battlefield Control'?" he asked while he sat down and summoned three glasses and one bottle.

"Yes, Headmaster," the boy answered while Miss Granger hugged him before sitting down next to him. "I thought it might be useful."

"And was it?" Albus asked, curious. The book was interesting, but more so for the historical information, these days. Some of the ideas could be adapted, of course.

"It seems rather outdated. Neither muggles nor wizards fight in the manner the book describes," Harry said while passing the book to Miss Granger, who eagerly flipped through the pages.

"It was written before the Statue of Secrecy went into effect." Albus floated the glasses over to the two students, then filled them with a flick of his wrist. "Back at the time wizards and muggles fought side by side, and their tactics reflected that. After magic was hidden from the rest of the world, warfare changed for both wizards and muggles. Muggles had no longer to worry about spells and magical beasts, but the absence of magic forced them to find other means to compensate too - especially for reconnaissance and commanding. It took them over 200 years to replace broom cavalry and communication mirrors. Wizards meanwhile saw their battles shrink to what would have been considered skirmishes before. Instead of battles involving thousands of men, small groups of highly mobile combattants became the norm." He had their attention now, though Miss Granger was still glancing at the pages.

"I wonder what would happen if we used muggle weapons in battle," Harry mused.

Albus smiled. "Not much, I would expect. We are not trained to use them, nor do we have tactics to use them effectively against magical foes. Apart from a few niches they would do more harm than good for quite some time. And the political ramifications..." The old wizard sighed. "It would be a propaganda coup for Tom to see muggle weapons slaying wizards. People would be reminded of the witch-hunts, and getting labeled as a 'blood traitor' would change its meaning."

Harry looked like he wanted to disagree, but nodded, if reluctantly. "Niches?"

"Modern muggle weapons have a far greater range than wands. Used in the right situations, enemies could be caught unaware and unprepared thanks to that. Though they would quickly adapt, and any advantage would be mostly lost," Albus explained. He missed teaching students, terribly. But he had too much work, too little time to teach classes. Too much responsibility to follow his true passion.

"Such an advantage could be decisive though, if used at the right moment," Miss Granger said.

The Headmaster nodded at her. She was probably already thinking of acquiring muggle firearms. "Indeed. And should that moment happen, rest assured that we will use them." He didn't quite grin at seeing her eyes widen in surprise - she probably didn't expect him to have thought of that. Just like him, at that age.

The young witch looked at the book again, hiding her expression. Harry chuckled a bit, which earned him a glare. Albus smiled. Young love.

He finished his own glass before addressing more recent matters. "As Miss Granger will be telling you in more detail, we have succeeded in unraveling the defenses of the Dark Mark. While we have not yet found a way to put that knowledge to use, I am confident such applications will follow."

Miss Granger nodded, exchanging a tired but proud glance with Harry, while Albus refilled his glass with his wand. The liquid formed an amber-colored arc as it rose from the bottle and fell into his glass.

Harry cleared his throat. "I've heard a rather surprising rumor. Some people think Voldemort had the Lestranges killed so they would not object to his affair with Bellatrix."

Albus met the eyes of the young wizard. "In a war, victory can rarely be achieved with your wand alone. In order to win, you need not just to beat your enemy's wands, but to prevent him from replacing his losses. In a civil war, which is what we are fighting in, the chief means to achieve that is propaganda. If Voldemort is seen as a man willing to have his loyal wands killed because he is going after a married woman, or after their family fortune, then many more traditional families will think twice about allying themselves with the Dark Lord."

"People actually believe that?" Miss Granger sounded doubtful.

The old wizard smiled. "Wizards and witches generally are more willing to believe fantastic stories, seeing as they are used to fantastic magic."

The muggleborn witch grumbled something under her breath Albus didn't catch, but judging by Harry's frown, it hadn't been a polite remark. Though the boy had some doubt in his expression as well when he agreed with Albus: "Indeed. Some students have already forgotten Draco's stance towards muggleborns, just because he was supposedly killed by the Dark Lord."

Did the boy suspect it had been Albus who had killed them? The Headmaster didn't let the worry Harry's words caused show on his face. "It is generally thought more noble to be killed fighting for people than for coin. And the Romans had a saying: De mortui nihil nisi bene."

"'Do not speak ill of the dead'," Miss Granger said. "It's ironic that one of the biggest bigots is now seen as a hero." She scoffed. "I hope he knows this in the afterlife, and suffers more for it."

Harry nodded in agreement. Albus sighed. He hoped the afterlife wouldn't include suffering for your sins. It was a slim, probably illusionary hope, but it was all he had. He'd find out soon enough, anyway - he wasn't getting any younger. And there was the war.

"Neville's grandmother hates the rumor though - she doesn't want the Dark Lord to be the one who killed those who had tortured her son and his wife."

Albus understood that. He'd hate it himself, were he in Augusta's place. But the needs of the war took precedence over the feelings of an old witch. Or an even older wizard. "I do not think this will last overly long." Once the war was won, he would start clearing up those kind of 'misunderstandings'.

Miss Granger mumbled something. He looked at her "What did you say, Miss Granger?"

The witch met his eyes, almost defiantly. "The first casualty when war comes, is truth."

"You are correct, Miss Granger." She probably suspected him. But she also shared his views, Albus knew. He stood up. "I think it is time for you to head back to your dorms again. Before Minerva starts believing that I am exhausting two of her favorite students shortly before their O.W.L.s." He gently shooed the two out, then fell back into his seat, his body aching.

He wasn't getting any younger. And the Dark Arts and their effects were not getting any weaker.

"And those are my friends Valérie, Chantal, Eugénie and Laure d'Aigle," Sirius Black introduced his girlfriends to the latest guests in his home, a dozen relatives of Viktor who'd be joining the Order in the battle against Voldemort. There were a number of pretty witches among them, which probably had prompted the four French Veela to stand a bit closer to him than usual at such occasions.

Boris Stankoiev, Viktor's best man, bowed with a flourish in return, and introduced his group. Including his mistress, Bisera Ivanova. A Veela. Sirius had an inkling that things were not going that well when Bisera and his four girlfriends stared at each for a moment. All were smiling, but Sirius knew his lovers well enough to know it was an act.

Trying to defuse the brewing dispute, he gave the new arrivals a tour of the house. Unfortunately, it didn't work out.

Thirty minutes later, he was treated to a line-by-line recap of the discussion between the Veela and he was getting a bit worried. His shy, gentle Valérie was pacing in his bedroom, her voice changing between its usual timbre and the more inhuman tone of a transformed Veela as she complained about Bisera.

"What does that girl think she is, looking down on me?" She threw her hands in the air, and Sirius imagined small flames sprouting from her fingers while she tried to ape the other Veela's voice. "'Oh, you share a wizard? Four of you? 'ow interesting. My Boris wouldn't 'ave the energy to satisfy another woman, much less three. Not after 'e has satisfied me.'" The French witch sneered. "Stupid Bulgarian flobberworm! Acting as if 'aving a dull lover without imagination or stamina is a good thing!" Valérie was really mad - among Veela, comparing someone to worms, animals that lived in the earth, was one of the worst insults.

Chantal, who was sitting on an ottoman nearby, long legs draped over another and leaning against a floating pillow, agreed. "She certainly 'ad an attitude. But I'm more worried about the other Bulgarians."

Sirius looked at her. "Did they make advances towards you?" If they did...

Chantal looked surprised for a moment, then smiled. "No, not the men. The women. Bulgarians see us as temptresses, trying to ensnare wizards. And they think we're just fit to be mistresses, not wives. Some of those witches might make moves on you." Her expression clearly showed that she'd not tolerate that.

"Well, they don't stand any chance. I'm firmly yours!" Sirius declared, with a grand gesture. "Very firmly," he added with a wink that had them giggling. They grew more serious quickly though.

Laure, spread out on the left side of his bed, cut in: "It's getting a bit crowded."

Sirius shrugged. "Well, we have to host our allies somewhere. And I'd rather have Viktor's family and friends in my house than some of the mercenaries from the Balkans." Everyone nodded at that - the things one heard from that particular spot made the Barbary Coast look like a vacation destination.

"As long as they behave!" Valérie said.

Sirius nodded. Had those been flames in her eyes? He patted his lap, and she joined him on his bed, sitting between his legs. He wrapped his arms around her, and the two stayed like that for a while.

Eugénie, sitting next to them, sighed. "At least Fleur and her Beel will be back from France soon."

Sirius wasn't certain that was a good thing, given Fleur's temper and Bill's looks. And the fact that many of those witches and wizards would be fighting in the war - and everyone knew how randy soldiers were when they were not fighting.

He didn't say anything though. To think that he once had thought he could never have enough pretty girls in his house! He had even dreamed of having a harem in his youth. If he had managed to forge his father's signature, back then… he'd had his route to Constantinople planned out already when his parents had found out and stopped him. He had been young and stupid, before Azkaban.

Thinking of that place, that time made him shiver, despite Valérie's closeness. He didn't have the urge to change into Padfoot though. Not anymore.

Paige Caldwell wasn't certain her lot in life had improved. Certainly, she had better quarters now. The best expansion charms, and furniture that was not a finite away from turning into rubble. And food - real food. Meat. Rare, not burned to a crisp.

On the other hand, her company hadn't improved. Quite the contrary. Many of her new roommates were of the worst lot. Uncultured, barbaric, some were barely above beasts no matter if they were under the full moon. There were even muggles among them!

But it was just a temporary measure, for the war's duration. Once they had won, things would change. No one would ever tell her where she could live, and how. Never again! She would be free. Free and powerful. It was worth fighting for. Worth killing for. Britain declared her a dark creature? She'd show them how dark she could be!

She told herself that several times a day. Especially after hearing the bragging of those who had been in the Dark Lord's service for a while. The full moon was close, and she felt the beast in her rise, trying to take control. Urges, animal, violent ones, filled her. She slid her hand into her enchanted pocket, gripping her vial filled with Wolfsbane potion. No matter what anyone else said about the will of magic, nature, or the animal's spirit, she'd not become a mindless beast!

"Paige?"

The werewolf flinched when she heard the loud voice from the hall. Fenrir Greyback, the leader of Voldemort's pack, as he called them. The most infamous, most feared werewolf of Britain. His rampages were the stuff of nightmares. Or had been, before she had been cursed herself, and had seen the other side. Her side. It hadn't taken her long to understand how you could be driven, enraged, enough to rampage. Not after living in Britain as a werewolf.

She also knew that Greyback was as brutal, cunning and powerful as the tales made him out to be. She didn't know any werewolf who could stand up to him. But that didn't change the fact that he also was an uncouth brute who stank.

But he was her superior, and she would never get to live in a Britain where she was free if she ignored him. She wouldn't get to live, period, as one idiot boy had found out a day after she had arrived, when he had insulted the older werewolf. She stood up from the mattress she had been lying on - Greyback claimed beds were for monkeys - and opened the door with her wand. "Yes, Fenrir?" All werewolves were told to use first names, seeing as they were all one pack. Or so Greyback claimed.

"The Dark Lord's got a mission for you."

Paige's eyes widened. "The Dark Lord himself?" she asked, her voice betraying her nervousness.

"You won't meet him, but the order came straight from him." Fenrir scowled at her, but didn't go further - only idiots didn't fear the Dark Lord, and he wasn't one.

Paige nodded. "Who else is going on the mission?

Fenrir laughed. "It's just you, and some witch."

"What? So close to the full moon?" That didn't sound like the usual mission for the werewolves. Paige wasn't sure if that was a good or a bad thing.

"Yeah. They need a young werewolf who is still civilized. You fit the bill."

Paige nodded, even though that sounded ominous. Any other answer would have been a bad idea.

Fenrir gave her a small coin. "That's a portkey. It'll drop you right at the meeting spot. You'll be informed there. Do the pack proud. And if the witch is stupid, but not too stupid, bite her."

The old werewolf was still laughing at his own joke - if he had been joking - when the portkey went off and dropped her in front of a middle-aged, but attractive witch.

Dolores Umbridge saw the beast land on her carpet in a crouch. She wanted to kill the animal, but her orders were clear, and she prefered living to killing such abominations. She kept her wand out, of course. Just in case the monster lost control.

"Hello, Miss…" the animal started to talk.

Dolores cut her off with a gesture of her hand, walking around her. At a safe distance, of course. At least the werewolf wasn't dressed in rags, and didn't seem to be too dirty. Maybe she could pull this off. Provided the beast didn't growl at people like she was doing right then. "Stop that!"

"What?" the animal snarled at her. Dumb and arrogant.

"Growling. Stop it." She stared at the creature until the werewolf looked away. "You'll have to pass for a real witch for this mission, you can't be acting like an animal."

"What is the mission?" the insolent beast asked with a sneer.

"It's quite easy. There's a Wizengamot member, Trevor Fickleton. The Dark Lord wants him bitten by a werewolf tonight." The animal looked at her, surprise giving way to eagerness as the beast's bloodlust rose.

"I assume you've got a plan to get me to him."

"Yes. You'll be posing as my niece. He is very interested in meeting her."

The nostrils of the thing widened. "Do you mean that he expects me to…"

Dolores narrowed her eyes. "You'll do what he wants until the moon rises. Understood?" As if any of those animals had a problem with rutting. She should be glad to be allowed to touch a wizard.

The beast growled, showing her teeth. Dolores almost cursed her. "The Dark Lord ordered this. Are you defying him?"

Even the dumb animal wasn't that dumb, though she was still glaring at Dolores when she lowered her head.

The witch nodded, satisfied. "Good. I've gotten a decent robe for you. Put it on." It was much too good for the beast, but Dolores's niece would be wearing such a robe. She watched while the werewolf dressed. The Dark Lord had been right. If she hadn't known about the creature, she might even have been fooled into thinking this was a proper witch.

Trevor wouldn't suspect anything. He certainly would never expect Dolores to bring a werewolf to him - he knew her too well for that. Or thought he knew her. Thought he owned her. Thought he could reduce her to his concubine without her taking revenge on him.

Dolores snarled. He'd find out just how wrong he was, tonight. When the full moon reached his bedroom and the little whore shed her human skin.

The Dark Lord Voldemort pondered the report from Umbridge lying on his desk. His plan had worked. Fickleton was now cursed, and just one revelation away from losing everything - his position, his gold, his family. The fool would do anything Voldemort ordered to avoid that fate.

The Dark Lord shook his head as he read the last paragraph on the scroll. Umbridge thought she would get to order the man around. She was almost as big a fool as Fickleton himself - with her reputation her relationship with that wizard, no matter how fake it was, tainted the man's reputation and therefore reduced his worth for the Dark Lord. The former Ministry employee would have to leave Fickleton. Voldemort had other tasks for her anyway.

He'd inform her later that week about it. In a personal meeting - just in case she didn't take it well. If she wasn't willing to obey his orders, he'd find another use for her. Such as Steinberg's experiments. His gaze fell on the wand on the other side of the desk.

He summoned it into his hand and studied it, once more. It seemed to sing in his hand, daring him, begging him to cast the darkest curses he knew. Promising him that they would be as easy as a first-year's charm. They would be, he had found that out when he had possessed the boy in the Ministry. But the price the wand demanded… A wizard using such a wand would burn brightly, but quickly, his own body, his life, fueling the wand's power. The boy he had possessed had been doomed after just one fight with such a wand.

Those wands would have been very useful, had he still a lot of expendable wizards and witches to send into combat. But in the current situation, he couldn't afford to sacrifice them. Not in a fight, at least.

But if his hunch paid out, he wouldn't have to sacrifice any of his followers. Voldemort wasn't a wandmaker, but he was the greatest practitioner of the Dark Arts in the world. He knew more about sacrifices than anyone else. And he knew that smart wizards sacrificed their enemies, not their allies.

A wand that sacrificed its wielder was of limited use. A wand that sacrificed its targets though…

Voldemort was smiling when he left his office in search of Steinberg.