I'd like to thank my beta readers, thekingofsweden1 and rpeh for betaing! The story has been improved a lot thanks to their help!


Chapter 54: Samhain

One of the three wizards charged at Aberforth Dumbledore with a yell. Definitely a werewolf, the old wizard thought, so close to the Full Moon he would have trouble thinking like a wizard instead of a beast. The other two tried to flank him, one on each side. They were used to fighting together, he realised, while he conjured a wall in front of him that blocked both the werewolf's charge and the spells from the other two.

He used the time that had won him to disillusion himself and move to his right. Not many wands expected an outnumbered opponent to move towards them, in his experience. He was just at the edge of the wall when the closest of his opponents went over it.

That was a surprise, but a welcome one. While the werewolf seemed to sniff the air, Aberforth cast a Piercing Curse to shatter his shield, and a Disarming Charm to take away the man's wand. The werewolf was screaming with rage when Aberforth vanished the ground under him, sending him falling into a pit, then closed the hole with with a conjured rock.

Right then a number of curses flew at him though - his own casting had given away his position, and the one wizard on his right had not hesitated. The other would clear the corner of the wall soon as well.

He dodged two spells, but a third hit him, causing the protections on his robe to flare up, spoiling his attempt to move out of the man's line of fire while remaining invisible. And the other was starting to cast as well now. Still, not particularly well-aimed, even considering his disillusion spells. He threw a Blasting Curse at the ground in front of the closer enemy and banished the debris at the man with a flick of his wrist, shattering the man's now weakened shield and sending him reeling.

Sadly, that had allowed the other one to hit him, and his robe's enchantments were weakened further. With the other villagers getting alerted by the sound of combat, Aberforth was rapidly running out of time - Nordic villages were almost always ready to repel raiders, given their frequent feuds. No doubt the result of letting werewolves run them.

The old wizard started to run, causing the next spells to miss widely, and cast a pair of Cutting Curses at the wizard still staggering from the debris that had battered him. One was stopped by the robe, the other cut him across the chest. He collapsed while blood splattered on the ground.

That distracted the last opponent enough so Aberforth could dispatch him with a series of Bludgeoning Curses while he was trying to reach his friend. The man was thrown into the still standing wall, then slid down in a broken heap.

The fight hadn't taken long, but it had caught the attention of the rest of the villagers, who were rushing out of their homes with wands ready and shields up. They had a better response time than some Hit-Wizards back home, Aberforth thought. And there were too many for him to deal with. Not that he needed to deal with them in the first place. After this, he couldn't expect the locals to talk to him anymore, and fighting more wouldn't serve any point. Still invisible, he started to run towards the edge of the village.

He heard barking dogs and shouts he didn't understand, but which probably meant they were trying to find him. They didn't spot or stop him though, not before he reached the edge of their wards and apparated away.


He smiled at the beast chained to the altar. She had been easy prey, a werewolf on the run, close to the full moon. No one would miss her. Not his own werewolves, in any case. The Ministry was searching for her, but they'd find her… later.

Unlike other sacrifices, she wasn't struggling, but sobbing into the gag. Tears were running down her cheeks, and he saw his lover bend down and wipe them off with a smile before caressing her hair mockingly. He smiled indulgently. His Bella had earned this, she had been so eager and grateful to help him with this part.

The moon was rising, and the animal was trembling. Bellatrix ran her wand over the beast's robe, leaving small cuts. It wouldn't do to destroy all hints to her origin, after all. Then the moon rose above the hill, and the bound beast started to transform.

He placed the orb he had prepared, then drew the knife and waited. It wouldn't be long, now, until the sacrifice was ready.

Harry Potter was panting, feeling nauseous. Despite all the rituals he had now experienced, it still sickened him to see through Voldemort's eyes, feel as if he was that monster, as if he was murdering a helpless girl. Hermione handed him a wet towel, which he rubbed over his face. Cleaning charms only went so far in such a situation.

"Bad one?"

He winced. "It was a girl." The death of a girl shouldn't hit him harder than the death of a man, but it did. "And he had a brighter globe this time."

He regretted his words when he saw his girlfriend flinch. She hadn't finished her own ritual yet, and would feel as if she was failing him. Even though she and Dumbledore were working as hard as they could, and no one could have done it any better. But that was Hermione.

He got up from his bed, where he had waited for the ritual to start. "I'd better get the memory to Dumbledore."

"And get seen by the other students," the witch added.

He nodded. The students hadn't missed his angry reaction to the werewolf scare, and some rumors had started, claiming that he was angry because he was a werewolf himself. Being seen under the full moon, out and about, would counter that. He looked at his girlfriend. "Shouldn't you mess up your hair some? So they think we've been shagging right now?"

Chuckling, she shook her head. "No. On the contrary, by appearing perfectly styled, we'll make them think we were shagging, but took the time to clean up again."

"That sounds very Slytherin to me."

Hermione shrugged. "It's how things work." She pointed her wand at him, and he could feel his own hair style itself. She cocked her head to the side, then nodded. "Perfect!" she declared, bending forward to kiss him.

It had been meant as a chaste kiss, Harry knew, but he grabbed her instead, and pulled her close for a passionate kiss. He needed to, after his vision he still was all riled up. By the time they separated, Hermione needed a new Hairstyling Charm.


"Are we werewolf experts now?" Kenneth Fenbrick complained while he walked on a rather narrow path through a forest. "Meet a werewolf hunter in the woods, and try to save a bunch of prisoners from a fire, and suddenly you're an expert on lycanthropy?"

"We had a rather prominent role in the Werwolf Holding Centre Massacre," Bertha Limmington pointed out. She wasn't breathing hard, but her face had a bit more color than usual.

"A far too prominent role," Kenneth grumbled. He was a veteran Auror, he had seen a lot of gruesome scenes, but the aftermath of that massacre… children had died, both in the cells, and on the ground outside. As horrible as the thought of kids burning to death was, there hadn't been anything left in the cells. But those struck by stray curses - Kenneth hoped they had been stray curses, at least - had been a terrible sight. Some had been cut, bleeding to death, others though… if Kenneth ever found out who had used the Entrail-Expelling Curse on a little girl… He clenched his jaws. Loyalty to your comrades only went so far. It had probably been a Hit-Wizard anyway.

His partner patted his shoulder, and he relaxed some, smiling at her. She hadn't taken that incident well either, though she could hide her emotions better. Not from him though.

"So, what do we have?" he asked.

"According to the Obliviator Squad that dealt with the muggle who discovered it, it's a dead werewolf, eviscerated and strung up in the forest," Bertha said.

Kenneth winced at the description. That sounded nasty.

They passed a mild muggle-repelling ward, and entered a clearing, and Kenneth knew he had been right. The dead werewolf had been hung from an Oak tree, and its guts had been strung over the branches in a sick display of gore and brutality. The scavengers had already started on the corpse. He shook his head. "Merlin's balls!"

Bertha was already working, her wand waving. "No sign of a ritual here - this wasn't a sacrifice. Or it wasn't sacrificed here."

"She," Kenneth said, pointing up. He spotted a brown patch, and walked over to it. A flick of his wand, and the patch was floating in front of him. "I've found the remains of a robe. Looks like it was cut off her."

"That would mean she was captured before she transformed," Bertha deduced.

"Yes. No self-defense gone too far here." Kenneth wasn't quite certain the Wizengamot would agree with him - people had a lot of leeway in dealing with dangerous creatures, after all. "Vigilantes?"

"That cannot be excluded as a possibility," Bertha said. She was casting spell after spell at the corpse and the tree.

"Though why would they transport her to Wales to kill her? To throw us off their trail?" Kenneth asked out loud.

"There could be a religious motive too. Scandinavians were said to sacrifice people by hanging them from sacred trees," his partner explained.

"Do they still do that?" Kenneth didn't want to know what kind of sick country allowed such dark magic.

"The government denies such practices, but I think there are enough independent sources to assume the practice either never died, or was revived after the Statute of Secrecy, when the Old Norse gods were revered again."

"Well, seeing how they adore werewolves in Scandinavia, I doubt they'd sacrifice one of their own," Kenneth said. "It would kind of run counter to their ideology of offering sanctuary to all werewolves…" he trailed off. "Do you think…?"

"Yes. It's quite possible that this was done by unscrupulous werewolves to rile up more support for them. Or by the Dark Lord."

"Well, I think it's time to call in an expert. Or a suspect," Kenneth said. After all, they had met that wizard in similar woods a month ago, hunting werewolves. And according to Sarah Macmillan, who had a son at Hogwarts, the man had been so angry at the news of werewolves escaping from the Holding Centre after the attack, he had stormed out of the Great Hall.


Remus Lupin stared at the letter. The DMLE required his help with a case? He wasn't an Auror, he was a teacher! There was… Merlin's balls! It had to be a werewolf case, and due to the Headmaster's cover story, they thought he was an expert. They weren't wrong, of course, he was an expert on werewolves - though not for the reason the Ministry believed.

"Trouble?" Sirius asked in a carefully neutral tone. His friend had been visiting so often, he might as well have stayed the night.

"The DMLE wants me to consult with them for a case." Remus handed him the letter.

Sirius read it, and frowned. "That's not about the Holding Centre Massacre, is it?"

He shook his head. "I don't think so. They don't really need an expert on werewolves to solve that case." He scoffed with familiar bitterness. "Anyone experienced in butchering children would do."

"That's the British judicial system for you," Sirius said. "Locking up innocents without trial and exposing them to monsters is how things are done here."

"I'm sorry." Remus hadn't forgotten, not really, that his friend had spent more than a decade in Azkaban, but it hadn't been on his mind when he had been enraged about the massacre.

"Don't be. It's not your fault."

Remus knew Sirius didn't mean just his own incarceration, but he nodded anyway. "I just feel guilty for…"

"Not suffering like them? Not being hunted or dead for no fault of your own?"

"Yes." Remus snarled.

"I'd tell you you shouldn't, but I'd be a hypocrite," Sirius said.

Remus blinked. "What are you feeling guilty for?"

"Being able to marry the woman I love."

"Oh." Remus didn't know what to say to that. He hadn't known what to say to James either.

"It's funny in a sad way, you know?" Sirius sighed. "We're fighting against a Dark Lord who sends his thugs to kill children and wipe out families, who sacrifices people in rituals and to Dementors, and faced with that kind of evil, we easily forget our own sins and faults. Harry's the Boy-Who-Lived, Hermione's doing everything she can to fight Voldemort - and no, I don't know exactly what they and Dumbledore are up to, but it's very important - and yet everyone expects him to keep her as a mistress and marry some pureblood witch because she's a muggleborn." He sneered. "And if Umbridge had managed to push her laws through, I'd not be able to marry Valérie either because she's a Veela. Sometimes I wish the whole Ministry, the whole country would burn down. At least the ashes could be used as fertiliser by the muggles."

Remus swallowed. "You sound even more radical than when we were in school." Back then, Sirius had told James to forget about Britain, and marry Lily in the muggle world, and Remus had been scandalized. This though…

"Azkaban tends to do that to you."

"And yet, the alternative is worse. If the Dark Lord wins, he'll kill Harry, Hermione, and all our friends," Remus said. Then he did a double-take. Was he defending the British Ministry now?

"We're choosing the lesser evil then," Sirius summed it up.

"Yes," Remus said.

"But once the war's over…" Sirius bared his teeth, and for a moment, Remus was staring at Padfoot in human form.

"We'll have to win first."

"We will." Sirius snorted flippantly.

Remus could agree with that. They had to win, or all the sacrifices, all the compromises, all the things they did and tolerated, would have been for nothing.


Remus Lupin stared at the corpse hanging from the tree. It wasn't the worst he had seen - that would forever be his family, slaughtered by Greyback - but it came close.

"The victim has been preliminarily identified as Emily Cropton, a fugitive from the Holding Centre." The female Auror, Limmington was her name, stated in a clinical voice as if she was talking about a dead animal. She probably believed she was talking about an animal, Remus thought.

"We haven't done an autopsy yet," her partner, Fenbrick. He looked queasy, at least.

"An autopsy of a corpse still hanging in the air would have been quite impressive, Auror. Worth at least 10 points to Gryffindor," Remus couldn't help but commenting, before he looked the corpse over. The Auror chuckled, but didn't say anything. He had a sense of humour then, unlike his partner.

Remus pulled his broom out of his expanded pocket and flew up to take a closer look. After a few minutes, his suspicions were confirmed, and he landed again.

"She wasn't killed here. She was dead already when she was placed." He kept his temper in check. She had been killed because she was a werewolf, he was certain of that. And he was still hiding his own curse.

"How do you know that?" Limmington asked. She didn't sound as if she was doubting him - but then, it was hard to tell with her.

"There are distinctive scars on her wrists and ankles. She was bound with enchanted silver chains. The cuts that opened her belly were different from the cuts that exposed her heart. And there's not enough blood." Remus shook his head.

"The heart was exposed while she was still alive, and she was drained of her blood? That sounds like a ritual," Fenbrick said.

"Do you know any rituals that need a werewolf sacrifice?" Limmington asked. This time she sounded actually interested. She had to be a Ravenclaw.

Remus shook his head. "No. I teach Defense against the Dark Arts, not rituals using them."

"So… we have a vigilante, or a group of them, using rituals." Fenbrick winced. "I guess even dark wizards don't like werewolves."

Remus could have pointed out that the Dark Lord seemed fond of them, but he held his tongue, even though it would have helped his cover.

"So… did you catch any werewolves during the full moon?" Fenbrick asked, a bit too eagerly.

"No." Remus glared at him. "With everyone hunting the fugitives, those werewolves working for the Dark Lord have gone to ground. Or left the country."

"A night wasted in the woods?" the Auror asked, as if he was sympathetic.

"Yes."

"Do you know any other hunters?"

"No. And certainly not those who'd use the Dark Arts." Remus didn't know what was worse - being thought to be a werewolf, or a dark wizard. "Is that all? I've got a school to return to."

"Yes. We'll contact you again should we need more information, Mister Lupin," Limmington said. "Thank you for your help."

Remus simply nodded, not trusting his manners.


Kenneth Fenbrick waited until Lupin had apparated away before sighing. "That's one angry wizard."

"We already knew that," Bertha answered.

"We didn't know about the ritual, though," Kenneth said. "Though an autopsy would have found it."

"Once the Unspeakables did it." Bertha looked up. "We can take the corpse down now."

Kenneth waved one of the other Aurors, one junior to him, over. "Pack the corpse up and transport it back for an autopsy." Walking away with Bertha, he asked: "Do you think he was hiding something?"

"He was rather curt. More so than when we met him for the first time." His partner pulled out her notes.

"Yes. That was before the whole Holding Centre, but still." Kenneth had a feeling that he was missing something, but no idea what. "Do you think he knows whoever did that?"

"He might suspect, and not tell us."

"Dumbledore trusts him," Kenneth said. He didn't think the Headmaster would tolerate a dark wizard at Hogwarts. But someone who knew dark wizards? Aberforth Dumbledore certainly had some rather shady acquaintances.

"Are you planning to question the Chief Warlock about his staff?"

"No," Kenneth said. He wasn't stupid. "But I'll tell the boss about this. She can feel him out." Political problems were the kind of stuff Bones took care of.

Bertha nodded.

He stretched. "Let's get back. I've seen enough gore for today."

Kenneth felt both relieved and annoyed. It had been days again, now, that he had been waiting for a good opportunity to talk to Bertha about them. But he certainly wouldn't do it right after watching corpses.


Hermione Granger watched as the Headmaster went over the newest equations her computer had produced. Harry's latest vision, a week ago, had shown that Voldemort had made more progress with his ritual - as far as they could tell, at least. It still wasn't finished, Dumbledore was certain of that, but the young witch couldn't help thinking that it might soon be good enough, even if still unfinished. The Dark Lord might be willing to forego perfecting his ritual, since it involved a sacrifice to pay much of its price already.

And she wasn't making much progress. Or not as much as she wanted. Her improvements had grown smaller and smaller with each cycle. If she implemented a sacrifice in the formula though… she clamped down on that thought. That would demand, ultimately, an even worse price from her. And the most fitting sacrifice for her ritual, a Dementor, couldn't be killed anyway - at least according to their lore.

She glanced over to Harry. He was writing his Transfiguration essay. She had finished hers already. And her Potions essay. A year ago, she would have been going over both a few times, altering tiny parts, rewriting single sentences. Not this year. She had far more important things to worry about, and she'd get an 'O' for them anyway as they were. And even if she didn't… it wasn't that important.

But it meant she hadn't much to do while waiting for the Headmaster to go over her notes but worry and speculate. And watch Harry work. She reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. He stiffened, then relaxed again, turning his head to flash her a brief smile. She knew he was still torn up over the werewolves. The massacre, the sacrifice by Voldemort, the anguish Remus must be feeling - Sirius hadn't said anything, but they knew him so well, they could tell he was worried about his best friend - and the reaction of the students… none of all that was his fault, but he still felt guilty for not being able to do much about it.

That, and it was just a few weeks to Samhain. The anniversary of his parents' deaths. He hated the day.

She sighed, then pushed her chair next to Harry's, and leaned into his side, letting her head rest on his shoulder. It made writing more difficult for him, but she was certain he would not mind.

For a while, she idly watched what he wrote, Gamp's Law, nothing new. She wanted to correct him in one point, but restrained herself. He didn't like it when she tried to write his essay for him by being too detailed with her help. To distract herself, he let her thoughts wander again, and ended up back at her work. Her most important work. A sacrifice would be perfect for it, but Dementors couldn't be killed. A pity, since parts of them would be the next best thing to improve her formula. Nothing came as close to symbolising the goal of the ritual, the destruction of a soul, as a Dementor. Too bad that… she blinked. Even if they couldn't be killed…

She stood up so abruptly, Harry and Dumbledore stared at her. The young witch didn't even notice as she marched straight over to the shelves, already summoning the books she needed. It was a crazy thought, but it might just work.


Paige Caldwell stared at the door to her new hideout's cellar. It looked far too flimsy to withstand a werewolf's rage during the full moon. Even magically reinforced, it might not be enough. And if she got out of the cellar, the large windows of the muggle vacation home overlooking a fjord would not stop her either. Nor would the walls, she realised. Her last hideout had been built far sturdier, and she had almost broken out in her rage. In fact, she had damaged the house so extensively, she had had to leave since muggles had noticed before she had managed to repair it.

She rubbed her arm, and winced. She hadn't been fully healed from the wounds Greyback had inflicted on her when she had transformed without wolfsbane, and not only had they worsened, but she had acquired a fair share of new ones. She couldn't keep doing this. She needed wolfsbane.

But she couldn't just buy some. She was a wanted witch, after Greyback's death. Paige paced in the living room of the house. She could disguise herself, but buying that potion would mark her as a werewolf, and she knew too many would ask who she was, even if only in an attempt to recruit her. She needed someone to buy wolfsbane for her. Another werewolf, so it wouldn't look suspicious. Rich enough to buy a decent supply for her - at least a dozen vials. And weak enough to be easily controlled by an Imperius.

Not an easy order, not not impossible either. But first, she needed to heal up - bleeding wounds would attract far too much attention.


Albus Dumbledore was smiling politely at the wizards and witches he met on the way to Amelia's office, even though he didn't feel like smiling at all. It wasn't the fault of those Ministry workers though. It was his own, for failing to convince Cornelius and Amelia. So many were dead, burned alive, slaughtered with spells, hunted like animals.

And so many werewolves were now ready to join the Dark Lord, to avenge those who had been killed. Both in Britain, and abroad. Tom's plan had worked out perfectly. Scandinavia was even petitioning the ICW to take action. A hopeless but still powerful gesture, given the ICW's standing policy towards intervention in internal affairs of its members.

He entered the office of the Head of the DMLE. "Good morning, Amelia."

"Good morning Albus. Are you here to tell me you told me so?" Amelia narrowed her eyes at him, then waved at a chair. "Have a seat."

He had more or less expected that. Amelia was always more comfortable taking the initiative. He sat down. "I do not think that would help matters."

"No it wouldn't," she pressed out. "So, why are you here?"

"To discuss our current situation. We have a rather urgent problem." A problem he had warned her about.

"Nordic werewolves?"

"Yes. Scandinavia is up in wands about the tragedy at the Holding Centre. The Dark Lord will have an easy time recruiting werewolves, both British and foreign, to his banner."

"Can your friends do something about the recruiters working there?" Amelia asked. "Those who did something about the Lestranges."

"I have informed them, but even if the Dark Lord's envoys are dealt with, we can expect Scandinavians to attack Britain. Individuals, of course," he added, before Amelia could say anything, "acting without knowledge or approval from their government."

Amelia scoffed. "As if anyone would believe that, with half their government made up of werewolves."

"It will be enough for the ICW. Especially after Scandinavia already denounced us there." Albus knew that institution very well.

"Merlin's arse!" Amelia cursed, but she sounded resigned more than angry. "Dealing with them will bind a lot of personnel."

"Which the Dark Lord will do his best to exploit," the Headmaster said. "And there's still the issue with domestic werewolves."

"There shouldn't be too many of them left." When she saw his expression, she added: "I'm just stating a fact. As tragic as the events were, they did reduce the number of werewolves in Britain."

"And drove the survivors into the ranks of the Dark Lord." Albus stared at Amelia. "And given the widely publicised hunt for them, I fear we have to expect that at least some of the Scandinavians entering Britain will be targeting the civilian population for revenge."

Amelia closed her eyes for a moment, muttering another curse under her breath. "Most of them are living in heavily warded homes now, and we're already guarding Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley. The problem are those joining or coordinating with the Dark Lord."

"There will be a number of them, and they will be able to recruit more from their homes. I will be trying to influence the ICW to pressure Scandinavia, and Cornelius will feel out the other European Countries to see if they might be willing to take a stance against werewolves invading us - they could be next, after all - but I am not that optimistic of our chances of success." Albus spread his hands. "Isolationism is very common, after all."

"I know."

"And a change of policy would also hamper the efforts of our own 'individual wands' acting without knowledge or approval of the Ministry in foreign countries," Albus pointed out.

"That's a small price to pay for more international support," Amelia stated. Albus knew she wouldn't mind if vigilante actions were curbed. She was a bit too inflexible in that area.

"The real problem will be the nights of the full moon. Many werewolves running free will force us to deploy, which will make us both vulnerable and spread out."

Amelia rubbed her forehead. "I'll have Scrimgeour go over the contingency plans."

"That is a good idea." Albus looked at his watch. "I don't want to keep you from your work any longer."

"Speaking of work, Albus. How well do you know Remus Lupin?"

"He's the best Defense teacher Hogwarts has had in decades," Albus stated. He was wary though - what did Amelia want? Had the cover story he had arranged been disproven?

"He's hunting werewolves during the full moon, isn't he?"

"He's known for that, yes," Albus said carefully.

"Do you think he could be involved in the latest werewolf killing? My Aurors say it was done in a dark ritual." Amelia stared at him intently.

Albus almost smiled. "I can assure you that he was not involved in that. He abhors dark rituals." Before Amelia could ask another question, or voice her doubt, he added: "While it is not proof that would hold up in court, I can assure you that I am absolutely certain he was not responsible for this crime."

"Ah." Amelia nodded. She'd think Remus had been working for, or even with Albus during the full moon.

"If that is all…?"

"Do you think he might know or suspect those who did it?"

Albus shook his head. "He was, with the exception of his closest friends, always a loner, even when he was a student of mine. He wouldn't know other hunters."

Amelia nodded. "That is all then. I hope you'll have a better day than I'm having."

"Thank you, Amelia. I wish you a good day as well."

Albus smiled, rose, and left the office. He'd have to talk to Remus, and find out what had happened.


Aberforth Dumbledore studied the building in Magical Oslo. It was the biggest Potions shop in the city, and in a real building too, not just in a tent or a stall. Though that was to be expected; brewing needed a sturdy environment, as did selling potions that could react badly should they mix. One mistake in a tent could lead to losing the tent and everything inside. Including the brewer.

He couldn't spot specialised wards though - just the standard ones to keep the shop safe. Disguised as a Bulgarian wizard and with his beard dyed, he hadn't drawn much attention from the passersby. If he had been recognised as a British wizard though… there was a crowd on the plaza in front of the seat of the government, and the wizards and witches were shouting threats and slurs against Britain. The mood was so aggressive - no wonder, of course, with so many werewolves around - Aberforth was certain any British visitor would have been killed by the mob. Someone with an Amplifying Charm was shouting about 'avenging our brothers and sisters in Britain, visiting tenfold upon those murderers what sorrow they had brought upon families', and similar lines. Those listening to him were repeating the lines, their shouts drowning out his own.

Aberforth shook his head. That was an Erumpent Horn in a building with a poltergeist, and Albus was at fault. He turned around and entered the potions shop. The clerk, a young witch, smiled at him politely, though without any warmth. "Welcome to Snorre's Potions, the best potions in Oslo. How may I help you?"

Aberforth looked around, spotting the Wolfsbane vials easily. Of course, being a werewolf was not a stigma here, so the potion would not be sold under the counter, but openly. "I need a potion of Dreamless Sleep."

While the girl turned around to fetch the potion, he drew his wand and put Tracking Charms on the Wolfsbane vials.

"Here, sir." The girl put a stoppered vial on the counter.

Aberforth nodded, and pulled out his purse while the girl recorded the sale with her wand on a roll of parchment. Given the threat of getting addicted to that potion, no one should suspect him if he returned each day to buy another one, instead of buying in bulk. He'd have to check daily if anyone unexpected had bought wolfsbane in bulk.

Then the Tracking Charms would lead him to Caldwell.


Ron Weasley watched Parkinson at her table in the Library. The room's enchantments prevented him from hearing what she was saying, but she seemed annoyed with Greengrass. Not as annoyed as Hermione and Harry had been, of course, after the girl had knocked on their room late at night, dressed in what Hermione had described as 'a little bit of illusionary silk'.

At least, judging by the blonde's expression, she might have finally understood that Harry and Hermione were not shy or wanting her to make a bigger effort, but not interested. Then the Slytherin turned her head to stare at Harry, again - and at Hermione, if he had observed correctly, and Ron just knew the girl hadn't given up yet. Greengrass was really abusing the 'can't hex people for politely asking to have sex with you' rule, at least in his opinion. But as Hermione had explained to him - reluctantly, he was certain - if you allowed people to answer propositions with hexes just because you disliked someone, then you ran counter to the very purpose of the Year of Discovery, which was 'the free exploration of your sexuality in a safe and consensual environment', as she had put it.

He saw the girl suddenly jump up and rub her rear, and pout at Pansy, Parkinson, who was putting her wand down again. That wasn't against the rules, of course. Well, it was, but it wasn't a serious infraction. Most students wouldn't bother with reporting a stinging hex, to avoid getting shamed for wearing robes that couldn't even stop such a weak spell.

Oh. Parkinson was standing now as well, and from her expression, she was reading Greengrass the riot act. The last time Ron had seen a witch as furious in the library had been when the Ravenclaws had checked out all the books Hermione had wanted to read. Harry had managed to calm her down, fortunately.

Still, he wondered what Pansy was so angry about. She couldn't be jealous, Greengrass had no chance with Harry or Hermione, and everyone but the blonde knew it. He hoped Parkinson wasn't jealous. It wouldn't fit her, he told himself.


"Greengrass!"

"Daphne," the twit corrected Pansy Parkinson. "I told you, call me Daphne."

"Daphne! Why the hell did I hit you with a stinging hex?"

"I don't know! I was just looking around, and you hexed me!"

"You were staring at Potter and mumbling something distracting. But that is not the point. The point is, why did my hex reach you, and wasn't stopped by your robe's protection?" Skimpy as it was, the Greengrass family wasn't poor, and should have bought top of the line protections for their eldest daughter.

"Oh, I'm not wearing my normal robes. I'm wearing conjured ones." Greengrass smiled as if that was anything to be proud of.

"And why would you… Merlin, is this your next scheme? You plan to have the robe vanish when you're next to Potter?" Pansy stared at her fellow Slytherin witch.

"You make it sound as if it was a bad plan!"

"It is a bad plan! And a security risk! Our country is at war, Daphne, at war with monsters who want to kill us! That means you need to be ready to defend yourself. Not wearing your robe… Merlin! Why don't you leave your wand in your room as well?" Pansy couldn't understand the other witch.

Daphne was hunching her shoulders now. "I just wanted… it's not fair! I just want to have one night with Potter! I've tried everything but polyjuice!"

Pansy rubbed the bridge of her nose. "Daphne, Potter's not sleeping with anyone but Granger. Everyone knows that now. He isn't playing hard to get, or being very discerning, he's not looking for an orgy, he's in love with Granger."

Daphne pushed her chin forward, but… were those tears in her eyes? Pansy sighed, feeling guilty for busting the blonde's illusions. Slightly only, though. "I'm sorry, but it had to be said."

Davis nodded. "If you don't move on, you'll miss out on the entire year."

The witch sat down again, and stared at the floor. "It's not fair." She wiped her eyes. "All the best wizards are taken. Potter. Weasley. Longbottom..."

Pansy interrupted her before she could continue. "What about Weasley?"

Why were the others now staring at her, like they had been staring at Greengrass?


It had taken him a week, the purchase of seven unused potions of Dreamless Sleep he was billing Albus for, half a dozen Compulsion Charms and dozens of Tracking Charms, but Aberforth had finally found a trace of Caldwell. A local had bought a dozen wolfsbane potions, without being a werewolf himself. That alone wouldn't have been too suspicious; twice Aberforth had tracked ten or more wolfsbane vials, only to find out it had been a villager buying for all the werewolf neighbours.

This time though… he wasn't looking at a magical village, but a muggle vacation home. No wards, no big garden, no walls around it, no forest nearby to run around in… no werewolf in Scandinavia would live voluntarily in such a home. Unless they had no choice, or were in hiding. Like Caldwell.

Aberforth studied the house. Wooden walls, thin and with large windows. It was more a hut, or maybe a cottage, in his opinion. And it was no real obstacle for him. Shaking his head, he disillusioned himself and mounted his broom. As soon as he was done here he could go and hunt down Voldemort's agents. He pointed his wand at the hut and cast an Anti-Apparition Jinx, followed by an Anti-Portkey Jinx.

Caldwell would not escape now.


Paige Caldwell was feeling better than she had ever since she had set foot on Scandinavia. Her plan had worked perfectly. She had imperiused a local idiot, who had bought a dozen vials of Wolfsbane Potion for her. She was set for a year now. She had even managed to acquire a newspaper as well - though she wished she hadn't. The British were hunting her kind down mercilessly, burning their prisoners alive as if they were witch-hunters. Even children were not spared. She shuddered. Even if the Dark Lord wanted her dead, she hoped he'd win against the Ministry, if only for the sake of those werewolves still alive in Britain. No matter what the Dark Lord did, it couldn't be as bad as what was happening right now.

At least she was safe now. If she stuck to muggle vacation homes, and left no traces, no one would find her. The muggles would be looking for a muggle thief - but not really hard, if she didn't do anything worse than stealing food and some money. Things were, finally, looking up, after Umbridge's death.

She snorted. She still couldn't believe that that witch had sacrificed herself for her. Life debts were scary. If she ever owed one…

The front door exploding into a small cloud of wooden splinters, narrowingly missing her and wrecking the kitchen door, interrupted her thoughts. That had been a Blasting Curse! She tried to apparate away, but failed. She was trapped!

Growling, she rushed to the back door, then stopped and headed to the next window. She didn't know how she had been found, but she knew that she had to escape or she'd be killed. There was no time to gather the vials, or anything else. Her life was on the line.

"Reducto!"

Her own curse blew the window apart, and she jumped out, landing in a crouch and diving to the side at once. The spot she had landed on erupted right when she left, showering her with clumps of Earth and small rocks. They were in the air!

"Protego!"

She rolled on her back, then her front again. She hadn't seen anyone in the sky. But they were there, she knew that. Jumping up, she started to sprint for the street, where the Anti-Apparition Jinxes couldn't cover everything!

She didn't make it. She hadn't even cleared half the distance to the street when the area around her blew up. Her shield was shattered at once, and the spells on her robes flared when stone and earth hit her while she was still in the air. She crashed to the ground, her breath knocked out of her for a second.

Her attackers didn't need more than that. Before she could react, she was bound by magic and her wand was flying away, upwards.

Several spells were cast on her, half of them she didn't know at all, the rest she could only guess. She couldn't do anything, couldn't even talk, much less move her body. Her assailant was invisible, she realised, and flying.

Next to her, she saw an invisibility cloak being thrown back. An old Bulgarian or Romanian wizard revealed himself. At least his robes looked like they came from that region. His accent though… pure Britain. A shiver ran down her spine. If that was a minion of the Dark Lord…

The man stepped up to her, and pointed a wand at her.

"Legilimens!"


Aberforth Dumbledore frowned as he sifted through the mind and memories of the werewolf. Caldwell didn't know any secrets Albus hadn't already told him, or suspected. She wasn't on the run from the Dark Lord because she knew too much, but because she had failed him. She knew about the plan to curse Wizengamot members with lycanthropy, but nothing more. Even her knowledge about safe houses was outdated now.

In short, she was useless. All that time, wasted on a simple thug. Umbridge would have known more secrets, at least, but she was dead. Had sacrificed herself for this… Death Eater. Not a marked one, though. But - he dug a bit deeper - she had been willing enough, even eager, to do the Dark Lord's bidding. Eager to kill. Eager to spread her curse. She deserved death.

He stepped back and pointed his wand at her. A Cutting Curse would do it. Her eyes were wide, the only parts of her body she could use, and stared at him. Like her victims had, he imagined, when she had been about to bite them.

And yet he hesitated to end her life. As much as he hated to admit it, she wasn't that different from some of his friends. Scorned by society, an outcast in her own country, her former life destroyed by circumstances out of her control or responsibility… if he killed her, what would that say about himself? And about his friends? She wasn't about to rejoin the Dark Lord. She couldn't - Voldemort wanted her dead.

With a muttered curse, he lowered his wands and stepped closer. "I know you can hear me just fine, girl." Her eyes started to dart around. "I'm Aberforth Dumbledore. She stared at him, and he chuckled. "You've heard of me, then. Some older mercenary, maybe? It doesn't matter I guess. I should kill you for what you've done. I won't, though. Not unless you hurt or kill anyone else. In that case, I'll come for you, I will find you, and I will kill you. Slowly, painfully. This is your one and only chance to save yourself."

He looked around. "It won't be long until the local Obliviators arrive to check on the disturbance. I wasn't exactly subtle." He threw her wand towards the house, far enough so she couldn't grab it and attack him, then ended the curse holding her. He didn't wait for her to speak and apparated away as soon as he was ready.


The Dark Lord Voldemort looked at the globe in his palm. It shone with a light of its own, but it was rather dim compared to the others he had created during the last rituals, especially the one in September. It lasted far longer though, but that was of no consequence to him. He needed power, and a muggle werewolf obviously couldn't deliver as today had proven.

He wouldn't waste the globe though. Even relatively weak as it was, compared to the full potential of the ritual, it was still valuable. Steinberg might be able to finally finish his project with that. It was past time already - Voldemort needed those wands for his plan.

Frowning, he reminded himself that he also needed the werewolves. Under his command, to be exact, not doing whatever they want in Britain. So far he had not managed to recruit enough of the werewolves heading to Britain from Scandinavia. Too many of the beasts simply sneaked on the island and looked for trouble. Well, as soon as his agents sorted their troubles out, this should change.

And until then those werewolves and their friends were doing their part to keep the Ministry unstable, feeding the wish of the people of a strong leader. It would facilitate his takeover after he had dealt with the last of his enemies.


Harry Potter didn't like Samhain. He had never liked it. His parents had been killed on that day. But he'd not miss the ceremony honouring Dis Pater, the God of the Underworld, and those who had died this year.

As every Samhain, all of the Ghosts in Hogwarts had gathered in the Great Hall, on the special table for them, where food would rot in seconds so they could partake of the meal. Once the meal started, at least. It wasn't time yet,

Dumbledore rose from his seat, clapping his hands together. The Great Hall fell silent as the students and teachers stood up as well. The lights dimmed, until the Hall was shrouded in Darkness. Then the Headmaster spoke, in a sombre, grave tone.

"Dis Pater. Guardian of the Afterlife. Ruler of the Underworld. We implore you: Guide those souls who left us this year. Show them the way on their last journey. Judge them with mercy."

Dumbledore raised his wand and cut the palm of his left hand. Blood started drip from the wound but vanished in shadows before it hit the ground. Harry followed the old wizard's example, cutting his own palm with his wand, hissing at the brief pain. His blood too, disappeared before it touched the stone floor, and he felt suddenly cold.

The Headmaster started to list the names of the students and staff who had died the past year. The were far too many, several dozens, and each name prompted a sob or muttering from among the students. Harry didn't know how long he stood there, bleeding, but he didn't feel tired, or weak, but numb when Dumbledore read the last name. They said Dis Pater punished murderers. Harry hoped that was true. There were a lot of murderers in Britain that needed to be punished.

When the light went on again, he sat down, his hand - fully healed without a spell - seeking Hermione's. He needed to touch her, to reassure himself that she was fine. She squeezed his hand, and smiled at him. He started to feel better again. Warmer. Ron was craning his neck, oh so subtly sneaking glances at Parkinson.

Their friend noticed their scrutiny, and pursed his lips. "I'm just checking how she's doing. She lost a friend too."

Harry exchanged a glance with Hermione. She shook her head slightly. Ron wasn't fooling anyone but himself, and Harry doubted even that. But it was better to watch his antics than to dwell too much on the dead.

Looking at the numerous empty spots at each table, each a missing or dead student, he felt almost ill. So many students had been killed on the orders of a monster. A monster he was fated to kill. If he had managed that, all those students wouldn't be dead.

Harry vowed that next year's Samhain would be different.