I'd like to thank thekingofsweden1, rpeh and brianna-xox for beta reading. Their work and diligence has improved the story a lot.


Chapter 56: Monsters

Ejnar Borge screamed with rage as he stabbed and slashed the Hit-Wizard in front of him. The boy's own screams of pain and terror were cut off by Ejnar's blade opening his windpipe, and the British wizard fell, choking on his own blood and trying to stem the bleeding from the gash in his chest with hands that had already lost fingers. The werewolf kicked the enemy in the chest, smashing him into the tree behind him, and whirled around to look for the next foe.

Next to him, Afi was on the ground, fighting with another Hit-Wizard. His cousin's blade was broken, as was his enemy's wand, and both were pounding each other. Ejnar left them; Afi was stronger and more experienced and would prevail. Instead he rushed towards a tree where an older wizard was standing, cursing Bjorn who was slamming himself into the man's shield.

Ejnar reached them right when the protections on Bjorn's robes failed, and saw the young werewolf fall back, his chest torn open. He roared, and shattered the man's shield with a Piercing Curse, then leapt at him.

"Diffindo!"

The man was quick, but his Cutting Curse was stopped by Ejnar's robes, mostly, and the taller, stronger werewolf smashed into the British wizard, driving him into the tree that had protected his back. He followed up with a headbutt that smashed the man's nose, then bit his throat, tasting blood, while his dagger sliced into his enemy's belly, disemboweling him. He relished the man's screams, laughing and yelling while the British bastard died.

Growling, he turned around to look for another opponent, another victim, but found no one. Covered with blood, British and his own, he panted while his rage started to dwindle. The battle was over. His band had won.

Over a dozen werewolves howled in triumph. It was a poor imitation of the howl of a transformed pack, but it rang through the forest where they had ambushed the Hit-Wizards, telling man and animals alike who this territory belonged to.

It felt good. This was why they had come to Britain - to fight the British, and beat them. To avenge the murder of werewolves. Shivering, his vision seemed to clear when the last of his rage left him. They had killed a dozen Hit-Wizards, yes. But they had not won without cost. Dverger, Geiri, Bjorn and Hallr were dead. Everyone else was wounded, but that was to be expected - a berserker who wasn't bleeding hadn't been fighting.

Ejnar frowned. They had ambushed the British, surprised them on a battleground that played to their strengths while outnumbering them, and yet had lost four of their number. Those Hit-Wizards were good. When the full moon came and his band transformed, such a battle could be the end of them.

"Episkey."

His wounds closed, he sought out Afi. His cousin had just finished treating Mikel, who had been struck with an exotic curse that had started to skin him. He looked like he'd live now though.

"Afi."

When the other werewolf looked at him, Ejnar nodded to the edge of the small clearing they were in. His cousin nodded, grabbed the two pieces of his blade, and repaired it while he followed Ejnar.

"We've got a problem come the full moon," Ejnar said.

Afi looked confused. "We've got Wolfsbane for everyone. Or whatever the government's trying to call it now."

Ejnar chuckled. Some werewolves took offence to the name of the potion, claiming it besmirched the gift they had received. As if they had nothing more important to care about. He grew serious quickly though. "No, that's not the issue. But if we get into a battle under the full moon, we'll get slaughtered."

Afi opened his mouth, then closed it. "You're right. We'll not be able to deal with their spells."

Not even with Wolfsbane protecting their minds would they be able to work magic. At home, those wizards and witches not part of the pack would take up the slack, and the fights would be even more ferocious as transformed wolves went at each other, but here? The British would not meet them in an honourable melee, but fly away and send curses at them from above, protected by their shields.

Ejnar nodded. "We'll have to hide."

"The band won't like that. They have tasted blood," Afi cautioned him.

"I know. That's why we'll be holding a Sharing," Ejnar said.

Afi drew a hissing breath. "Sharing our gifts? Who in Britain would… you mean, kidnapping people?"

Ejnar nodded. Usually, the gift of the wolf was shared with volunteers, often relatives of a wolf, in a sacred ceremony under the full moon. Not all new wolves were volunteers though - people being people, accidents did happen. Some wolves liked to forego the potion, and some of them occasionally happened upon humans.

"The traditionalists won't like it."

"None of them are with us. The band will understand. And given the hatred of werewolves, anyone we share our gift with will be forced to join us, or face death at the hands of their former friends," Ejnar said.

"I hope that's true, cousin. Even so, we'll need to find a suitable place, and prepare the wards. There's not much time left." Afi sounded sceptical still.

Ejnar didn't care. The search would keep the band busy while they healed up. The search for a good spot to hold their ceremony, and for those who would receive the gift. It might not be the triumphant, bloody raid they had imagined, but it would hurt the British anyway.


"We should take the day off. Or, better, the entire week."

Kenneth Fenbrick didn't want to get up. He didn't want to work. He didn't want to do anything but spend time with Bertha Limmington. Preferably in bed, or in the bathtub, but she had proven to have a very fertile imagination, so he was certain he could add a few more locations, given time.

"Bones doesn't like it when Aurors try to take time off without advanced notice," his partner - in more than one sense of the word, now! - pointed out.

"Sod Bones! We haven't had time off in… I can't actually remember when we last had time off."

Bertha shook her head slightly. "Too much firewhiskey then."

"Hey!"

She smirked, and slid out of the bed. Kenneth forgot whatever he had wanted to say while he watched her summon her wand and walk over to the bathroom, past the heap in which her clothes had ended up last night. When the door closed behind her, he yelled: "If we get another difficult case I'll tell you I told you so!"


"I told you so."

"So you did."

Kenneth grumbled. It wasn't fun if Bertha didn't care that he had told her so. "If you had listened to me we could be back home in bed, instead of knee-deep in corpses in some godsforsaken forest." But his partner thought that when duty called, Aurors had to answer. Or something trite like that.

He glanced at her. She was already running her wand over a rip in a tree's bark. The witch looked focused, cool, collected. No one who'd see her now would expect her to be a passionate lover.

He sighed. If not for the Dark Lord and those foreign werewolves, they'd be able to take a vacation right now. Once the war was over, he would cash in all his accumulated leave, and not deal with any case again until he ran out!

That vow made, Kenneth looked at the carnage they had been called to. It did look horrible. A dozen Hit-Wizards, three squads, butchered. Literally, or so it appeared. He waved his wand and checked the wounds on the body of a young man, practically a boy. Gutted like a fish, the poor bastard had died slowly. No trace of a curse on that wound - it had been a blade, not a spell that had killed the guy.

The two other corpses he checked next matched that profile, as did most parts of a dismembered witch. He stood up from where he had crouched next to that body, and walked over to Bertha. "Either the Death Eaters suddenly stopped using wands, or this was the work of our Nordic invaders."

"There were spells cast, on both sides," his partner said.

"Yes. But not the kind of spells the Dark Lord's minions tend to use." Not many dark spells.

The witch nodded in agreement. "That's my preliminary conclusion as well."

Kenneth looked around, trying to imagine the battle. "It was an ambush," he said. "They were surprised. The enemy managed to get right among them, scattered them, and then overwhelmed them. Not exactly the Hit-Wizards' finest hour."

"Their awareness and tactics were less than optimal," Bertha said, agreeing with him.

"At least they took a few of them down with them." There hadn't been corpses left, but the tracks left were enough to see that the wizards hadn't died alone. "Did you find any tracks or traces of the attackers? A clue where they went?"

Bertha shook her head. "They were very careful. Some blood was left, but nothing else."

He cursed under his breath. "Then we can't do anything but wait for their next attack. And hope whoever runs into them can call for help."

Bertha nodded. "If they are Scandinavian, then they might grow too aggressive during the full moon, and succumb to better tactics."

"The murderers have to be Scandinavians. Who else would use blades in battle? Even the muggles stopped with that long ago." Which made the debacle here doubly embarrassing, Kenneth thought. To be killed with blades…

"Someone who wants us to suspect that those were Scandinavian invaders." Bertha ignored that he had asked rhetorically.

He understood what she meant though. "You mean the Dark Lord wants us to blame Scandinavia, hoping we'll end up fighting them?"

Bertha nodded.

Kenneth sighed. It was just a theory, probably wrong, but he just knew that the Ministry wouldn't be eager to take Scandinavia to task for this. And they still needed to come up with tactics to deal with this sort of fighting.


Ron Weasley dodged another stunner by dropping to the ground and turning the debris from his opponent's last Blasting Hex into a smoke screen. As soon as he touched the floor he rolled to the left, just before another stunner flew through the smoke. He scrambled back and disillusioned himself, then moved to the right, circling around Parkinson.

He didn't see her though - she must have disillusioned herself too.

"Homenum Revelio," he whispered, aiming his wand at the other side of the smoke. If she thought he was still hiding in that…

Parkinson became visible where he had thought she'd be. His first stunner was stopped by her shield, the next by her robe, and then she was inside the smoke.

It didn't do her any good. He vanished it, exposing her once more. Then she started to cast the Human-presence-revealing Spell herself. She managed to expose him right when he tagged her with a modified Body-Binding Curse that left her spread-eagled and stuck to the nearest wall. A Disarming Charm later and the duel was over.

Ron walked over to her, limping slightly. She must have spotted it, since she smirked, and he decided to not cancel his curse until he had reached her.

"Good duel. You should have cast the Human-presence-revealing Spell earlier though," he said.

"I know. That's an interesting spell. Granger's work?"

He nodded. "An experiment, she said." Hermione hadn't explained what the purpose of the experiment had been, but the spell looked and sounded different enough to fool some opponents, or so he guessed.

"You can let me down now," she said.

He almost said he'd never let her down, but that would have been either creepy or sappy. Instead he stepped up to her.

"Yes, I could."

He leaned forward and kissed her, ending the spell before he ended the kiss. She wrapped her freed limbs around him, and they sank down to the floor.


Albus Dumbledore smiled as Ottokar Steiner, the representative of Magical Prussia finished his speech in front of the ICW. If he hadn't been the Supreme Mugwump, he'd wave his lit wand, signalling support for the man's demand, like others did.

He glanced over at Kalle Lofgren, the representative of Magical Scandinavia. The admitted werewolf was growling. He had a reason to, Albus knew - it looked like the ICW would warn his country that they would not tolerate an invasion, no matter how much Scandinavia claimed that those were individuals acting on their own. Apart from his own contacts and favours owed, the fact that Scandinavian werewolves were known to bite muggles in much greater numbers than could be attributed to accidents had been decisive. Attacking muggles always threatened the Statute of Secrecy, after all.

He knew his esteemed colleagues wouldn't really have seen a threat to the Statute of Secrecy if there hadn't been the threat of such attacks happening in their own countries, at the hands or claws of foreign werewolves. Albus didn't like painting the werewolves as a menace, though he couldn't overlook the fact that they currently were attacking Britain, and that they were Voldemort's most numerous supporters. The Dark Lord couldn't be allowed to grow stronger, not with his ritual progressing.

Albus didn't know for certain how close the Dark Lord was to succeeding in his research, but he could tell - thanks to the sins of his own youth - that Tom wouldn't take much longer. The full moon in December was so close to the winter solstice; the lure of the additional power a ritual at that time would grant him would be irresistible to the Dark Lord. Which meant Albus would have to deal with the Nordic problem before that time.

Marie Mercier, the representative of Magical France, was next to speak. The witch was young for her position, which prompted rumours of her being the lover of the Duc d'Orléans - or a lover, at least. It was said that the Ducs had continued the royal tradition of having Veela mistresses when Magical France split from France in 1692. Though in her elegant robes, the dernier cri from Paris, she certainly didn't have to hide behind any Veela.

Marie had a sharp wit and a sharper tongue, and her speech was both entertaining and supportive. Unfortunately, she too raised the spectre of bloodthirsty werewolf hordes invading the European shores in the footsteps of their Viking ancestors. At least, Albus thought, they'd not be using longboats to travel up the Seine to attack Paris. He felt guilty again for having brought up the shade of Grindelwald in connection with werewolves. Although he was certain that the cause of the werewolves would suffer even more, should they continue their aggressive policy towards their neighbours. It had taken Magical Prussia decades to recover its reputation from those dark days, and they hadn't had a reputation as monsters reaching back millennia.

Elena Romanova was next, representing Magical Russia. The Tsar's eldest daughter cut a striking figure in a fur-lined Russian duellist's robe. Albus made a note that the rumours of her angling to replace the Tsarevich might not be entirely unfounded, if she had started to cultivate a more martial image compared to the revealing robes she had worn in the past. Or, he thought, she might simply be trying to scare off unwanted suitors - he had heard from Marek Pasternak that the Tsar had been hinting rather strongly that she should marry and settle down. The Polish Government kept close eyes on their eastern neighbour, and so they were usually well-informed about the latest developments in Russia.

Elena's statement could be summed up in two sentences: Russia feared no invader. Anyone trying to break the peace in Europe would be harshly punished. She took a quarter hour though to say it, with far too many words and far too little wit for Albus's patience. But as he had hoped after his talk with her, she too supported the motion.

Marek's speech came after hers, but Albus didn't really pay attention to the Polish delegate. He was certain of their vote already; Poland had suffered the most under Grindelwald, and honoured those who had toppled the Dark Lord.

Karl von Habsburg though needed watching. Contrary to their muggle counterpart, the Habsburg line of Magical Austria had not died out. It had been a near thing though, and the results of severe inbreeding haunted them to this day. Karl was no exception. The son of the Emperor of Magical Austria-Hungary was charming, handsome and about as smart as a Puffskein. It was said in some circles, far out of the earshot of anyone from Austria of course, that every smart Austrian Habsburg would be either abrasive or sickly. Albus had never bothered to ascertain the truth of that barb himself, but he knew that the true voice of the Emperor was Karl's secretary Anneliese, a confidant of his mother. Fortunately, Karl managed to deliver the speech Anneliese had written without stumbling or causing an incident.

Albus leaned back, relaxing. He looked at Lofgren, whose mood had worsened with each speech aimed at his country. With the support of all major powers in Magical Europe, the motion would be carried. It was merely a gesture, of course - no country would actually go to war over it, Cornelius had confirmed that by talking to the actual rulers and governments of Magical Europe - but it would put pressure on Scandinavia. And once Aberforth accomplished his mission, the Scandinavians would be as good as removed as a factor in the war against Voldemort.

He felt guilty at using his brother like this, but there was no choice. There simply were not many wizards Albus could trust with this, and none that had his brother's skill with a wand. And, he told himself again, it wasn't as if Aberforth had no experience in these sorts of matters.

As much as he justified his actions though - and they were justified, seeing as they'd save many innocents in Britain, both wizards and werewolves - he also knew that it might very well cost him what slim chance of reconciliation with his brother that he still had.

And yet, this was a price he was willing to pay. Better he suffer, than anyone else.


Aberforth Dumbledore, covered by a Disillusionment Charm and with his scent masked by a potion originally invented by African Wizards to sneak up on Nundus, stared at the small village hidden in one of the larger forests of of the Scandinavian peninsula. It looked nice, with the villagers just doing their daily chores. Some tending to the fields and herds - he could see the spells cast from his position easily - and others milling around. The picture of a peaceful little village.

And he'd have to break that peace. Force them to fight. He didn't want to. Though if he was honest, he didn't mind it that much. Those villagers had sent people to Britain, to raid and pillage the country. Werewolves. The village wasn't really peaceful, despite its appearance. If not for the alliance it had entered with its neighbours, they'd likely have wands out, ready to defend their own village, or attack the others. Aberforth knew how the Nordic wizards thought and fought from personal experience.

No, what he hated was that he was following Albus's orders, as if he was one of his brother's minions. Doing the dirty work for the great Headmaster. Just like his friends did the dirty work for the Ministry in this war, he reminded himself.

"Damn you, Albus!" he whispered, then mounted his broom and flew towards the field that was farthest from the village. Getting detected at this point might ruin the entire mission, despite his disguise.

No one seemed to notice him as he flew over the field, descending near a lone young man - almost a boy still - who was removing weeds from the fields with his wand. Sprout would be appalled at the state of the field, Aberforth thought, since the wizard didn't look like he was skilled, or paying much attention. Hopefully that meant he didn't like honest work, and wanted to become a great warrior - it would help his mission.

He pointed his wand at the man and cast a Compulsion Charm, causing the Nordic wizard to 'take a leak' in the nearby forest. Aberforth followed him, waited until he was out of sight of the village, then stunned him. A minute later, he was on his way to the next village.


That village looked almost identical to the one he had observed earlier, Aberforth thought. And yet they had been feuding for decades, as he had found out from his prisoner. Scandinavians! He shook his head at their folly. Between the revival of the worship of the Norse Pantheon, and the acceptance of werewolves as not only equal members of Wizarding society, but highly valued leaders, it was no surprise that they ended up ready to fight at the drop of a hat.

He studied the area, taking note of where the guards were placed. It wouldn't be too hard to attack it, even accounting for the fact that he wouldn't be able to show his full skill. He'd hit the east side. There was a lone building, and a field where cows were grazing.

Decision made, he turned back to his stunned prisoner and cut a several hairs from the man's head, dropping one of them in a vial. A swallow later, he was decades younger and looked like the man's twin. Pointing his wand at the wizard, he hesitated. The villager didn't have to die. Aberforth could obliviate him, and drop him off far away from here. Could even erase all his memories, and replace them with a fake life. He scoffed at his thoughts. His prisoner's mind would have been replaced; he'd have been killed for all purposes.

Aberforth wasn't Albus, hiding behind technicalities, trying to fool his own conscience. He knew what he was doing. And, he told himself, the prisoner had admitted under Veritaserum that he was trying to join 'the fight in Britain' as soon as he could reach a recruiter from the Dark Lord. Aberforth's wand didn't waver.

"Diffindo."

Three Vanishing Charms took care of the body, the head, and the blood. Then Aberforth marched off to start a war.

He didn't quite sneak up on the village, but he stayed away from the main road, walking slowly until he was used to his new, temporary body.

"Hey! What are you doing here?"

He turned towards the witch who had yelled at him. She didn't look much older than his body. Another warrior who had just been a bit too inexperienced for their raid to Britain, probably.

He didn't bother answering; he understood her well enough, but his accent would threaten his disguise. Instead he hit her with a Bludgeoning Curse that blew her back a few yards, and broke a dozen bones in her body. She'd live, of course, to remember his face.

He continued on, until he reached the field, and started to cut down cows and shrink their carcasses. He didn't bother to be subtle; the guard he had hurt would soon call for help anyway. Just as expected, fireworks went off behind him, and he heard yells from the village.

Turning towards the road, he saw the first of those who had been milling around arrive.

"Confringo!"

The Blasting Curse ripped a crater into the road and showered the first villagers with rocks and dirt. They stopped, and fanned out, trying to surround him. It was time to fall back. He bought himself more time and space with a couple of Blasting Hexes, mixed with silent Compulsion Charms. When he had faded into the forest and apparated away, the villagers were enraged and on their way to attack their neighbours.

He reached their target first, on his broom and disillusioned. A few more, discreet compulsion spells cast on the people in the first village ensured that there would be no talking this out.

The enraged pursuers didn't take long to reach the village, and didn't stop to talk anyway. Aberforth didn't look away when the battle started and curses flew, nor when blades met and blood was spilled. He had caused this, he was responsible, and he'd bear witness to his actions and their consequences. Only when the attackers started to retreat, with half the village burning, did he fly away.

He had two more villages to set upon each other.


Sirius Black threw the Daily Prophet down on the kitchen table in No. 12 Grimmauld Place, just missing his tea cup and the basket with the croissants, and snorted in disgust.

Valérie, wearing one of her barely-there 'house robes', picked it up before Kreacher could collect and dispose of it. The Veela skimmed through the articles on the front page. "According to this, the ICW condemns the attack on Britain by Scandinavian werewolves. Isn't that a good thing?" She asked, turning towards him.

Sirius scoffed. "It's useless posturing. Politics. We need wands, not words."

She nodded, picking up her coffee and a croissant. "But it's better than nothing. It might give some Scandinavians pause, and keep them from joining the Dark Lord."

She was correct, but Sirius didn't want to admit it, so he grumbled. If he had changed to Padfoot, he would even have growled. Instead, he grabbed a croissant himself. He used to prefer a British breakfast, but his lovers had changed that. Padfoot still wanted meat though, so he often mixed croissants and sausages. If he made an effort, he could gross out Remus with a bit of luck.

He sighed, thinking of his best friend. The news that foreign werewolves were attacking brave British Hit-Wizards had driven the anti-werewolf sentiments in Britain to new heights. He was worried about the strain and stress this put on Remus. His friend was, for all his Ravenclaw-like smarts, a Gryffindor first and foremost, not a Slytherin, and Sirius was afraid that Remus might take a stand one day, revealing his secret just to do something against the hatred. And Sirius had no idea how to stop that.

"What's wrong?" Valérie asked, standing up and walking around the table to him.

He wasn't about to lie to her. Not that he could; she knew him too well now. "I'm just… worried and impatient. Mostly worried."

His fiancée stood behind him, rubbing his shoulders.

"Worried about the war, worried about Remus, worried about you."

"The war seems to be going well. Things have improved a lot compared to the start," Valérie commented.

"And that is what worries me. The Dark Lord hasn't been seen in a long time, which means he's probably preparing something truly horrible." Aimed at Harry, likely, due to that thrice-damned prophecy.

Eugénie entered the kitchen, smiling at the two of them and grabbing the coffee pot. "Chantal and Laure are still asleep."

Valérie giggled. Sirius doubted either of the two would be up before noon, not after that drinking contest with Fleur and Bill last night. Ah, to be young and foolish again… he groaned. A year ago, he'd have joined them, and done his best to drag everyone else into the contest as well. He really had become respectable. Grown up, even.

Valérie put her head on his shoulder. "What's wrong?"

"I'm old. I just realised it."

"You're not old!" Eugénie exclaimed. "You're in the full vigour of your prime!" He knew what she meant.

Valérie giggled, but didn't comment. She did wrap her arms around him though, and slid into his lap.

"Oh, not that. But I've become 'respectable'," Sirius explained. "Used to be, I'd be right there, suffering a hangover."

"And that's a bad thing?" Valérie asked.

"It's not," he admitted, "but … everyone told me so often to grow up, I kind of didn't want to just because."

That caused more laughter, and some muttered comment from Kreacher he didn't quite catch.

"More seriously though," he said, "I do worry. We know the Dark Lord's been recruiting, for months, and yet we haven't seen any big attack since the Hogwarts Express. We haven't seen Dementors around at all." He had checked, for Dumbledore.

"You think they are gathering their forces, and will attack en masse." Eugénie looked grim now.

"It would make sense. One big attack, or a lot of smaller attacks, aimed at overwhelming us," Sirius said, running one hand over Valérie's back. "And with the Ministry occupied and distracted by this werewolf madness, I'm afraid they're not as prepared as they should be."

Valérie and Eugénie nodded. "We will be, though," Eugénie stated. "The 'eadmaster will be prepared as well."

"'ow is Remus doing?" Valérie asked.

"He hasn't broken down yet. But I don't know how long he'll support this …" Sirius trailed off, and waved his hand towards the Daily Prophet. "All of this. He has been broken up about his furry little problem since his childhood."

"I think 'is real problem is the people, not the fur," Valérie said.

Sirius nodded. "I need to keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn't … do something stupid."

"We will keep an eye on him," Eugénie said. Valérie nodded.

Sirius smiled. "Thank you."

"It's what family does."

Sirius really wanted to turn into Padfoot right then, before they saw the tears in his eyes. But with Valérie in his lap, he couldn't.


Harry Potter waited until Ron had entered the former classroom they had turned into their private lounge and laboratory, then waved his wand at him. Hermione joined him. Ron froze when various spells flew over his body.

"Hey! What are you doing?" their best friend demanded, his hair slightly frizzy from Harry's last spell.

"What you asked me to!" Harry grinned

"Are you mental? I asked you to smother me with spells?"

Harry smiled. "You said that if you ever dated Parkinson, I should check you for 'love potions, Polyjuice, and charms'."

While Ron stared at him with his mouth hanging open, Hermione added: "We just did that. You're clean, by the way."

"We're not dating!"

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "What do you call it then? You're meeting her every second evening for some 'duelling' that ends with you two shagging."

"How… why… the map!" Ron stammered.

"Of course," Hermione said. "Did you expect we'd not keep an eye on you when you're alone with a Slytherin?" She stressed 'Slytherin', and Harry saw Ron wince.

"I didn't expect to be… not during sex!"

"You're most vulnerable during sex, naked and without your wand," Harry pointed out.

"We're usually not naked," Ron protested.

"That's interesting, but not the point," Hermione said.

Ron sat down on the couch and closed his eyes.

Harry felt a bit guilty at ribbing his best friend like this, but after years of complaints about Slytherins in general, and about Parkinson in particular, he felt entitled to it. Still, given his own relationship, and its slightly troubled start, maybe he should stop. He sat down next to Ron while Hermione took a seat in the armchair.

"So… if you're not dating, what are you doing then? Casual sex?" It was their Year of Discovery, after all.

"Yes… maybe… I guess?" Ron shrugged, with a grimace. "We just, you know, meet, fight, and f… have sex," he added with a glance at Hermione. "Not exactly a base for a relationship."

"That sounds as if you'd like one," Harry ventured.

Hermione nodded, but didn't say anything. He knew she still wasn't that fond of the Slytherin witch.

"I don't know." Ron leaned back. "And I don't know what she wants."

"Apart from you." Harry couldn't resist.

"Har har," was his friend's sarcastic reply.

Hermione chuckled. "Maybe you should talk to her."

"We do talk to each other!"

"Other than criticising the duel, that is." Hermione shook her head.

"Are you spying on us?" Ron stared at her.

"No, but we know how you act in the Self-Defense Club sessions," the witch said. "Not too hard to guess what you're talking about."

"We do talk about other things as well. Just not… that."

"Well, you should change that," Hermione said.

Harry coughed. His girlfriend was a bit too blunt, in his opinion. "But only if you want more than what you currently have." Otherwise, Ron might risk losing a good thing for nothing.

"Great…"


Ejnar Borge lowered the enchanted telescope, collapsed it, and slid down the hill he had been lying on top of to rejoin his band which was gathered at the hill's foot. "Hogsmeade is locked up tight. It may not look like it, but I'm certain there are dozens of Aurors and Hit-Wizards ready to deploy there."

"Then we won't be able to capture wizards or witches there for the ceremony." Afi frowned. His cousin had become more enthusiastic for the plan since they had first talked about it, but he still wasn't too much of an optimist.

"No. We have a few options though. We can try to lure some out of the village and kidnap them then."

"Security will be even tighter when the students are around," Vilmar pointed out.

"That is true, but we're not going after children anyway," Ejnar said. "We could go to Knockturn Alley." He had been there before, during his first trip to Britain. No one cared if a few residents there went missing.

"Share our gift with whores and thieves?" Nenne scoffed.

"Not everyone's been born into a rich family, Nenne." Ejnar growled at him until the other wizard looked away.

"Now, we also can capture enemies during our next battle."

Afi snorted, and Ejnar glared at him. Berserkers were notorious for not taking prisoners in the heat of battle, but they were not unable to control themselves. Not completely at least.

Flapping noises drew his attention, and when he looked up, he saw three owls fly towards his war band. Post owls? That was not a good sign.

Nenne was one to receive a letter, and his outraged yell strained the privacy spell keeping them hidden: "They broke the Alliance! Treachery!" He growled and drew his wand, aiming at Vilmar.

That werewolf stared at him. "Are you breaking your oath to the warband?"

"Your pack broke oath with my village!" Nenne shouted while Ove and Frans stepped up behind him, backing him up. All three came from the same village, Ejnar knew. Vilmar too was joined by three of his pack.

He stepped between the groups before something happened. "What's going on here?" he growled with as much menace as he could manage.

"His pack broke their oath and attacked my home!" Nenne said. More werewolves were gathering around them. Oath-breaking was very grave. Not for the first time, Ejnar wished that there were more magical oaths people could swear. No one would break an oath if the penalty was the loss of their life or magic.

Ejnar read the letter. It was a warning. Apparently one of those backwards villages had not adhered to the oath of alliance, and had decided to settle a few disputes with blade and wand. This could destroy his band, unless he acted quickly. "This changes nothing! You gave me your oath, all of you, and you'll keep it or I'll break you. We are one warband, bound together with oath and blood, and we'll stay one! We came here to punish the British and avenge our fellow wolves, and that's what we'll do!"

"We cannot fight if we cannot trust them!" Nenne spat.

Enjar turned to the other werewolf. "I said we're one warband, and we'll stay one band. I'll kill whoever attacks his comrade." He met the other werewolf's eyes and stared him down until Nenne looked away and grumbled his acceptance of the order.

"Let's move out. We'll find a more secure camp for the night!"

On the way to the next forest, Afi walked next to him. "Quick thinking there."

Ejnar shrugged. "I don't know what the village idiots did, but I won't let some backwards pack wreck this warband."

Afi nodded. "I just pray to Odin you'll succeed."

"So do I, Afi. So do I."


The next day, Ejnar Borge woke up to discover that Nenne, Ove and Frans were gone from their camp. "May Víðarr curse them!" he shouted.

Afi looked grim. In a low voice, he said: "Vilmar and his friends will leave as well as soon as they realise that those three are heading back to fight for their pack."

Ejnar nodded. "And those from packs in the same area will be tempted to head back as well, to protect their homes."

"Can they get back, without getting caught by the British?"

He snorted. "That depends on how much attention they paid while we travelled."

Afi ground his teeth. "We'll have to move then. If one of them gets captured, they'll find us easily."

"Yes." Ejnar started to rouse those of his warband who had not yet woken up despite the shouting. "Up everyone! We need to move!"

While his wolves packed up, he sighed. He'd lose about half his remaining force, or so he thought. Damn those backwards idiots!

He closed his eyes. He didn't want to do this, but… he pulled out a scrap of parchment from his pouch. Greyback had given this to him, some time ago.


Remus Lupin had been straining to control his temper for days, weeks now. Not just because Wizarding Britain was on a werewolf hunt in all but name, though that played a big part. As did the fact that everyone but a few trusted friends thought he was hunting werewolves during the full moon. He still hadn't forgiven the Headmaster for this 'ruse'. If the other British werewolves ever found out about this, he'd be seen as the biggest hypocrite ever. He might be the biggest hypocrite ever, come to think of it.

Here he was, a teacher at the most prestigious school in Europe, respected by staff, students and parents, and it was all a lie. He was just masquerading as a normal wizard. If they knew he was a werewolf, they'd fire him - and hunt him down.

But what really strained his patience was his best friend's machinations. He didn't know what exactly Sirius was thinking, if he was even thinking, but for days now, at least two of Sirius's girlfriends and often Sirius himself as well, had been at Hogwarts. Sirius claimed they were there to offer additional protection for Harry, and the other students, but Remus had his doubts. They were just a bit too clingy.

He frowned and dropped the essay he was grading onto his desk. 'Clingy' wasn't the right word. They were more like… a bit too ubiquitous. His friend meant well, but it irked some.

Though at least he had someone to talk to nearby, and that lovestruck seventh year, Miss Emmerson, who thought he was the 'most romantic teacher ever', had been much less pushy since she had been surprised by Chantal while trying to break into his flat.

Just as he picked the essay up again, a knock at his door interrupted him. "Yes?"

"It's me."

Lockhart? Remus flicked his wand, and the door opened.

His predecessor as DADA professor, and current assistant professor, stepped inside. "Good evening, Remus."

"Good evening, Gilderoy. How can I help you?"

"I'm here to drop off the tests from the first year classes." The author held up a stack of parchments.

Remus smiled, and levitated them to a free space on his desk. "Very good."

"I'm also here to warn you about the latest 'interesting animal' Jenny and Rubeus have created."

"Ah." Remus could understand that. Rubeus was a gentle giant, and Jenny a charming young witch, but they had a blind spot the size of Britain when it came to animals. "What did they do?"

"After they managed to weaponise the Stinging Stonefishes by shrinking them and turning them into ammunition for a sort of magical crossbow, they are now trying to create smarter spitting cobras that can spew acid as well as a much stronger poison."

Remus winced, and his colleague nodded. "The debacle with the spitting 'saltwater crocobras' hasn't stopped them then. Do they think a smarter spitting cobra will be a better match, and prevent the next hybrid from choking on rocks it mistakes for food? Or attacking everything that moves?"

"Exactly. I recommend you avoid Rubeus's workshop for a while. They are still trying to tame the little monsters."

"Thank you for the warning. I will focus on dealing with poisonous creatures for the next week then," Remus said.

"That would be advisable," Lockhart said.

"If I may ask for a bit of advice…"

"Of course!" Lockhart flashed his famous smile.

"How do you deal with lovestruck students?" Remus asked. Lockhart had been a famous author when he started teaching for a year at Hogwarts, and he certainly had to have dealt with love-struck witches both at school and abroad. And after his return to Hogwarts.

"I check my food and drink for potions, I maintain my distance whenever possible, and I hope they'll find a wizard closer to their age to pursue."

"Sound advice." Remus had to admit that.

"You haven't had to deal with that before?" Lockhart sounded incredulous.

Remus shook his head. "My popularity rose following recent unfortunate events. I cannot understand how this was possible."

His fellow teacher shrugged. "You might have missed the signs before. Many witches develop crushes on teachers. The lure of the forbidden love, together with the appeal of a mature man instead of a boy, often proves very strong."

"I see. I would have thought the Year of Discovery would help with that."

Lockhart nodded. "It helps. Things should calm down soon. I would not spend any length of time alone in a room with a witch though. Some of them are very cunning."

That was a disturbing possibility. "Thank you. I'll keep that in mind."

"My pleasure. Though you'll understand that I prefer the students lusting after you rather than after me."

Remus narrowed his eyes, but the other wizard was already leaving his office. The werewolf spent quite some time wondering whether it had been a hint that his sudden popularity hadn't been entirely a coincidence.

He might have to revisit his notes from his time at school, to remind Lockhart just who he might be meddling with.


Ron Weasley couldn't think of a better moment to talk about them than while they were relaxing after sex. It had been a 'wild ride', as his elder brothers would have called it. Some of the bruises he felt had been from the duel, some from the sex.

The moment was there, but he wasn't certain what to say. That had never prevented him from talking though.

"So… "

Parkinson raised her head up from his chest and looked at him. "Hm?"

"Dueling you is fun. You're one of the few who presents a challenge and who takes this seriously." Compliments never hurt.

"Thank you." She smirked.

"And I think it's rather clear that having sex is very enjoyable for both of us. With each other I mean."

"Mh." Her smirk turned into a smile.

"So… I wonder if there are more things that would be fun, together." There. He said it.

She wasn't smiling anymore. She didn't look angry though. More like… surprised.

"You mean… like dating?"

"Yes." He almost turned it into a question. But he was a Gryffindor, not a Slytherin.

She licked her lips. "Won't that lead to trouble with your friends?"

"They already think we are dating," he admitted. When she looked alarmed, he quickly added: "They're not watching us."

"How do they know about… us then?" Her eyes narrowed; she was suspecting something, he realised.

"They sort of followed me to the room." On the map, not in person. But the principle was the same.

"Oh." She was rather cute when she looked surprised.

"We didn't look like we had only dueled when we left." He winced.

Parkinson blushed.

"So… Call me Ron?"

"Call me Pansy."

He took that to mean that they'd be dating 'officially' from now on, and kissed her.

They definitely didn't look like they had just been duelling when they left - together - the room this time.


Aberforth Dumbledore was sick of Scandinavia. Too many werewolves, too many backwards villages, too much violence. He couldn't leave yet though, not before he had dealt with the Dark Lord's recruiter.

The information he had taken from that young werewolf at the village had led him to this cottage at the mouth of a fjord. It wasn't an ideal spot to recruit people, but it was easy to ship the recruits off from here.

Which was why he'd put a stop to this.

Usually he'd study his target, find the weak spots, then strike. Not today though. There were only a few days left until the next full moon, but the werewolves would be more aggressive already. And he didn't have the time to deal with the wards, or get a Curse-Breaker from somewhere.

He had Polyjuice though, and hair from a recruit. It should be enough to get him through the wards and into the cottage. Afterwards, he'd have to improvise. He was good at that though. A sip from his vial later, 'Hjalmar' was on his way to the cottage.

He stopped in front of the wards, and yelled: "Hello!"

He didn't have to wait long until the door opened, and a scrawny witch stepped out. She looked like a local, so she was probably the most expendable recruit. "I'm here to join," he said. "I contacted you before, but I had to wait until I grew up before I could leave my home."

She smiled at him, and he almost felt guilty for deceiving her. Then he reminded himself just what Voldemort had done, and was doing. Anyone who joined that monster knew what they were doing.

"Can I come inside?" Garden or house, either would suffice to get inside the wards.

"Ah, of course."

He stepped through the wards and smiled. The plan was working.

Right then she started to sniff. "You smell weird…. A mix of scents…"

"Reducto!"

He cut her words off with Blasting Hex to her face that almost split her head in two. One down.

He quickly cast a Shield Charm, then turned his wand on the cottage and blasted the door open. Screams of rage from inside told him he might have wounded someone else. Good. He didn't enter through the door - they would waiting for that. Instead he blew another hole into the wall, a few yards to the right. That caused more screams. He stepped up to the hole and sent a stream of fire inside, then entered through the door, behind a floating pillar of stone.

"Avada Kedavra!"

His floating shield absorbed the Killing Curse, and his barrage of spells forced the caster, a muscular, feral looking man, a werewolf without doubt, to take cover behind an upturned table after his shield had been shattered.

Aberforth grinned, then banished another werewolf who was just getting up straight into the wall. The man hit it with a sickening crunch, head first, then slid down to the ground, leaving a red stain. Two down. Another, identifiable as a recruit since he was wearing local clothes, tried to pull a piece of the door out of his leg. Aberforth hit him with a series of stunners before he realised he was being targeted. Three down.

A werewolf jumped up from behind the couch, and Aberforth was forced to defend with summoned objects and his shield while he stepped around the room. When the couch was behind the man, he transfigured it into what most biologists would call a Cave Bear.

The animal attacked the Death Eater agent with a roar, and even Voldemort's agent froze for a second in the face of such fury. Aberforth used that opportunity to shatter the man's shield, at which point the Bear's claws and fangs made short work of the werewolf.

Aberforth didn't see any other threats, and was about to congratulate himself on a job well done when he heard the cries of a baby from the kitchen. He charged inside, wand out, and found himself threatening a little boy holding a baby while hiding inside the pantry.

When the boy bent over the baby, apparently trying to protect it from him with his life, Aberforth felt like a monster himself.


The Dark Lord Voldemort smiled when he read the note. It looked like Greyback had managed to accomplish something before his demise. Now if only Baker could manage his affairs in Scandinavia as successfully! But Greyback's replacement had sent but a few werewolves to Voldemort so far, claiming that it took so long to set up a secure way to ferry them to Britain. Cheap excuses, but then again - what could he expect from an animal, even a more civilized one such as Baker?

This Ejnar Borgen though, he had potential. He had heard of the werewolf from Greyback himself. An experienced leader of warbands, but without a pack of his own. A mercenary, at times, even though his loyalty to the werewolves of Scandinavia was supposedly unshakeable. Well, that didn't matter. Voldemort only needed him for the next offensive, during the full moon. Afterwards, Britain would be broken.

He rubbed his chin while he mused. The warband Borgen spoke of needed a secure base. He could provide that. Assigning more werewolves to his band would increase his effectiveness, though Voldemort doubted that the British beasts would work well with berserkers. Though, his Scandinavian followers would fit in well. Maybe a bit too well, even.

It didn't matter, he decided. A few more days and the full moon would rise, and Britain would be his.

"Bellatrix!"

"Yes, master?" His lover appeared at his side at once, dropping the book she had been reading. She was eager, he knew, to serve.

"I have a mission for you. Meet with this werewolf, and ascertain if he and his warband can be trusted - for the next few days, at least."

His Bella nodded, a wide smile on her face. She was even more eager than himself to finally break Britain.

Just a few more days.