Disclaimers: Dark themes, police state ideas, mention of spousal abuse (including rape) on and off-screen, death of minor characters, graphic imagery and violence, frank sex discussion, copious bad language, villainising the Weasleys and Dumbledore, liberties taken with mythical history and the HP real-life timeline.

Harry threw up his umbrella against the rain and walked through the large quad just outside the Sheldonian Theatre, as he moved briskly through the falling twilight of the city. He stopped a moment to admire the vista. The lights of Oxford blinked though the drizzly haze of the evening, a thousand splendid spires at this seat of Muggle learning power.

And Harry allowed himself a moment to think.

And the only thing he could think about was his son. It sent him wildly euphoric just to entertain the idea. He couldn't hold the notion at all steady in his mind for more than a few seconds, before it threatened to drive him to distraction. A son, a little boy … suggested by his father, confirmed and fleshed out by Celesca, who had all but made herself Harry's daughter-in-law of her own volition.

Harry didn't think this was such a bad development, actually. It might have put a pause on Hermione's kidnap plans for the adorable little Seer, several of which had reached a significantly advanced stage of progress by now. Harry chuckled to himself as he thought of that. Poor Hermione … what a conflict it must be for her! Kidnap Celesca and make her their daughter on the one hand, versus denying their unborn son the wife of his dreams on the other.

Even if little Celesca did say so herself!

Harry continued to chortle to himself as the rains came down a little harder. He pulled his jacket tight and moved off again, his thoughts firmly fixed on his future family. A son, two daughters, maybe a black and white kneazle kitten called Mimi … all with the love of his life by his side at they sat proudly at the head of it … it was picture postcard perfect.

And it seemed a small thing just then, to burn down the whole world just to make it happen.

And tonight was when Harry would begin to truly light the touch-paper.

He'd been out here for three days. He missed Hermione terribly, but he'd left her in charge of everything back home and there was so much to do. He had no interest in taking a curse, so he was in a shoot-on-sight sort of mode. But, so far, he'd not come across much danger. Which concerned him. It meant the enemy were up to something, plotting and scheming in the quiet. It was too quiet, Harry didn't like that.

For Tom Riddle was a loud, showy bell-end. If he'd gone quiet, it meant something particularly loud and showy was on the horizon.

So Harry and Hermione were going to strike first. And second, throw a little spanner into Tom Riddle's best workings. For their plan was two-pronged. The first part involved this little jaunt to Oxford. Harry had set up a clandestine meeting with two of his insiders and he hoped they'd come through for him. There were no guarantees these days. The Death Eaters had clamped down hard in recent weeks.

They'd publicly executed Jimmy Peakes just a few days ago, which Harry had been gutted to learn about. He'd always been a reliable wizard, tough and gnarly, a wizard who preferred blunt-force trauma to Harry's delicate subtlety, but he was a worldly sort. To lose him was a blow, but Harry knew he'd had a death wish since the demise of his close mate, Ernie MacMillan. Jimmy had never forgiven himself, for not being there the night Malfoy had butchered MacMillan, and it was only a matter of time before he martyred himself for the cause.

At least he'd sonorus-charmed his voice and shouted 'Harry Potter Will Avenge Me!', while he was being incinerated at the Diagon Alley Burning Stake … even the state-manipulated Daily Prophet couldn't cover that one up.

But Harry didn't have time to mourn fallen foot soldiers just now. They would all be vaunted and honoured when Harry delivered Total Victory. For that was all he'd accept now. It was all Hermione's fault, really. She'd been so vitriolic about totally annihilating the Weasleys that Harry thought - fuck it, let's roll that idea out to ALL Death Eater families. He hadn't expected her to be onboard with that idea in the slightest …

The fact that she was honestly made Harry more than a little aroused. Her unapologetic, fighting fury was just the hottest thing …

Their kids … honestly! Would there be a more powerfully protected set of children in the history of the world, than the babies of Harry and Hermione Potter?

Harry rather imagined that there couldn't possibly have been. They would have the world as their playground when all this was over. They could come to schoolin one of the great colleges Harry was surrounded by tonight, if they so wanted. They'd certainly be clever enough, with Hermione's brainpower passed on to them. He wondered vaguely which one they might go to … Balliol, Trinity, Magdalen. He was overflowing with pride just fantasising about that. What would he be like if it actually happened?

Because Harry was totally going to open that avenue of possibility. And he didn't give a flying fuck how people he had to kill to make sure of that.

But, one death at a time. That's why he was here. A little bit of intel … two names, two locations, two cold-blooded murders to commit … one each for Mr and Mrs Potter.

Harry arrived at his meeting point, and took out his newspaper, the agreed-on signal to his comrades. He must have looked quite odd, getting sodden while reading The Times in the shadow of the jaw-droppingly impressive Radcliffe Camera building. He was only waiting a minute, though, as the doors to the building opened and two figures emerged, arm-in-arm like a couple of sweethearts taking a late night stroll in the inclement weather of a standard British evening.

"Longbottom, good to see you," said the man as they met, his deep Scottish brogue chiselled and gritty. "You've lost weight."

"It isn't Neville, Oliver … it's me," Harry whispered back, raising his umbrella to reveal whatever part of his face was visible beneath his shawl, which was a bottle-green shade tonight to aid with his camouflage of overall black.

"Potter! Good god! Is that really you?"

"It's me,"Harry repeated, shaking the hand of his one-time Hogwarts Quidditch Captain. "It is good to see you again, Oliver."

"My god, I never thought I'd see this day!" Oliver exclaimed. "I knew you were alive, of course I did, but part of me still didn't truly believe it. To hear your voice, Harry … it gives me such hope, I just can't tell you. Come on, let's move out of the light."

"Thank you, Oliver, and I promise you that your hope is not misplaced," Harry replied, low and gruff. He turned to the girl as they started to walk to a more secluded spot. "Miss Midgeon, we never properly met at school, but I am glad to see that you are still alive."

"Only because of Olly, here," said Eloise Midgeon, pushing back her wet fringe. Harry was warmed to see that her nose was still off-centre, another middle-finger salute to the bigotry of Ron Weasley. "He married me last year, so it's Mrs Wood, actually. It kept me out of the hands of the Muggleborn Registration Commission, and I thought that was a good enough reason to fall in love with him! I … I have to say … sorry if I seem a bit astonished tonight but, it's just … Harry Potter … actually alive! Olly told me, of course … and we've all heard the rumours and propaganda about you, but … well …"

"Seeing is believing?" Harry offered, lightly.

"Something like that," Eloise blushed.

"What you're doing is very brave," said Harry. "I know the risks that you are both taking, and I have more respect for you that I will ever be eloquent enough to communicate properly. I don't want you to do anything too dangerous, though. Be sensible and keep your heads off the chopping block. I intend this all to be over very soon. I don't want any more unnecessary deaths before I deliver freedom to the country."

"Can … can we see your face, Harry?" Oliver asked. "It's a fine disguise, but …"

"It's no disguise, Oliver," Harry growled. "Voldemort cursed me that night I was rumoured to have died. The memento of that is hidden beneath this shawl. Trust me, you would be happy to go your whole life without seeing what the effect of Avada Kedavra truly looks like. And I have no intention of showing you."

"Fair enough," Oliver baulked, gulping at Harry's firm tone. "You heard about Peakes?"

"Yeah," Harry spat. "Damned shame, that."

"Then let's hope this can help you make amends," said Oliver as he slipped Harry a dossier of parchment papers. "This is all our information on Antonin Dolohov. For the past three years he has headed up the Magical Air Corps as Chief Commodore, even though he does little flying himself. After your emergence all Death Eater top brass have been ensconced in secure locations to continue their work."

"And where is Dolohov now?" Harry pressed, resizing and stowing the dossier under his jacket.

"East Anglia, at the Air Marshallry," Oliver explained. "There are a couple of interesting things you ought to know about the place, Harry, before you head out there."

"Go on."

"Well, the first one is that the location in remote, far away from the nearest town," Oliver began. "And the reason for the isolation is because this is where the Death Eaters train their dragon-rider divisions."

Even Harry shuddered at that piece of news. "But they aren't really dragon-riders are they?"

"No, dragons are far too wild and feral for wizards to control in such a precise way," Oliver agreed. "But the dragons are used in battle in as indiscriminate a way as Hannibal and his Carthiginians used elephants against the Roman Empire. Random, aggressive and unpredictable … and as likely to kill your own troops as the enemy's."

"Not that Tom Riddle cares about such losses as that," Harry bitched. "Okay, so I have to deal with some dragons. What else were you going to say?"

"Only this … that the place has another, altogether more personal, pull to your attention," Oliver replied. "As the Air Marshallry is the base of the Magical Air Corps, it is largely presided over by the Chief Flying Ace of the Corps … a wizard who was widely regarded as the best Hogwarts Seeker to never play professionally for England, until you came along, of course."

Harry bristled with searing anger, his eye popping in dark malice.

"Charles fucking Weasley!"

"Well, I don't know if fucking is his middle name, but yes, he runs the Marshallry," Oliver smirked. "I thought you might be interested to know that, considering the rumours about your displeasure with that family."

"Call it by the proper name, Wood … this is a Blood Feud," Harry seethed. "The sort rarely seen since the Middle Ages. I thought it was high time to bring the trend back. I'll have a few going before this conflict is all over."

Oliver Wood chuckled at that. "I can imagine. Well, I thought you might want to know about Weasley, maybe see it as a chance to put this 'Best Flier' question to bed once and for all."

"Oh, I can guarantee you that I will," Harry growled lowly. He ground his jaw fiercely … he was going to kill a lot of flying vermin on this hunt. But he wasn't just here for that, so he moved to speak to Eloise next. "And what about the other?"

Eloise turned her eyes on him. "Mrs Lestrange … my lady … is currently staying close to her daughter at the Ethel Hallow Young Witches Academy. But on Sunday night, the Mothers of the New Order are all attending the opening night of one of King Voldemort's favourite plays … a performance of A Tale of Two Cities at the Hippodrome on Fissick Alley in London.

"As Head of Mrs Lestrange's household, it will be left to me to look after young Delphini for the evening. If your wife wishes to get access to the child, there will be no easier time. I can subdue the girl, then be there to open the door to hand her over without causing much disturbance at all."

"Excellent," Harry nodded. "Hermione may have to make it look like a legitimate kidnapping. She may need to Stun you for your own safety."

"I understand," Eloise nodded. "Did you say Hermione? As in Hermione Weasley nee Granger?"

"The same," Harry frowned, rolling his jaw at the mention of Hermione's former name. "Though we prefer Hermione Potter these days."

"It has a much nicer ring to it," Eloise smiled. "I am glad for you both. Even under this tyranny, regular people pitied Hermione for being married to Ronald Weasley. The shame alone must have been hard to endure."

"The regular beatings were worse," Harry scythed.

"Oh, I'm sorry … I didn't know," Eloise apologised in a fraught tone. "At least, not for sure. I didn't know Hermione at all, but spousal abuse is par for the course for the Death Eaters. I understand it is pretty much a metric by which their viciousness is judged."

"I believe it is," Harry fumed. "And I intend to make them all pay for that particular crime. So, Bellatrix and Ginny will be together on Sunday night, watching that play?"

"Yes, there is a big celebration being held, I understand," Eloise confirmed. "They are welcoming the vacuous hoe, Cho Chang-De-Mort, into their little club. She gave birth to her first spawn by the Dark King just recently, in case you didn't know."

Harry sighed and closed his eye, feeling dirty that he had ever kissed that slimy witch. Harry swallowed the acid taste in his mouth, and then began to recite dramatically. "It is a far, far better thing I do now, than I have ever done … a far better resting place that I send those dirty cunts to … then they have ever deserved …"

"I don't think they are the words, Potter," Oliver smirked.

"I know, but I like my version better," Harry grinned. "Maybe I'll petition for a change in the text!"

"I'm sure most of us would approve," Oliver chortled. "But Harry, I would reconsider attacking the Hippodrome, if you are thinking about it. It smells like a trap to me, too much honey in the pot, if you get my meaning."

"I tend to agree, more's the pity," Harry sighed, ruefully. "It's the kind of thing to try and tempt me out. But I intend to have a more personal hand in my revenges on Bella and Ginevra. I have uses for both, before I end their worthless lives."

"How long, Harry?" Oliver asked, quietly. "How long till this is over?"

"Soon, Wood, soon," Harry promised. "I want to take my wife on a stroll along the Thames in the Christmas snow. That's three months away … but Hermione will want me to get this done in two! She's such a demanding bride!"

"Which bride isn't?" Wood funned, drawing Eloise close to him. Harry looked fondly at them a moment.

"You know what, screw this," Harry stated bluntly. "On Sunday, Eloise, my Hermione will come to you and take possession of this child of Voldemort and Lestrange. When she is gone, it will be too dangerous for you to stay. Bella could likely kill you for failing to protect the girl. Pack up some things, you too Oliver, and Hermione will take you with her to somewhere safe. Your part in this will be done then."

Wood gripped firmly onto his wife. "You … you mean that, Harry? You'll take us with you?"

"I will," Harry nodded. "You've done incredible work, Wood, all leading up to this moment. After Sunday, our resistance will be fully exposed and you will be under too much risk. I'll take all of that now.

"So, get yourselves ready to leave. Just try and stay alive till then."

"We will," Wood told him. "Oh, and Harry, one more thing … Dolohov is taking the opportunity on Sunday to host a party of his own, in the absence of his own wife to this outing on Fissick Alley. They are legendary for their level of seedy debauchery … drugs, drink, Witches of the Night … they put even the diciest brothels on Immore Alley to shame. Here's a ticket … with that shawl, you should blend in just perfectly!"

Two nights later saw Harry, Neville and Patrick O'Brien hidden in a densely wooded area of East Anglia on the English East coast. The darkness of the sea bobbed and dipped all the way to the moonlit horizon, but Harry and his team had mind only for the large, country manor in the foreground.

"It's a big place," Neville observed, gravely. "Dolohov could be anywhere inside, assuming we can get past the dragons first!"

"He's an arrogant tosser," Patrick offered. "We all know that. He'll be in the top floor, the biggest room, without doubt."

"I agree," Harry nodded. "Which makes it a bit harder to reach him, but it is what it is."

All three breathed in as they shared this solemn realisation.

"But we have to deal with the guard detail first," Harry went on. "From what I understand about these parties, they get out of control very quickly … and this one has been going on for a few hours already. Our best hope is that a skeleton security force has been left to monitor things … and my hope is that Charles Weasley is heading it."

"He is known to be a tee-totaller and perfectionist," Neville added. "Strikes me as the kind of man to let his men go wild while he holds the fort."

"I'm counting on that, too," Harry agreed.

"So, your plan, Boss?" Patrick asked.

"I'm going to draw out the defenders," Harry began, nodding to his Firebolt nearby. "Once their tracking spells detect an incursion, they'll send someone up to investigate … then we'll see what happens."

"And if it's Weasley?" Patrick pushed.

"I'll gut the prick," Harry spat bitterly. "Actually, I'll make it more artistic than that. I'll cut out his eyes as a little note for Old Tom, see, to tell him I'm watching him, or that I'll see him soon. I can't remember what my plan was, actually, but I think the eyeballs will be a pretty cool piece of window dressing, whatever I decide to say."

"Wow. Who knew your Quidditch rivalry with Weasley went so deep," Neville chuckled. "Don't worry, Harry, we know that you were the best."

"Yeah, I know it, too … but not all of Gryffindor did," said Harry, patiently. "Charlie was always that one Thestral-botherer that people said was 'Gryffindor's Best Ever Seeker' … like, ever! … and that he should have played Quidditch for England … and that he was faster and better than me, no matter how many games I won single-handedly … and that always irritated the flying fuck out of me, you know … Merlin, how I'd have loved to have killed him … so, now's my chance.

"But not only that, there's a personal slant to this particular Weasley-hunt. Charles Weasley gave Ron the ring that bound Hermione to him, after Bill and Arthur refused the job. He entrusted my beautiful witch to four years of hurt and bondage, knowing exactly what he was doing when he did it. So this death is for her, too."

"Then go to it," Patrick encouraged, offering Harry his broom. "We'll be waiting to party when you're done."

Harry stood, tightened the toggles on his battlerobe, mounted his Firebolt and kicked off into the night.

It was only a short flight before he knew he'd crossed the defence perimeter of the Air Marshallry. The protective grid was fairly dense, but Harry blasted through it with a decently powered spell. He was cheered by that, that he'd actually had to put some effort in to get through, even though he was left with a rancid residue on his magic for the aggressive incursion. But he smirked darkly to himself nonetheless, optimistic now that perhaps there might be some sport tonight after all.

Harry was careful to circle the perimeter as far away from the manor house as he could, which was about two miles away in the distance. If they sent dragons out here Harry wanted the fight to be away from notice … it wouldn't do for Dolohov to get wind of what was happening and get a chance to slip away.

It didn't take long for Harry's secret to get out. Holding himself in a hovering pose and focusing his mind on the powers of the air, Harry felt the tell-tale ripple of human energies on the breeze. Three of them, in an arrowhead formation. Harry ground his jaw in anticipation, for he recognised the signature of the lead broom. The Weasley link from Percy's soul in Harry's mind suddenly ignited, as if in fervoured excitement, and Harry was in no doubt as to why.

For Charles Weasley was gunning for him at top speed.

Perhaps he knew, Harry considered idly. Perhaps the link had erupted in him, too, and Charlie either thought that his brother had finally come home or … whatever else he might have believed, as Harry was sure that he wouldn't have been able to guess Percy's true fate. After all, Harry hadn't yet decided on that, either, so how could anyone else have been expected to know?

But Harry had no time to think about that. The brooms were racing to intercept him and he had to act fast. It was time for a bit of fun. Harry wanted Charlie to know it was him who took his life when the time came, but for now Harry had to deal with the spares. Throwing on his Invisibility Cloak … which he had modified for broom flight … Harry dropped into a low circle below where he had left his signature as a beacon on the air. And there, he waited.

Harry spotted Charlie at the centre of the three broom-mounted wizards as soon as he was floating above him. The temptation to crash a fierce spell into his face was borderline overwhelming, but Harry held himself steady. Then he held his broom vertical a moment, before rocketing upwards like an invisible dart, piercing straight though the middle of the circle the Death Eaters had formed. The shock wave caused by his rapid passing was powerful enough to send the other brooms all spinning away as if caught in a sudden gale.

"What the hell!" one of the security guards called. It was a witch, Harry observed, ashamed of his chauvinism a moment. Not that it made any difference. She'd die just the same as any wizard. "What was that?"

"Potter!" Charlie Weasley called out into the night. "I know you are here! Show yourself, coward!"

So, he could sense him then, Harry thought. Then he had an idea. Flicking a Legilimency Spell at Charlie he pushed his taunting words into his mind.

"I see you, Charlie boy … do you see me?"

Then Harry flicked a powerful Incendio spell at the broom of the witch who had spoken. The tail-twigs caught first, and soon the whole thing was aflame, a stark shock of brightness against the night sky. The witch shrieked in high-pitched agony as the flames sped up her robes, much too panicked by the sudden attack to react. Her broom crackled and spat and within less than half a minute split in two. Harry watched the witch slide through the middle of the broken broom, casually observing her wand twirling away in a gust of wind, as she dropped it on her way to falling to the ground, over a hundred feet below …

One down.

Harry gunned his broom away as Charlie and the other guard fired spells in the direction his own had come from, but he was long gone by the time the acid-green spell tails shot through and dissipated into the night. Harry fired yet another fireball at the second guard, but he was ready for it, spinning clear as the flame nicked at his broom, which still needed magical dousing as it began to smoulder.

"So, you like to play with fire, do you, Potter?" Charlie taunted into the night. "Let's see how you deal with some of ours!"

Charlie fired a spell towards the ground that took the form of a series of greyish smoke rings. They shot away at some speed, but the sound that came back moments later caused Harry's heart to race even faster than that. For first he heard the beat of powerful wings, then the throaty bellows of blood lust fever, as two aggressive dragons rose into the air and joined the fight.

Now the problem with dragons, Harry soon realised, was that they had an exceptional sense of smell. His Invisibility Cloak was largely useless against them. The dragons surged towards him from behind, converging from left and right, firing gouts of flame towards the scent trail Harry was leaving in his wake. Only a clever bit of quick-thinking saved him from being burned to a crisp.

He tugged his Firebolt to a complete stop, meaning the flames passed him on either side as they met at a point that he would have been at, had he kept flying. But it was only partly successful, as the sudden stop caused Harry to collide with the firm snout of one of the dragons, sending him pirouetting away at some speed. His Firebolt jerked and vibrated in protest, but it wasn't terminally damaged and Harry soon had it under control, as the dragons circled around for another attack.

And as the dragons screeched and shot yet more fire at Harry, the two wizards got a better clue of his location. Darting between the great beasts, Charlie fired off powerful spells in Harry's general direction, getting lucky with one that hit Harry in his shoulder, as he darted to avoid the dragon's fiery breath. To be fair, Harry acknowledged, he was a good flier, and his magic stung, too. He had to give that to him, as his shoulder blade ached and he could feel the warm trickle of blood sliding down his back from where Charlie's curse had hit him. He was going to enjoy getting him back for that.

One of the dragons, a Chinese Long-Tail, got a little too close to catching Harry's broom with a claw swipe and so he decided that enough was enough. Curling into a vertical climb to escape the pursing enemies, Harry did a complete loop at high speed to end up behind the labouring security wizard at the back of the group, who wasn't the most accomplished flier and seemed wary of getting too close to the dragons ahead of him. A powerful Stunner from Harry knocked him out, a fierce blasting curse reduced his broom to shards of useless wood, and he fell tumbling through the night sky to the ground all that way below … where his death was waiting for him.

Now to deal with Charlie and the dragons.

Harry threw off his Invisibility Cloak, stowing it carefully as he hovered in mid-air and showed himself at last. The dragons shrieked and barked in angry fury at the sight of him, as Charlie coaxed them into flanking positions on either side. He really did have a way with the creatures, Harry mused, as Charlie aligned himself with the Chinese Long-Tail a moment, before suddenly shooting for Harry in the direction of the Common Welsh Green, who was waiting in the distance.

This is what Harry had been hoping for. Angling his broom, Harry arrowed towards the hulking dragon, too, who was the larger of the two animals, with Charlie and the Long Tail in hot pursuit. Harry waited and waited, until the very last minute, slowing to allow Charlie to gain on him almost to touching distance, before he pulled up in what was probably the most daring move in the history of bloom flight …

… and at the same time he called out in his own Welsh variant of Parseltongue, addressing the dragon born of his own ancestral kingdom, and ordered it to defend her Prince with as much fire as she could muster.

"The Wronski Feint," Harry heard Charlie mutter in an impressed tone, as Harry curved and soared over his head … the last words of his life as a gout of Welsh Dragon fire ripped through wizard and broom and burned all the flesh from his bones in one blast. Harry was reticent a moment, as he realised that he wouldn't be able to send Tom Riddle that message after all. Then he remember he could still use Dolohov for it instead. That would do quite nicely, he comforted himself.

Then he gunned himself away, as the two dragons began to fight each other. Harry had no mind for that, couldn't help at all. Besides, he had his own new duel to think about.

Harry, Neville and Patrick approached the large front doors of the manor house and showed their tickets, which Harry had duplicated from the one given to him by Oliver Wood. These were security trolls, far too stupid to spot a forgery, especially one as sophisticated as Harry's. He'd learned that skill from a master forgerer in Tel-Aviv, during his apprenticeship with Dietmar and his ZGD. Harry was eagerly looking forward to renewing his partnership with The Bavarian Bombshell when they went to Egypt soon.

For it seemed that killing Charlie Weasley had given Harry the taste for Weasley blood again.

But he had to concentrate on the task at hand for now, put fun on the back burner and stay focused and cool-headed. This was a professional assassination, not a recreational kill. In any case, Antonin Dolohov was a dangerous mark, perhaps more accomplished with his wand than all the Weasleys put together … not that that was saying much.

Past the trolls, up the sweeping gravel driveway and bowed through the doors by a pair of ragged house-elves, Harry and his team mingled at the party awhile. Harry had given Neville and Patrick clean shawls of his so that they would blend in as a theme, pretending that they were three stereotypical nomadic wise men from some indistinct region of the world or something. There was some consternation over cultural misappropriation here, but as Harry saw more than one 'Y with an extra line' emblem adorning some of the others at the party … the symbol of the 'Font of Life' project, a sister icon of the swastika, an initiative of which Antonin Dolohov was a prominent exponent … Harry knew that his own vague racial misdemeanour would help to draw less attention to them.

And it worked. Taking drinks and moving about the house, Harry and his team attracted only casual curiosity from the other revellers around them, and nothing more voluble than complimentary cries about their 'authentic' attire. Harry growled angrily at that, but not nearly as much as when a leggy witch in a sparkly mask, and only a micro bikini and high heels to defend her long-lost modesty, slinked up to him as he rounded the bannister of the staircase leading to the first floor.

"Hey, gorgeous," she swooned, rubbing her hand over Harry's chest. "I've never done a wizard in a mask like that before. What say you and I find somewhere private and make a little bit of magic, yeah? I'll even let you ride me like one of your camels."

Harry snatched at the witch's wrist and twisted it painfully away from his body, causing her to yelp and whimper pitifully. Harry was unmoved. He bored the furious gaze of his single eye into both of hers. She reeled back with the force of it.

"Touch me with your filthy hands again and I'll tear your arm from its socket, got it?" Harry snarled. "Go and offer your STD-riddled arsehole to some other prick and stay away from me, if you know what's good for you."

Harry shoved the witch-whore away and spat on the ground at her feet. Then he resumed his search, through billows of heady, opium-heavy fumes, through naked orgies where participants chalked off sex acts of every debased kind, and past depraved partner-swapping initiations of inductees new to this debauchery. Harry elbowed his way past them all, even punching one wizard to the ground as he tried to rope him in to take part in this sleaze. Not that the wizard complained, he simply writhed around in pleasure as he bled out from a smashed nose, thinking this was part of the sadism at work here and revelling in the sexual deviancy that pervaded the weighty, stinking air all around them.

"Where the fuck is Dolohov?" Harry scythed as he met up with Neville and Patrick on the third floor. He was gently massaging his knuckles, which were swelling from all the angry punches he'd just thrown. "I'm this close to setting fire to this disgraceful place."

He pinched his non-swollen thumb and forefinger together to emphasise his point.

"It's disgusting," Neville agreed. "The things people are doing to each other here … sick fucks, Harry. They need fire to cleanse them of all this. I do, anyway."

"I've managed to ask around on the quiet," Patrick whispered. "Dolohov is on the fourth floor. Private suite. Guarded. We'll either have to fight our way up there or dupe the guards some other way."

"Let me," Neville volunteered, grimly. "I've gotten a good handle on the place this last hour. Just follow my lead."

Dubious, but confident in Neville's skill, Harry walked in his slipstream as they moved to the small stairwell that led up to the top floor of the manor. Before they rounded the corner to it, though, Neville pulled them to a halt and reached forwards, tugging open their robes to reveal a tempting sliver of chest flesh.

"Trust me," Neville muttered, arranging Harry's robe to show his toned chest muscles. "Nice tits, Harry!"

"Fuck you, Longbottom," Harry smirked. "I hope you know what you're doing."

"I do … it's just a pity that I didn't swipe some of the baby oil from downstairs," Neville replied, ruefully. "There was loads about, too. Nevermind … this'll just have to do. Come on, and let me do the talking."

Neville opened his own robe almost fully and then marched purposely forwards. They had only mounted a stair or two when the guard wizards at the top of the little staircase darted down to them.

"Stop right there!" one shouted. "No access to Mr Dolohov's private suite without permission."

"We are a personal delivery to Mr Dolohov," Neville replied. Actually … he purred the words out. That was odd, but he must have learned well from Enola the arts of seduction, as he went on brazenly. "We are a gift ... from Mr Malfoy … and this is my permission right here."

Then he grabbed at his crotch and made to pull on the final tassel on his robe. The second guard jumped back fearfully.

"No, no, that's quite unnecessary," he blustered. "We just weren't aware that Mr Malfoy had sent another of his exotic 'gifts' to the party. Up you go … all three of you."

Neville winked at the guard and then ushered Harry and Patrick past as though they were mere second-class concubines. Harry waited until they were clear of the guards before addressing his Blood Brother.

"Good work," Harry smirked. "You almost had me believing it!"

"It's not my first time," Neville grinned back. "We are in the presence of Death Eaters … so we should expect flith of every kind."

"How did you know that Malfoy sent Dolohov sex wizard gifts, then?" Patrick asked.

Neville just shrugged. "I didn't. It was just a wild guess!"

"And a lucky one, too!" Harry chuckled. "Come on."

There was a pair of double-doors at the far end of the long red-carpeted corridor, leading to the master bedroom of the manor. Harry slowly opened the doors and looked inside. A ridiculously large bed with red satin sheets dominated the circular space and Harry saw the semi-naked figure of Antonin Dolohov spread out on top of it.

Dolohov was in erotic heaven, puffing on a large shisha pipe of a powerful narcotic and making smoke rings with the exhales, as four witches in see-through sarongs of different colours serviced his body with their mouths. Harry slammed the doors and sealed them with a spell, causing the witches to jump in shock … Dolohov was too spaced out to really know what was happening.

"Don't move!" Neville cried.

The witches leapt up, but were frozen in place by their surprise, hardly knowing what to do as their exposed breasts and slick crotches provided no protection from Harry's visceral anger as it pulsed through the air all around them. Patrick O'Brien eyed their nakedness wryly.

"Nonsense, ladies, by all means move!"

Unsure a moment, one of the witches swayed her hips seductively. It was all she could think of to do, it seemed. Harry raised his wand and disintegrated a vanity table off to the left of the bed, causing the witch to squeak and jump back in fear.

"He meant 'fuck off', you dirty slut!" Harry riled.

"Come on, girls," Patrick coaxed gently, raising his own wand, which was throbbing with his considerable magical power. "Into the walk-in wardrobe with you all. Stay quiet for the next fifteen minutes and this will all be over … and you will walk out of this with your lives intact."

The witches obeyed, following each other one by one into the vast wardrobe. Patrick closed it and stood in front of the door to keep guard as Harry advanced on Dolohov.

"I don't want it like this," Harry fumed. "It's too easy. I've always wanted to fight this guy … but not like this. Neville - dress him. I want to make some alterations in here."

Neville jumped to task. Dolohov was almost out of it, clinging to consciousness by the merest of intoxicated braincells. Neville dragged him to one side of the room, clumsily pulling his robe back around him as Harry set to spell-casting at breathtaking speed. He transfigured things so fast that Neville struggled to keep up, as he watched Harry turn the window blinds into deflector panels, the bed became a long, raised platform and the remnants of the smashed vanity table became two stools down at either end.

Satisfied with his work, Harry moved to Dolohov and dragged him to one of the stools, where he and Neville dumped him unceremoniously into a seating position. Neville had to hold him in place to stop him swaying drunkenly and falling off.

"What a disgrace," Harry seethed, shaking his head. He raised his wand. "Nev … stand aside. Go over by Patrick as soon as this prick can sit up on his own. Rennervate!"

Harry forced the sobering spell into Dolohov as firmly as he could manage. The bald-headed young wizard stirred and roused and Neville moved away as soon as Dolohov could hold his own body weight in place. Harry retreated slowly to the other stool at the end of the platform, where he sat patiently to wait.

It took two or three minutes … then Dolohov looked up as cogency returned to his brain.

"Potter? Is … is that you under there?"

"You still remember, Antonin," Harry taunted, conversationally. He always loved this bit, being calm before he brought his storm to bear on the poor bastard he was about to decimate. "I cannot help but be touched. I, of course, remember you … and that malicious little curse that nearly cost my darling bride her life, before I even got around to loving her properly. Tut, tut, Dolohov. That was a mistake you will pay for tonight."

"What is the meaning of this? How did you even get in here?" Dolohov demanded, sobering up fast.

"What? Past your pathetic excuse for security?" Harry mocked with a mirthless laugh. "I know children that could have gotten around them. Or do you mean Charles Weasley? I'm sorry to say that you are going to need to put out a job ad for a new Chief Formation Flier, Antonin … as Charlie just got fired by one of your own dragons!"

Neville and Patrick guffawed behind them. Dolohov scowled at the sound.

"So, what, Potter? The three of you are just going to torture me now, are you? How brave of you."

"No, Antonin, this is where I show you what happens to powerful wizards that your boss fails to kill," Harry taunted. "You see, I'm back to hurt every single one of you. I'll bite down a little harder, my blade's a little sharper, I'll strike back a little harsher, scream out a little louder, fuck every one of you a little badder. I'm stronger than you ever knew ... and I'm strong because of you. My roots run deep into the hollow, Antonin ... and even your Lord Voldemort couldn't tear me down.

"So on the contrary, Dolohov, this is just between us," Harry replied, dangerously. "It's been a lot of years since we last drew wands on each other, you and I … and I have been waiting since that night to fight you again, you know. Few of uncle Tom's people are worthy of being killed by wizards of our skill. Potent magic doesn't mean you can duel with honour. But you clearly can … you don't beat a legend like Filius Flitwick if you don't know how to handle a wand.

"Not everyone is like us, Antonin … they are not warriors," Harry continued lowly, standing and menacingly pacing the narrow width of the platform in an incessant loop. "But some people are just born that way. You have it … I have it … I know the warrior code burns inside you, as much as it does with me. And you've tried to kill two of my witches now, including my dear bride. This is something I can neither forget … nor forgive. Merely butchering you wont be nearly as satisfying as I need this to be.

"So … I propose we do the thing properly."

Harry reached into his pocket and threw Dolohov back his wand, drawing his own into a defensive position, just in case he was wrong. Dolohov caught his wand and stood, kicking his stool away as he made his feet again.

"You wish to duel me?" Dolohov muttered in astonishment. He was cautious, wary and surprised, but Harry couldn't tell if bravado or fear were his biggest drivers right now. "To the death? Play for blood, you say?"

"That's exactly my sort of game," Harry growled in reply. "No outside help, no Seconds … I want to know just what this clever purple curse of yours feels like, before I cut you to pieces with some magic of my own."

"Alright, Scarhead … let's do it," Dolohov sneered.

The two combatants approached each other, then brandished their wands in front of their faces. Next came a courteous bow, neither breaking gaze with the other, then they stepped backwards and away from one another in seven slow, deliberate paces. Harry felt his heart rate shoot up with each step, his magic tingling and flourishing between his fingers. He was ready.

But Dolohov fired first. Harry saw the arrow of purple flame speed toward him, and threw up a powerful Shield Charm to block it. Dolohov's Curse penetrated it almost to Harry's body, but for all its power it couldn't break through. In the second or so that the two spells collided, Harry cast a swift diagnostic spell over the curse, pushing the results quickly into one of his mind plains for analysis later.

Then he slashed his wand angrily through the air. His favoured Slicing Hex arrowed towards Dolohov at such speed that his own Shield Charm wasn't fully formed as it hit him. The Shield shattered, the Slicing Hex slammed into Dolohov's torso and ripped a huge gash from right shoulder to naval. Dolohov screamed as his flesh was torn open, causing Neville and Patrick to wince at the sound.

Two more of those and Dolohov would be dead.

"Fuck! Fuck!" Dolohov cursed, dropping to a knee and sealing the slash wound with magic. It hardly worked and Harry watched curiously. A part of his mind was whispering something about his pure Light magic resisting the Dark healing spell Dolohov was attempting, but Harry was in battle mode now and had little mind for anything else.

"Crucio!" Dolohov yelled, though his voice was shaky with pain.

"Pathetic!" Harry cried, lazily deflecting the Cruciatus Curse as it reached him. "A torture curse? In battle? What the fuck? Who taught you to duel, Dolores Umbridge? Confringo!"

Dolohov rolled clear of the Blasting Curse, as it smashed a hole in the floor of the platform where he'd just been knealing. His own reactive jinx hit Harry in the hip and he hissed at the burning sting of it.

"Better!" Harry grimaced, swaying his hip and allowing himself to feel the searing pain, to master it. That was a nasty little hex, that one. It would probably leave another scar, but Harry had plenty of room left for those. "Come on, Antonin! You're better than this! Stop trying to hit me and hit me!"

Dolohov got to his feet and fired off five quick curses, darting from side to side to avoid Harry's counter spells. Harry dodged, dipped, ducked, deflected and dodged again. This dance was becoming fun. Dolohov tried his signature curse again, but Harry was ready. He focused his latest Shield Charm so intensely that the spell didn't just hit it, it bounced back off and shot at Dolohov with twice the speed that he'd cast it. Dolohov had to dive off the platform to avoid being decapitated by his own curse.

"What's Harry doing?" Patrick whispered. "It's like he's not even attacking."

"This is what he does, he wears the opponent down," Neville replied, lowly. "This effort is costing Dolohov. He hasn't got much left. Look, he's breathing heavily, swaying … Harry likes his enemies to know that they cant beat him, even when he gives them every chance to do so, before he finishes them."

Neville was right. Dolohov fired off yet another volley of spells, but they travelled slower, and their colours were less vibrant, as Dolohov's energy was slowly sapped by the effort of the duel. Harry didn't even had to throw up Shield Charms now, he could could just side-step the curses as they sailed by … and each step was a forward one now.

"It's been a decent effort, Antonin," Harry nodded appraisingly as he stalked ever closer to his prey. "Don't feel bad that you haven't made much of a dent in me. Well, you've given me one or two ... which my wife will be very cross with me for allowing ... but she knows some good magical Reiki for that. But I'll let you in on a little secret, Antonin. You see, you haven't just been fighting my power tonight … even though I'd have beaten you with only that anyway … but I married my Hermione in a very special wedding ceremony. So now, our powers are fused as one. She empowers me, our magic combines into a single energy of ridiculous intensity and it hugely overpowers my spells … a bit like this."

Harry flicked another Slicing Hex at Dolohov's exposed gut. It tore through his fluttering robe and his flat stomach, tearing a gash so wide and vicious that his intestines spilled out through the opening as he screeched to the high heavens. He fruitless and pitifully tried to gather up his escaping organs and push them back inside his body, but they slithered away from him like greasy balloons.

"You put up a brave resistance against me," Harry went on. "But torturing Squibs has made you all soft, I'm afraid. You used to be thought of as the deadliest wand since Dumbledore in his prime … now I think you'd lose in a fight to Dumbledore's old goat. But I have one more use for you, Antonin, before I take your life."

Harry reached the Death Eater now, beaten and broken and out on his feet. Harry flicked and swished, Dolohov's abandoned wand soared into the air, and Harry shattered it with another blasting curse. Then he took Dolohov by the throat with his left hand, squeezed tight until blood bubbles popped from the corners of his lips, then angled his wand at the Death Eater's eye lids. Two quick cuts and the skin was quartered. Harry folded the quadrants of floppy eyelid back, then dug in with his fingers until he pulled Dolohov's eyes from their sockets to dangle against his cheeks.

His screams were so shrill and violent that even Harry winced a little.

"For taking my eye, for denying me the chance to gaze on my wife's beauty with unfettered vision, I take your eyes in the name of your Dark King," Harry hissed callously. He sliced his wand again, and the eyes were severed from Dolohov's head. "And for you … for daring to put a hole in my Hermione's heart … I destroy yours completely."

And Harry placed his wand to the centre of Dolohov's chest, drew in the biggest breath he could muster, focused all his magic to the pinprick point of his Holly and Phoenix feather weapon … then blasted a hole so big through Dolohov's ribcage that it could have housed a whole human head inside. Harry let go of Dolohov's neck, his body crumpled to the duelling platform where he lay quite still, and utterly dead.

"I'm done with this one," Harry announced casually, kicking Dolohov's smashed body away from him. "Nev, take a few samples of his blood. We may need it to reverse the curse effects on Hermione and Angharad. Pat … Memory Charm those witches in the wardrobe. Be gentle with them, this is probably the only way they manage to stay alive, by flogging their bodies to filth like Dolohov. No point in breaking their minds, too. Then you both get yourselves back home."

"What about you?" Neville asked, stepping forwards as Patrick vanished into the walk-in wardrobe. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going back to Oxford, to keep an eye on Hermione as she kidnaps the Delphini girl," Harry replied. "I don't want her to know I'm there … I think that she wants to do this on her own … but I cant just sit around and wait while she's out and all exposed in the world. So I'm just going to watch from a distance under my Cloak, just to be on the safe side."

"Good idea," Neville nodded. "I'll get this blood back to Arianwen, get her analysing it for a serum. What are you going to do with the eyes?"

Neville nodded to Dolohov's bloody eyeballs, which Harry was still holding in his hand.

"I think I'll send one to the Fissick Alley Hippodrome, along with Percy Weasley's eye-glasses, I think we still have them at the Palace, don't we?" Harry replied darkly. "I'll put them in a little parcel at the Box Office, care of Ginevra Weasley-De-Mort. But not before I configure them with a clever little spell I've been working on … one that will project back whatever one eye sees to the other, which I'll keep in my Ritual Room. If we're very lucky, Ginny will take it to directly to Riddle, or even to Ron … and we'll see just where those little bastards are hiding from us.

"Then, Lord Longbottom, you and I will have found our final hunting ground of this fucking war."

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