Harry Potter: A Change of Direction

by greenchild24

Who knew that deciding to take a walk after the Goblet of Fire could change your life? Especially when all you want is a little help... H/HR already handwritten.

12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12: Dumbledore's Gamble and Voldemort's Manoeuvre

He breathed the old and yet still somehow fresh air deep into his ancient lungs.

For the majority of the last few decades, this place had been his, this had been his choir and he was the trusted conductor of melody and harmony. Then Harry Potter had disappeared and it had started a chain of events that had altered the delicate balance that he had tried to maintain. The withdrawal from Britain had come, the Magical United Kingdom had fractured and there had been so much death.

He still remembered the politicians scurrying like headless chickens in the moments before the Death Eaters entered the building and forced them to flee. They were supported, of course, by a large percentage of the Auror Force and Minister Parkinson himself.

Now, instead of feeling energized in this room, he felt every one of his many years.

All of his political power was either spent or invested in managing the hunt for Harry Potter (unofficially of course) and the stalemate that he found himself in with Voldemort. His reputation was hiding that fact at the moment, but only for the moment, and he did still have his hardcore supporters… that was all though.

Every new meeting felt like it added an extra decade to his life as the question of Magical Britain was raised and blocked time and time again. Every deflection led to a new frustration and a new complication to his life.

Dumbledore sighed as he prepared to go into battle once again.

-HPCOD-

'The people that watch the old fool don't do so with kind looks anymore,' thought Antonin Dolohov as he internally smirked. 'It's hard to keep the respect of so many people when you lie or mislead them so often,' he shrugged internally 'granted the Dark Lord, Rookwood and Parkinson all direct me to do the same thing. We don't pretend to be anything other than what we are, we may misrepresent who is actually in charge but we don't pretend to be white knights riding to the rescue. We also have wealth, a stable economy and an absence of compassion that keep us afloat while the soft-hearted has been is failing more every day.'

Still, they did have other problems, one specifically that had defied all direct and subtle attempts to draw him out, namely Harry Bloody Potter. The 'pardoned' Death Eater had no idea why the Dark Lord was still interested in the boy and he knew better to question it as he didn't fancy the slow and agonising death that would come if he pissed Voldemort off. Parkinson hadn't said, but it was clear that he didn't know either, nor did he seem to care as he was busy planning to break through into Wales and, from there, into Ireland as well.

Still, they had their orders and he would obey them.

He had argued with the Minister (though again, very carefully and very politely) against using this backup plan of theirs but, it hadn't come from him and Parkinson had no patience nor time to think of something else to offer the Dark Lord instead. The reason that he had argued so long against it was that they were still not ready to face the possible fury of the I.C.W. and what they were going to do could force them to act before Britain was ready. Taking back Scotland would ruffle few feathers, Wales none (given that no one represented it and it was still technically former land of theirs anyway) and Ireland fewer than Scotland as they were contested these days between Scotland and England.

The backup plan though, if triggered would breach the statute of Secrecy in one of the most obvious ways.

Thankfully though the backup plan should only come into effect if Dumbledore launched an attack on British soil and, instead of being eagle-eyed for the few traces of their plan he was busy trying to stop attention focusing on him. The war between the two was bloody and had many minor breaches after all and that alone would eventually cause the I.C.W. to take notice of both of them.

In short, he was trying, with everything he had, to assign every atrocity to England and Parkinson's regime rather than his own and hoping that this would mean that, if the I.C.W. finally roused themselves, it would be at Britain's expense and not his.

Both sides knew that it wasn't like they could do nothing. Argentina had tried to use that reasoning years ago and had been an object lesson in the idea that ignorance is never an excuse.

So, as far as Dolohov was concerned, this would be another meeting where he would have to counter Dumbledore's pitiful calls for humanitarian aid and blame-shifting, all the while pure-bloods from other countries would hear (through rumour and certain family connections) of the greatness of Britain and bolster the wizarding population there even as that of Scotland dwindled and were lost through attrition.

Still, his other task of finding Potter was of equal importance simply because the Dark Lord had commanded it and that plan could see everything fall straight away, like the most moth-eaten house of cards. The risk didn't matter, the fact that he disagreed didn't matter, he would not disappoint his master.

Voldemort had done this because he had grown impatient and angry at the lack of information over where the last Potter had gone. There was so much conflicting information about the boy, he had been sighted in so many countries, that the only thing they could be certain of was that he wasn't yet dead. If he was, the Dark Lord wouldn't still be searching for him.

Well, that and they knew he was once on an island, the same one the French had made a Protectorate and that it was possibly in the Caribbean but that was all.

What neither the Death Eater infested British Ministry or the Scottish one that was ruled by Dumbledore took into account was the fact that, when it came to Harry Potter, they both had the same idea. They were also both using this meeting as a cover for their attempt thinking that, in the hubbub of the usual disorder and distraction that these sessions produced they could act without anyone knowing it was them.

He was barely listening to Dumbledore's latest rant about the dire state of Scotland as he slowly and almost imperceptibly nodded, giving the signal that now was the time to end the hunt for Harry Potter. He did take notice though when, in one of his speeches natural pauses, Dumbledore received a note from the Master of Ceremonies. This was mainly because he went pale at reading it as if he was suffering from a great shock.

"The International Confederation of Wizards recognises the Protectorate of Nysa who have urgent… information… regarding the matter of Britain."

"Point of order!" The shout of the representative of Germany, Elias Billenburg, was unnaturally loud in the silence that statement had produced. "Are you not in conflict? How can you accurately preside over this issue when I know, for a fact that the note you just read states the cold war in Britain rather than the matter of Britain? Now is not the time for your equivocating or misdirection."

"I second the objection,' called the Russian Representative, long a political enemy of both Dumbledore's thanks to his rhetoric and Voldemort's due to the man's impudence.

A vote was swiftly passed and it was decided that, during this presentation, they would act without a Chief Warlock. This was a rare move that was always temporary and never used during trials.

This wasn't one though and therefore, when they had voted, ancient runes flared to life where Dumbledore sat, effectively caging him in his own opaque bubble. He would be unable to be seen or act until it was taken down although he would be given a transcript of what was said when the session was finished.

Even as that happened, Dolohov remained silent as he was unsure whether this was good for him or not and not wanting a similar fate to befall him. As long as that didn't happen he could at least attempt to mitigate any damage that might come from the group of grey cloaked figures currently entering the Conclave's floor.

Even as he did that two figures moved off to do their respective master's will

-HPCOD-

Twelve grey cloaked individuals stood in the middle of the chamber, flanking Fleur Delacour who was their designated ambassador of Nysa for this situation. With her were Team Septimus (the healing and support team), Beta (a research team), Gamma (protection team) and the Alpha team. None of those who were members, aside from the French delegation, had any idea of their designations or their specialised purpose but, they knew what Shadows were or at least they thought they did.

"We are here today," Billenburg began as it fell to him, by tradition in lieu of Dumbledore now, to introduce to the Conclave the matter at hand, "to hear what the island nation of Nysa has discovered about the disturbing situation that has developed in Britain over the last five years. I feel I must remind my illustrious colleagues that we are adults here and that, as this is an open session... if you wish to question or rebut any statements you must light your wands and wait for the signal to speak. Ambassador Delacour, the floor is yours."

Amelia Bones had been called away and, at the last minute, the Delegation had needed someone else to fulfil her role. Thankfully, they already had someone in place to do that and (to his great relief) it wasn't Harry.

Alpha One watched impassively behind his mask as this dog and pony show began to play out. It was needed but, oddly enough, was more distasteful to him than killing someone in a back alley. This wasn't a surprise to him though as he had long held a deep distaste for politics.

He was privately amazed that Fleur, who steeled her jaw as she was about to speak, was not only very good at it but actually seemed to enjoy the challenge that venues like this presented. She was also very skilled at giving just enough information to be useful, without giving more than they wanted others to know and though Harry could do that himself it wasn't his natural inclination and he had only become good at it by necessity.

In short, she had a gift and he had, by comparison at least, learned by rote.

'It's politics after all,' Harry thought while being faintly amused. 'It would be foolish not to bring a shark of our own to these bloody waters or to share everything that we know or can do.'

"We are here today for a few reasons," Fleur's voice echoed strongly around the large room. "The first of which is to simply clarify a few salient points regarding this new cold war that is currently largely confined to Scotland and England. The second reason is to expand on the reasons behind the current conflict as it informs the third point… our conclusions and recommendations."

"Why is any of this relevant?" Dolohov spat after signalling his desire to speak. "The past is dead. It is the future that matters."

"Perhaps, if you would listen you would find out." Harry's voice was cold as he spoke and, to others in the room he was an imposing figure that was seemingly made of granite in his grey robe, unmoving against the visible scorn that Dolohov was throwing his way. "The Magical Nations of France, Germany and Russia disagree, which is why we are here today… or are you saying that the view of Britain's Representative is more important than any other group in this body?"

No answer was forthcoming and, in those robes, Dolohov was not even sure if he was meeting the man's eyes let alone have any idea of who he was actually looking at.

"The first point," she continued as if the Death Eater hadn't spoken and before it could develop into an incident or a brawl, "is perhaps the most important at present as, without understanding it, the others will not be fully comprehended. This chamber is under the mistaken impression that this cold war is between the two towering personalities of Dumbledore and Edmund Parkinson. Despite what this chamber has been led to believe, this is a lie and we can now confirm that the man known as Lord Voldemort is not only alive and ruling Magical England but, that Edmund Parkinson is fully aware of this fact."

Proving that some of the people (all really)had a great deal of trouble acting like the adults they were supposed to be, there was pandemonium and shock at her words. Some rose to their feet, in outrage and disbelief even as Dolohov shouted over the din only to have to repeat himself when things eventually grew quiet.

"Preposterous. The esteemed former Minister Fudge assured this body that the coward Potter had been confounded by the former Death Eater Peter Pettigrew. Hardly surprising really as we in England are well aware that he has a weakness to such charms."

"The only thing steamed on Fudge was his large arse from the amount of hot air people pushed up the thing. By merlin, it is a wonder he didn't pop like a balloon halfway through his first term." Harry's disguised and disgusted voice entered into the unnatural stillness and caused many to laugh. "Besides, you are obviously dealing with bad information as the only other time he was accused of being confounded was when he stated that Pettigrew hadn't died when he was a baby… something you yourself have just admitted."

"Our Shadow is correct," Fleur continued before Dolohov could speak. "Is that not the very same excuse Fudge used to dismiss the idea of Lord Black's innocence? I seem to recall that the accusation was proven false...it must have been, why else would Lord Black be free rather than in a cell or dead?"

"The former Lord Black's status is not in question here. The rantings of a delusional child that ran away before he could be questioned are."

"That is an argument that you and your predecessors have used before, often when the question has been raised by France. However, despite your insistence to the contrary, Sirius Black is still Lord Black. His title, and that of Lord Emrys, are still valid because, though they have moved their holdings, they have not lost them and their titles on Nysa were ratified by this body at the same time. I suggest you speak of them with more respect… before you seem to question the judgement of every country here."

"None of which proves your claims," snapped a deflecting Dolohov, unwilling to have the entirety of the I.C.W. turn on him over a political insult.

"I notice," Alpha One said coldly but while smiling grimly behind his mask, "that you didn't deny any of the accusations. There is a very simple way to prove us all liars… you see that chair in the corner? Sit in it."

The chair that Harry referred to didn't look like much. It wasn't raised and didn't have any ornamentation like gold leaf or carvings of animals in it and it seemed to merely be cared out of one smooth piece of stone. This was an impressive feat but, like most things with magic, if you dipped beneath the surface it became more wondrous and terrible than most could imagine.

No one knew what combination of spells or enchantments were placed on it, that in itself had become something of a magical mystery with entire teams of people throughout the world trying to figure it out and failing each time, they only knew what it did. It made whoever sat in it tell the truth and while it wasn't as versatile as veritaserum in that it couldn't compel someone to tell the truth, it did prevent lies.

It was a holdover from the bygone age of the Wizard's Councils that used to govern their kind and had been given from what would be modern Poland. It had been in use for centuries and it had never been tricked, bypassed or fooled in any way. It was an ancient conundrum and marvel of wizardry that, perhaps, had only been equalled by the discovery of the Philosopher's Stone.

"I don't have to dignify your baseless accusations," Dolohov retorted. He was trying to save face in front of the expectant politicians and yet, in doing so in the way that he just did, also lending an air of truthfulness to what the delegation from Nysa was saying.

"Thought so," Alpha One said in a whisper though, thanks to the acoustics of the room and the quiet as people enjoyed the entertaining argument, everyone heard him. "However, we will and we will also include selected pensive memories for each countries Representative individual verification.

Dolohov paled at that but, if there was any objection that he could think of it ended before it began under the approving nods of his contemporaries.

-HPCOD-

Kingsley Shaklebolt tried not to grimace in distaste for his current assignment. True, he didn't like it but, he wasn't one to shirk when something was truly needed nor did he think that his own personal ethics were with complaining about given the stakes involved.

Dumbledore was their best hope, this he knew better than he knew his own name and had seen the man personally save many people in the last few years and sent people out (like himself) over the years to save even more.

The man had earned his trust and his loyalty with blood, sweat, tears and toil. This was why, when Dumbledore said (with absolute certainty in his voice) that Harry Potter was not only integral to the war effort but the only route to actually win the war due to a prophecy, he believed him. Dumbledore had faith in it and he had faith in Dumbledore.

He also accepted that Dumbledore was the only one qualified to guide Harry. After all the time that they had spent together, in the proverbial trenches, had shown what wisdom and power that lay behind the frail and ageing body of the Headmaster of Hogwarts. There was no one else of his power (that he knew of) save Voldemort and that was out of the question for many very obvious reasons.

'Though I'll never say it out loud but, I am proud of being of an Auror...not this, never this. I am not a spy, I never wanted to be one even before I found out what the Department of Mysteries did. Still, if we had any trained Unspeakables I wouldn't be here.'

It was more due to bigotry rather than innate talents but, when the old Ministry fell most of the skilled workers from any department didn't flee with Dumbledore but rather sided with Parkinson and Voldemort. The Department of Mysteries was the last one to fall (and they had managed to destroy all of their sensitive projects) but, when they did fall they didn't turn to Voldemort, they instead died to the last man.

Shaklebolt respected that about them at least, they had the chance to flee or capitulate the same way that everyone else did. Instead, they took their time to collect their research, which could have been used to create fearsome weapons for whoever ended up in charge, and took the opportunity to utterly annihilate any trace of it.

All it cost them were their lives, they made them pay dearly for it with a death ratio of at least five to one but numbers won the day in the end. More than that, their last act was to collapse the entire department as the death Eaters swarmed in like a tide of rats, raising the death count on both sides.

According to what little that they could gather, months after the fact, Voldemort had raged at the loss of so much personnel and equipment. He remembered when he had heard the news, it had been the cause of one of the very few rare smiles that he had managed to summon up in the last few years.

Still, he had a job to do and, like any other one, he would do his very best to succeed.

With a whispered unlocking charm he began his distasteful work. He opened the door and entered into the private office of the Representative of Magical France and began to rifle through the papers that were scattered all on an ornate and large desk. He was searching for the location of one Harry Potter and he would not be turned from his task.

-HPCOD-

Simon Parkinson never knew his mother. He had been taught that all she was, all she could ever be good for, was a receptacle for her betters. He was so indoctrinated in that belief, so attached to his father, that he never questioned the idea… it would be like questioning the colour of the sky.

As a bastard of House Parkinson, he had no claim on any assets of the Ancient and Noble House. Even with Gringott's firm in that and the evidence clear, his father had not abandoned him and Simon loved him for it.

It wasn't a healthy love though. It was twisted by his father's beliefs and lessons into a twisted and dark thing. Where love should soften and support this was unrelenting, blunt and almost fanatical in its devotion towards what his father wished.

He had never attended Hogwarts, so as to avoid the scandal, but his father had hired the best tutors in the world to train him. He had even opened a vault in the boy's name and provided all the wealth and equipment that he could ever want or need. At twenty-four he was as powerful as a man could be, as wealthy as any other noble but, critically, he was also invisible to them.

In return for this familial care, he became his father's right hand. Every dark thing that Minister Parkinson couldn't do because of his position, he did in the man's name. He spied, cheated, stole, blackmailed, extorted and even killed without a second thought and all for his father's approval. He had done this since he was thirteen years old.

So complete was his conditioning that, not only did he not think about his mother he would never realise that he was a mistake. Like any good politician, the man had simply turned that into an advantage, as he always wanted someone who was loyal and could do those things without risking himself.

He would never understand that his father didn't love him, that the man wouldn't view him as anything other than a filthy half-blood put to good use by his betters. He thought that his parents' relationship was a tragic case of forbidden love and would never bring it up for fear of hurting his father.

The truth was much darker of course. He was the product of a vicious rape that his mother had miraculously survived. The miracle didn't last though as, even though she escaped the beast of a man, he found them less than a year later. He never found out that it was his own beloved father who had murdered her while he slept peacefully in his crib and then took him from the only person who truly loved him even as her blood was cooling on the floor and splattered over his expensive shoes.

The only reason he believed that his father loved him was that it was useful to the man, nothing more and nothing less.

When he moved to do his father's will he was surprised to find Delacour's door unlocked and he entered the empty room, not realising that Shaklebolt had disillusioned himself the minute the door began to swing open.

-HPCOD-

"The memory of the Ressurection is compelling and the chair ensures that when this man… you are a man?" The Representative of the Magical Spanish Republic asked him and before she had even finished the question, he was nodding to the beautiful woman. "As I was saying, the Chair proves that the memory is accurately recorded and truthful because he can say it is while sitting there."

"Not true," Dolohov objected quickly while sneering at the cloaked figure. "It only proves that he believes it to be the truth, not that it is."

"Which is why we are offering each and every member here a copy of the memory for testing and a signed healers contract, done in blood, that I was suffering no compulsion, wasn't confounded or memory charmed as of fifteen minutes before this meeting." When Alpha One spoke to the man, he did so in the kind of voice that you normally reserve for a small child who is being stubborn. Such was the strength of the Shadows sarcasm, it even shone through the voice muffling charms on his mask and caused more than one member to chuckle quietly. "Plus, that ritual is one of only three known ways to provide a tethered spirit with a new body. Not the most difficult one but it is the one that gives the most for what you give to it."

"And what makes you such an expert on rituals?" Dolohov's voice was still cutting, trying to find and discredit this new political opponent as much as possible. He needed to limit whatever the fallout of this man would be.

"The man that is known as Alpha One," began Fleur "is fully qualified to speak on the subject. Alpha One, could you please tell this body the qualifications that you have that would be relevant to this situation?"

"Of course," he answered with a warmth that had been noticeably lacking in his voice up until now. "I have a Masters Degree in Ritual Magic with a focus on body modification and I also am ready to take my mastery in Blood Magic. The only reason that I haven't done so yet is that my work takes up far too much of my time to finish my thesis and take the exam at the moment."

"What is the significance of that particular graveyard?" Sebastian Delacour asked, already knowing the answer.

"It contains the remains of one Tom Riddle senior, a muggle and the father of Tom Marvolo Riddle."

"Does that mean…" Sebastian led him.

"That Tom Riddle, also known as Voldemort is a half-blood? Yes."

Madness exploded in what some considered to be the meeting place of the wise once again.

-HPCOD-

Kingsley watched as the young and dark-haired young man scanned the office with his eyes before he began to continue, half-heartedly, the search that Kingsley had already begun. He clearly expected to find nothing now or it was not the main reason he was here.

Kingsley didn't know who the man was but, he did recognise the distinctive features that had been part of the Parkinson bloodline for centuries. Like certain lines of that political bent that married those equally pure and of the same bent, their features had become both distinctive and unique, to say the least.

This confused him because he knew that, like the late and unlamented Malfoy family, they believed in a single Heir policy as it reduced the chance of inbreeding (brother/sister and father/daughter marriages had been known to happen...though they were rare) and no pure-blood of their class would allow a woman to carry a bastard.

Still, whoever he was, Kingsley felt a grudging respect as, whoever had taught him, had done a very good job and not just in magic. Both men were each aware of how little time they had before Sebastian Delacour return and, Kingsley assumed, both were here to search the office for clues to Harry's location. Yet the man moved with a calm efficiency despite the time constraints, he neither hurried nor slowed as the clock ticked on.

He only realised that his assumption was wrong when the man pulled out a trunk from one of his pockets. Kingsley watched as the man swiftly resized it and first he, then the trunk, disappeared under their own charms.

'Now why' Kingsley couldn't help but wonder, "would you need a trunk?'

-HPCOD-

"As interesting as this is," Arthur Weasley, the Scottish Representative (and temporary the facto mouthpiece for Dumbledore given his unavailability) said, "I fail to see what his history has to do with anything."

Harry could feel the strength of the legilimency probes that Dumbledore was sending to Arthur even from this distance. They were as delicate as they were powerful but, after all of this time, Harry's senses had improved a great degree and he should have expected the old man would figure a way around his isolation. Coupling that with the fact that Harry knew the man's power very well and it was as obvious to him as it clearly passed the notice of everyone else.

The only other person that could feel what he could was Fleur herself, likely due to her Veela nature being more sensitive to delicate magics and, judging by the look of fury on her face, she was as unhappy about it as he was. Though it was against the rules of this body, that magic was still almost impossible to prove and it would serve only to muddy the issue and distract from what they were trying to do.

Plus Arthur would never back them up, especially if it meant gainsaying Dumbledore.

"You mean aside from proving that his stance on pure-bloods is utter bullshit? It has everything to do with the situation now and the naked power grab that Riddle has almost completed." His reply to the man was full of thinly-veiled contempt, showing how far the man had fallen in his esteem, even as he nodded to Fleur and she continued.

"Which brings us, I think, to point two. Alpha will remain in the chair so he will be available for clarification purposes of the evidence we will present. What Alpha didn't mention is that this history also shows that this war is not a new one but, rather a continuation of the older one."

"That can't be the second point that you have in this...farce," Dolohov added, finding himself in the odd position of agreeing with Arthur Weasley.

"The second point is how Albus Dumbledores actions or inactions aided the sadistic and troubled boy that was Tom Riddle. The man who became Lord Voldemort." Harry's remarkably bland tone had more effect than shouting ever could and it stilled the chamber for a moment.

The eventual response to that sentence, when it broke, told the Nysian Delegation that they wouldn't be getting to the second or third point now, but they would soon.

-HPCOD-

Sebastian Delacour broke from his seat and moved to his room while the chamber rested for a few minutes to get a few things from his office and wasn't really paying attention when he opened his door.

Even though that was the case, the man hadn't always been a politician and had in fact spent quite a few years as a full-time Hitwizard before his wife made him stop over fears that he might get hurt. This nearly buried skill managed to warn him that, even though his desk was neat and orderly as always, something had changed despite his eyes telling him that everything was as it should be.

He didn't reach for his wand as, if anyone was watching, that would have been the stupidest thing that he could have done. Instead, he tried to appear as if he noticed nothing was amiss and moved towards his desk as if he didn't have a care in the world and was merely looking for the papers that he had originally come in here for.

Sadly for him, one of the two people in the room had been trained in a similar way to him and noticed the small signs and he noticed when the man oh-so-casually began to move his hand slowly towards his wand.

Simon struck before he had a chance to defend himself.

He didn't die, though he found himself briefly wishing that he had.

Dark bands of force wrapped around his body, slithering like excited snakes as they moved around his skin in a slow, endless and random pattern. These bands left nothing but agonizing pain in their wake and it was so deep that, for a moment, he couldn't even scream.

Before he could let one out a young man appeared, as if from nowhere, and put up several temporary silencing wards.

"Now," he heard through his agony and he felt his wand, barely in his fingers, fall to the floor. "My father and our Master want information. Lord Voldemort, the ruler of us all, needs to know where Nysa is located and the whereabouts of Harry James Potter. You. Will. Tell. Me."

-HPCOD-

The war had changed Kingsley Shaklebolt.

When he was a simple Auror, like he was all those years ago, and he had seen something like this he would have rushed in without question or hesitation. His wand would be blazing with righteous fury as he took down the perpetrator.

'Of course,' he thought sourly, 'back then I would have back up. More than that, I would have had a team, an entire infrastructure designed to help me arrest, contain and deal with people like this.'

He ignored the fact that the reason that he didn't have that was that the system had become corrupted to its very core long before he had ever joined the Auror Force. He also ignored that he needed the information for his own purpose, his own master.

Like most of Dumbledore's followers, when faced with the gritty realism of their present, he had begun to view the past with a very rose-tinted glass (blaming the failures of it on a select few rather than see the problem as it really was, the power of a few and the apathy of the many) and he fought for a future that was idealised and perfect in his head. That was one of the almost infinite reasons that it could never be realised.

So where he once would have acted, now he waited. The future that he wanted, the future that he needed to come to pass and the future that he believed in required sacrifice. To his mind, it was better for someone who was working against them rather than for them to be hurt or lost and it wasn't as if it was him that was doing the torturing.

Sebastian screamed so much that it was almost as if his lungs would burst from the force of it and, through it all, Shaklebolt just passively watched.

And waited.

-HPCOD-

"We can't delay any longer, not even for Representative Delacour. The issues at hand are far too important," said Billenburg.

"Give me a few minutes please," asked Fleur. "He is my father, I will go get him."

Billenburg nodded his agreement and she found herself very grateful that her time on Nysa had both removed her accent and made it easier to understand others. The German man's accent was so thick that it was hard to understand him at the best of times and she didn't want her accent adding what amounted to more confusion in a tense situation.

It didn't take her long to open the door to her father's office and the first thing that she saw was her father putting a shrunken trunk into his pocket even as he turned towards the sound of the opening door.

"Papa?"

"Sorry dear, am I late?" He asked and she couldn't help but notice that he was looking at her rather oddly.

"Yes… are you well?" She asked him, even as she scrutinized his face and tried to find whatever was bothering him in his countenance only to be disarmed by his wide smile.

"Of course, I have just remembered something urgent that has to be brought to Nysa. I'd explain but…"

"I can take them for you, if you'd like, as soon as the meeting is over?"

"I'm afraid not. These are official papers from the French Ministry my dear...protocol and bureaucracy… it will be the death of us all. They also might have questions about what the papers say and I'd need to answer them. I'd go with you but..."

"You have things to do and people to see...same old papa," she shrugged and then handed him a blank looking and rough piece of rock. "Here, if it's that important take my portkey and come back as soon as you can… I'll cover for you and go back with the Shadows."

"Thank you, my dear," Sebastian seemed unusually pleased and it briefly unsettled her before she brushed it off, he was her father after all.

It would only be in hindsight (and far too late) that she would realise that the nagging concern that she had at the back of her mind was over both her somewhat muted Veela instincts noticing something amiss and the ways she was spoken to. Her father had never called her dear before, reserving that only for her mother, and preferred to call her by her own unique pet nickname of sunshine.

Within the trunk (and unheard by her), her real father still screamed in agony even as he stared at the sighless and dead eyes of one of the two men that had been in his office and the spell continued its work. As the trunk was cramped for one person, let alone two, the corpse had been hurriedly and haphazardly thrown on top of him he didn't really have much chance of escape, even without the agonising spellwork he was under the effects of.

As the man holding the trunk fell into step behind his 'daughter' the false Sebastian smiled, ever grateful that he had both renewed the spells on the real Sebastian and successfully his the body in the one place that couldn't be noticed, and overjoyed at the turn of events.

-HPCOD-

'I killed your son,' Harry thought as his anger deflated when he met the oblivious eyes of Arthur Weasley.

He knew, intellectually, that it wasn't a simple as that and he knew that where you landed in life, what you stood for, was rarely (if ever) black and white. When sides had been taken, all three men had landed on opposite sides and their views, their very natures, had only grown further apart with time and experience from there until a confrontation became inevitable.

He did not doubt that Percy would have killed him if he could and thought it right to do so, just as he was sure that, if Arthur could, he would truss Harry up and deliver him to Dumbledore believing that it was the right thing to do. Still, he was human and a part of him remembered the family that they once were and how, despite everything most of his family had done, Arthur had welcomed him into his home.

Alpha One ruthlessly crushed that thought and the feelings that came along with it. Percy was part of a system that would see the world dead or crushed under Voldemort's own twisted brand of leadership if something was not done. Dumbledore's way was not only ineffective, but it was also enabling the problem to compound and grow to such levels that drastic action was now the norm.

A part of him hurt that it had to be this way, he wouldn't be human if it didn't, but he could live with it... the alternative was simply far worse than one man's sense that the last of his innocence, the last of the boy he once was, was gone.

'Your son was my enemy and he became that the minute that began to walk the path that he chose. The boy we both knew died back then and he was simply too stupid to realise it when he made his choice.'

"These memories have been copied," Alpha One began while burning those thoughts for later review and (hopefully) acceptance, "from those few that are still living and, where needed, they were memory charmed after extraction. The documents pertaining to this and those that support them have also been provided for this body to review at its leisure."

"How did you come up with such excellent fakes?" Arthur spat even as Alpha One shook his head at the obstinate and blind obedience the man showed with the question he was asking.

'It would be admirable,' he thought, 'if it wasn't so insane.'

"The fact that I am unable to lie while sitting here seems to poke a hole in the theory that these are merely fake." Even as Alpha One answered the man he paused, his senses telling him that something was off and though his eyes scanned the room, he couldn't place it.

The mass of magical signatures around him was simply too much of a chaotic and conjoined mess for him to find a single off thread that might be different and analyse what had changed.

"That you believe what you say makes you a fool, not right." Arthur's answer was dismissive and disbelieving even as, despite his best efforts, others were listening intently to what Alpha One had to say.

"I think," was the reply in an equally frank and dry voice, "we have different definitions of what constitutes a fool. Regardless of what drivel you spout, it is our position that Albus Dumbledore of the Minor House of Dumbledore is at least partially culpable of any crime that Tom Riddle has ever committed due to his persistent ineffectual action or inaction."

"And it is also our position," Fleur added, driving the knife home, "that he is persona non grata on our lands. If he is ever found there he will be held for trial for those crimes and sentenced accordingly."

"How dare you! Albus Dumbledore is a great man." Arthur's rebuttal received a look of utter contempt and disbelief from Fleur. It also caused a loud and mocking laugh from Alpha one, even as he stepped away from the chair and rejoined Fleur.

"Then I," he deadpanned, "Seriously question your sanity. Let's summarise what we know, shall we? Dumbledore was the good friend and likely the lover in his childhood of a particular man. That man grew up to be Gellert Grindlewald and he was only defeated… defeated not killed… at the height of the Second World War. The fact that he could have done so earlier and for some reason did not do so is well documented if one knows where to look. The reasons why don't matter, in our view, given the number of lives lost on both sides before it was finished. At roughly the same time as all of this, he comes across a damaged and slightly unhinged orphan who was not only a thief but had a great and realistic fear of the London Blitz and dying in it. Did he help him? No. Was he aware of the boy's sociopathic tendencies? Obviously. He didn't help lessen the fear, he let it fester. He didn't guide the boy to a lighter path but let him sink into the depths of a darkness so complete that he never came back. He didn't try to curb the boy in any way while he was under his care as Deputy Headmaster and another student even died while Tom Riddle was there under very suspicious circumstances for Merlin's sake. Did he confront the boy? Of course not. We have to wonder how hard he looked for it and whether he was too wrapped up in his notions of forgiveness and reconciliation to care."

With every part of Alpha One's carefully constructed speech he could see Mr Weasley flinch, though whether that was due to the renewed mental assault of Dumbledore or the truth of his words, Alpha One couldn't tell. He took no pleasure in the man's discomfort and, under other circumstances, might have even regretted it. It was war though and certain things had to be done, including keeping their enemies off-balance.

"Instead he waited. He watched and preached his forgiveness, forgiving the unforgivable and holding others to unreasonable levels of restraint including the Potter parents. Then, instead of learning from the mistakes of the past, he conducted some kind of twisted nature versus nurture on the youngest Potter and raised him in a remarkably similar situation that Riddle tried to flee from. He is at least partially responsible for the rise of at least two Dark Lords and it doesn't matter to my people that he eventually helped topple one of them. To us, his and always will be Dark Lord Dumbledore."

With that, the session broke for a final (and very fractious) time, the great and good of the international wizarding elite broke into small groups. They began to bicker like the old men that most of them were or ladies gossiping over the fence with their neighbours over the latest scandalous tidbit of information that they had found.

"It has been decided," Billenburg said at length "that anything else that Nysa wishes to bring to our attention must wait while we address the information that they have already imparted."

Custom dictated that he would speak for the assembled group, though he was clearly unhappy with what he was saying until either Dumbledore could be cleared of the implication of impropriety or (far more likely) a new vote for the Supreme Mugwump. Still, their own laws dictated at least a six month waiting period before either of those things would happen.

"Albus Dumbledore," he said, this time with pleasure in his voice, "will be temporarily stripped of his office to answer the accusations and evidence presented by the island state of Nysa. To that end, you are required to present yourself and sit in the chair at our next meeting. If you do not these accusations will be taken as fact and you will be branded a Dark Lord by this entire body. As for Voldemort… it is the decision of this body that we will fund a small exploratory force to ascertain the truth of the matter. Needless to say, at this time no objections from Britain will be accepted and we expect full cooperation."

"Cooperate with this kangaroo court? Never." Dolohov retorted with acid in his voice even as, with a nod from the German Representative three Hit-wizards moved up beside the Death Eater.

"Then you must be detained until the truth can be discovered," Billenburg asked with a grin.

Dolohov's face was etched with his fury, his eye twitched and his mouth was set in a half snarl and his skin was flush with blood. His hand twitched even as it moved towards his wand, ever so slowly.

"Please," Billenburg replied while watching the other man's hand with a hawk-like gaze and his grin was wolfish even as the Hit-wizard's moved in, "resist."

-HPCOD-

When the man that passed himself off as Fleur's father heard the results of the meeting from the French podium he wanted to scream as well but, he knew that it would not only do any good it would also harm his chances of completing his mission.

He had meant to go straight away to accomplish his goals but, the ruckus had drawn his attention and he couldn't help but stay and watch what happened. It was sort of like when you saw a car accident about to happen from a distance, you knew that you should look away or do something but you found yourself unable to do anything but watch in a sort of horrid fascination.

Still, no matter his feelings on the matter, finding Harry Potter and Nysa were his tasks right now and he had to trust that what he had seen would work out, thanks to those further up the chain than him.

He did briefly consider leaving the trunk and the two burdens inside of it but he decided against it after a moment of thought. Not only did the potion that kept his disguise intact need a live subject to work properly but, he might need a hostage before all was said and done.

-HPCOD-

As Harry towelled himself dry in his bathroom, he took a moment to enjoy the simple pleasure of feeling clean and refreshed with no great demands on him for the moment. It was more than just that though, more than the shower that he had built or even his very naked wife who was currently giving him a very enjoyable (if unintentional) sudsy show as she took hers that caused his quiet joy.

He was home.

Visits 'outside', as most called it these days, always did this to the both of them. Nysa wasn't perfect and it did have its fair share of problems (to be fair everywhere in the world did) but far less than those in what the greater parts of the Wizarding World were becoming. It was almost as if the state of the Magical British Isles was moving like a fetid oil, spreading its problems and tensions from one place to another over time.

It was like he had swum in a cesspit and often felt the compulsion to wash it off when he returned home.

'Although,' he admitted to himself as his eyes devoured the view in front of him, 'if I said that the view in front of me didn't help, I'd be lying.'

The fact that it was becoming so bad in the world outside was the main reason that he wasn't disappointed when their presentation to the I.C.W. had ended abruptly. He had more than half expected it to happen, cynical though that view was, as they were hunting the big game of Dumbledore and Voldemort in less than favourable conditions.

Voldemort was their current bogeyman. Though the Representative may talk big while under the dubious protection of their homelands which, to their credit were currently having very successful blockades on Death Eaters entering their countries, remembered very well the last war and the paid assassins that killed the most strenuous of objectors. None of them actually wanted to court death that much, so they were very careful not to cross that invisible line.

To do that and yet keep them out was certainly a complicated political tightrope, to say the least.

As for Dumbledore, the man had spent almost every waking moment since World War Two ended gathering favours, political influence, enhancing his own reputation and improving the general perception of him even among his detractors. It was hardly surprising to the older and more world-weary Harry that, even with all the damage they had managed to do, that the man was still standing and even now making small inroads in repairing what they had done to him almost the second that he was free to do so.

Given the overwhelming evidence that they had against him, circumstantial or not, he shouldn't have been able to do so. However, like an orchestra master, he was somehow still able to get a small segment of his peers to defend him against all odds. It did not seem to matter that the seriousness of the implications that many had drawn from the facts against him as his skill seemed to defy little things like logic and the possibility that he aided and abetted murder by inaction.

'He wasn't expecting us to do as much as we did and though he might get a ridiculously light sentence, if any at all, I will treasure the look of impotent fury on his face as the shield faded for a very long time.'

With one last lustful and longing glance at his beautifully naked wife, he left to go and make dinner for the both of them. He did meet her eyes as he did so though and gave her his best lecherous grin easily enough. He found it adorable that, even now, after all the time they had spent together she blushed so cutely when he gave her looks like that.

After he dressed, he entered the kitchen and was just putting the final touches on a homemade lasagne when he heard a very unique chime echo throughout the house. He turned to the nearest mirror which was just left of his sink and to the right of his oven.

Touching a rune cluster hidden in the grain of the wooden kitchen table directly below the mirror caused the tone to end and, with a brief flash of white light, the tone ended and the mirror rippled as his reflection disappeared. Instead of his features, he found himself looking into the worried eyes of his Godfather.

"Mutt," Harry greeted warmly, "what's up?"

"One of the runes tripped on the islet."

"Shit. Someone got in then? Which rune cluster was it?" Even as he questioned Sirius the humour left his voice and body language to be replaced only with a slowly growing sense of danger and resolve.

"The red cluster," was Sirius's clipped reply. "I have already sent two Talons to apprehend the intruder."

"Polyjuice," Harry growled. "I take it we know who it is then?" Harry was only mildly concerned as he knew how well trained the Hawks were and each Talon was, at the very least, competent.

"That's why I called. We have no idea who it actually is under it but, whoever it is turned up wearing Sebastian Dealcour's face."

"Great. So, whoever fucks this up the most will make enemies of France, the Veela Nation and likely the I.C.W. Am I forgetting anyone?"

"The Dealacour family, Fleur and Appoline especially. Can you imagine them that pissed off?"

"I'd rather not. Whatever is going on here must be stopped as quickly as possible. Return to the Node with some of your people. Hopefully, you'll get there before anyone else can come through. I'm on my way to meet the imposter."

Harry spoke with a tone of deadly finality. He began to shimmer even as Sirius said the last known coordinates of the imposter, waving his wand to leave Hermione a message as he did so.

-HPCOD-

The minute that the false Sebastian landed on the islet he knew that, wherever he landed, it was a very different place than what he had become accustomed to.

'Is that enchanted glass? Why would someone bother with enchanted glass? The Goblin Nation has never sold any large amount of their own and our version is too weak to be of much use. Is the view really that bad that they would waste so much money just to change the view?'

Still, such questions were not part of his mission and he wasn't usually the type to allow stray thoughts to distract him in any way. It was just that this was so unexpected and strange to him that he could help the thought appearing though, as any professional soldier might, he filed it away as inconsequential.

That was a mistake as it hinted at the larger and complex nature of the island itself. Wizarding glass would have been foolish as it was nothing more than a pale imitation of its far superior cousin. It had the weight of normal glass for one and, while its cousin could (among other things) replicate real weather, it was also far thinner, lighter and far stronger than the material that it was made from.

The former was essentially all about either projecting an illusion (such as the Great Hall at Hogwarts) or transmitting and receiving (like those during the Third Task). If he had thought about it he would have realised that whoever had done this had taken a serious amount of manpower, time, skill and effort to accomplish.

But he did not, he was a soldier and he had a purpose. Instead of indulging in what he considered flights of fancy he simply reached for his wand, though he didn't touch it and was very careful with his thinking. He assumed, rightly so, that there were wards here that would react...poorly to any hint of ill intent.

He also knew the limitations of such things and he knew that those same wards couldn't work in highly populated areas. He was uneasy without being able to freely access his wand on the islet and he was merely trying to get off of it as soon as he could.

He walked quickly to what he assumed was a good illusion of the late afternoon sun and, as luck would have it, he missed the set of runes that shimmered behind the Node, altering others of his presence. He was impressed by the tunnel as it formed though and was deeply amused by the idea that it was probably placed there to confuse any enemy that got this far.

In this way, he became the first enemy to set foot on the soil of the Nysian homeland.

-HPCOD-

Harry saw him before any of the Hawks did and although every normal sense told him that the man he spotted was Sebastian, every instinct and his magical sense was saying the exact opposite. To be fair most people's senses would not detect the difference (at least not consciously) but Harry was not most people.

Harry had been close to Sebastian, literally close to him, several times over the years and he knew the 'sight' and 'feel' of the man's magic fairly well. To Harry, it reminded him of a spring breeze that was heavy with unshed rain and was always a bright, light and playful blue. On the rare occasion that the man was angry, it would darken and feel more like a thunderstorm ready to strike full of ozone, fury and power.

The man before him now felt completely different.

If he had to put it into words Harry would describe it as a deep green forest. The kind of place that, in places, the sun never touched and where it did it was overpowering in its intensity because of the contrast. Instead of the playful movements of the air, there was only the sense of a slow, steady drumbeat that spoke of the implacable and powerfully slow movements of the earth.

That alone was not conclusive, per se, but considering the real Sebastian's Veela influence (that of air and fire) it was unlikely to change a great deal and certainly not to this degree as it was essentially the polar opposite of what it should be.

"Hello Sebastian," Harry called out to the man while both putting a smile on his face and nodding, supposedly to him but in reality to the Talon that had noticed his call.

Even as the two men approached each other, they moved in... slowly.

-HPCOD-

The call of Harry took him by surprise as he was caught up in what he was seeing in front of him and it may not have been part of his mission, strictly speaking, but he could be forgiven that simple lapse for one reason. As strange as it would have sounded to a muggle, the Wizarding World had no true cities.

Certainly, before the separation of the two kinds, they had actively (and for a large part openly) lived in them but, at best, the largest concentration of folk that they had living in any one place that was wholly aware of magic for the last few centuries were small villages at best...nothing like Arcadia.

Apart from the obvious size difference, the other settlements of their kind seemed to be frozen in time when compared to Nysa's main settlement. Small crooked cottages, with winding paths that were perfect for a horse and carriage, was what he was used to seeing and though there were farmhouses here, none of them fit that description.

Needless to say, his feeling of culture shock was intense. The places that he was used to were not only rare but slowly shrinking and not obviously expanding and growing as this town was. Granted there were similarities (such as the fact that some of the houses here did all look like they were made at some point in the 17th Century) and there were even mansions like those of the pure-bloods from his homeland but, they were both far more common and seemingly a matter of personal taste rather than of showing your prestige and power over another.

There were outliers to this idea in Britain (the Burrow sprang to mind) but, here it seemed that the outliers were the norm.

Two soaring towers that were impossibly high and made of stone so tightly packed that it looked like one piece and melded together with some sort of magic. Right beside them were a collection of houses and cottages that wouldn't have looked out of place in a 1950's period drama and more, stranger houses further out with no order or rhythm to their placement that he could gather.

The biggest shock was something that took a moment for him to notice and when he did, he almost shook his head at the idea that he might have missed it. There were almost no roads.

Granted, people who utilised magic didn't actually need them and they were largely maintained to preserve the secrecy that separated them from the muggles that lived (in some cases literally) next door. Others were kept because it was tradition or simply because an oddball wizard or two found them quaint or amusing.

The reason this shocked him wasn't the fact that they were lacking, it was more the domino effect of what that lack had led to. There were people who were clearly muggles, in the know muggles, that were being ferried around on flying carpets or modified broomsticks with wizard drivers.

The concept of a taxi escaped him, as did the idea that these people were all getting along with their day without arguments or fighting each other. What he was seeing was completely alien to his worldview. It did so because it went against everything he had ever been taught or understood about the nature of wizard/muggle relations.

All of this explained why he was startled by the call of Harry Potter as he appeared as if from nowhere. His training kicked in quickly though and his senses sharpened so, though they were good, he did notice the Hawks moving in.

Given the outdated and biased information he had been given on Harry Potter (that he was an average wizard who appeared to have lucked out in his choice of advisors and allies), the choice of risking running past trained professionals or one young wizard was a simple one.

It was also the wrong one.

-HPCOD-

Harry felt the man's magic coil, readying itself for combat. He kept the easy smile on his face even as his eyes darkened a shade and he approached the man who was impersonating his friend.

"Hey… I need to ask you something," Harry said as he caught up to the man, seemingly at complete ease.

"I'm sorry Harry, I have something I really have to get to," the man replied and his eyes darted over Harry's shoulder so quickly that, if he wasn't looking for it, he might have missed it.

Harry mentally counted another reason why this couldn't be Sebastian. Despite the fact that they were friends, even though his daughter did it and that Harry himself had asked him to Sebastian had never referred to Harry by his first name. The man was an old school aristocrat as well as scrupulously polite and would never do so, no matter the occasion or the pressures of his job.

Never. Not once, even with prompting and now, he was doing so freely as if he always had done so.

'Going by the demeanour, the jig is up. He's not attacking outright so...running would be my guess. Whatever he came for he's either got or he believes the knowledge of where he is will be enough. We can't have that.'

"Just a moment then, I know how busy you can get." The man slowed, clearly to preserve the illusion or perhaps with the idea of using Harry as a hostage of some sort. It also naturally closed the distance between the two of them, in case he did need to fight and Harry couldn't fault him that as it was exactly what he would have done in the other man's place. "Who exactly are you?"

Though his tone was conversational, neither of them missed the steel in Harry's words and, like a light switch, the man demeanour turned as he reached for his wand.

The man was quick and clearly at least reasonably trained. The problem for him was that Harry was not what he believed and was both more powerful and better trained. Even as the man sent out three quick cutting curses Harry managed to react faster than the man expected.

He batted them aside contemptuously and responded in kind with two of his own Where the other man's had been weak, designed to shock and incapacitate Harry, his were powerful and meant to sever limbs if they connected. That was the main reason they were aimed at non-vital areas, not out of any sense of concern but rather a need for this enemy to live for the moment.

Combining that with a quick banishing charm caused the man to be bleeding, disorientated and flying towards the Hawks before head a chance to protect himself from the barrage of power that Harry had unleashed.

'He's good...I'll give him that,' Harry thought, even as the man somehow collected himself in midair and forced the approaching Hawks further back with a wide area flame curse and, with a barely a pause between them, slowed his descent with a shouted spell. 'Bastard stole my move.'

Thankfully the few people on the ground had cleared out with the first spell and those in the air had risen beyond the reach of spells as they moved away, out of the danger zone.

He didn't notice until late but, it was with that first attack of his, that a small and shrunken trunk fell out of the other man's pocket and smacked into the ground. Once there it began to slowly expand even as the men fought each other.

The Hawks were not fools. They knew, from his sporadic training with them and his reputation of both power and skill, that to get in Harry's way when he was fighting was tantamount to a very bloody and messy suicide. His instincts were too acute, too heightened and any spell that moved towards him now would be met with deadly force right now unless it was from a magical source he both knew well and trusted intrinsically.

Harry, for his part, was oddly exhilarated at this moment. It was enjoyable, like stretching a too tight muscle, to put the man through his paces.

A conjuration of man blades, followed by transfiguring eight wolves from the earth around him, a sneaky shield breaker and finally a snapped expelliarmus all headed towards the man and had him on the ropes.

The man ducked, shielded, weaved and dodged as much as he could. He returned fire rarely though with power when he did. His counters included conjured items and spells of ice, rain and fire. He even managed to conjure several bats to try and distract and confuse Harry as he was attacked.

"Medic!" One of the Hawks screamed in panic. The tone of his voice changed how Harry acted straight away. "Medic! I don't know what he's done but, Delacour is fucking dying here!"

With magic that affected the environment, transfiguration especially, it was power intensive because (for lack of a better term) the object tried to resist the effect. A rock wanted to remain a rock, a piece of wood wanted to remain wood and steel wanted to be steel. On a small scale, this didn't factor into the equation quite so much and the power needed to force the change was minor but, it was why it was considered such a difficult art to master.

In battle, or with larger, repeated or more complex transfigurations that difficulty was exponentially greater. Not here though, not for Harry at least.

Every inch of the island was partially cemented and imbued with his blood. In the grand scheme of things though. In the grand scheme of things, it didn't mean all that much.

If objects could think (and there were probably Unspeakables all over the world studying the idea) then Harry, in this place turned their thoughts from 'why should I bother?' into 'if I must'.

That made it slightly smoother for a now very angry and very focused Harry to cocoon the man in a bubble of transfigured marble that sprang from the ground at his command. Any sense of fair play and protecting the bystanders (not that there were any) was clearly gone. Even as his enemy prepared to use his wand to blow the construct sixteen red hot blades grew inside and attacked the man. They took the man's wand hand first, cauterising as they went and cleaving the man's wand as an added bonus.

The Dome turned then and Harry spoke with every part of his voice dripping venom.

" I'll ask once again... before I become impolite. Who the fuck are you?"

"It doesn't matter. My people are on the way," the man laughed, despite the obvious pain he was in.

"Except," said Harry and guessing the man's point, "I assume that you copied the portkey signature? It's a shame that we reset the Node so that won't work."

"They still have your coordinates," he answered, though with less certainty. "It will just take them longer, that's all. It's only a matter of time."

"Time that you don't have," Harry growled before his tone became light once again. "So you're really not going to tell me who you are then?"

Harry looked down on the man, who was so sure that he was doing the right thing coming here and endangering his people. The man wasn't mad, there was no gleam of that in his eye, he was sure… resolute.

Dangerous.

'But he isn't the only one,' Harry thought, even as his wand glowed with power and his restrained anger. "Good."

No one noticed that the underside of the trunk, forgotten for the moment, glowed with a set of runes very briefly before they burned themselves out and became simply an odd pattern on the wood.