Chapter 13: Voldemort Strikes, Dumbledore Missteps and Hermione Fights
A/N: A mistake about Narcissa has been pointed out in chapter Ten. I have fixed it... see Chapter 10 A/N 2 for details and then read the altered paragraphs. or just accept that Narcissa was not killed, as Voldemort understood how useful she could be...regardless of how satisfying it would be for him to kill her. Thanks to Phineas Garcia-Shapiro Flynn.
"I'll fucking kill him. I'll fucking kill the fucking fuck," Fleur screeched with a voice that was more than half vicious birdsong and feathers were sprouting from her skin as she yelled. English may not have been her first language but, she did manage to get her point across.
To be fair to her, she was feeling more than a little guilty that she didn't put the pieces together and try and stop the impostor before this point. She was overwhelmed with her work though and distracted. It was also not her fault that her race had the ability to sense magic but, only the vague level and not (as Harry could) more than that. They had also grown to take that ability for granted, as humans did with two-handed tasks or pure-bloods with magic in general and trusting it more than they likely should.
"Calm. Down," Harry barked. Though he was sympathetic, a bloodthirsty Veela giving into revenge was the last thing that he needed at the moment. "I don't disagree with you, but now is not the time. When it is I'll happily gut him myself...or sharpen the knife for you if you want but we need information first".
"My father is in a coma because of that bastard Harry. My father".
"I know that... and the Healers are doing everything that they can right now. Look at it this way, the more information that we can get from him the more likely we will hear something that could help your father pull through. I can't have you there if you're just going to incinerate him too early".
Harry watched as Fleur, slowly and with an obvious effort, rein in her temper and her alien nature..her otherness was submerged once more, if only barely.
"Make him suffer," she snarled as she stormed from the room.
"Of course," he answered softly and with a feral intensity.
-HPCOD-
"So that is who you are," Harry said with a voice full of disdain for the man in front of him.
The man, bound to a chair as he was, had a face so battered and bloody that it resembled hamburger meat more than an actual face. Once of good quality, his clothes were now little better than torn rags that barely preserved a sense of modesty. He was missing more than a few of his fingers and a dark and weeping burn mark was all that remained of one eye.
All thanks to a tightly controlled but enraged Harry Potter with a purpose that would not be denied. Harry did not enjoy this part of the job, he knew that it used to bother him (and sometimes still did) but veritaserum had its limitations and it left its subject in a whimsical state, less likely to tell you everything and only the literal answer that was required by the potion. His purpose here was to get as much information as possible in the shortest time and that required methods that were aided by magic, distasteful as well, but much more comprehensive.
Such purpose was only aided by the cell that the man found himself in and the physiological effects of such a place.
With runes and wards embedded in each and every available surface, a localised cushioning and warming charm instead of a bed, a pit with vanishing runes for a toilet and a one-way shield charm for a door, the Ritz it wasn't.
The man in this cell was once respected, admired even, but here he was hated and all he could hope for was a swift death as an unlikely mercy. His name was Kingsley Shacklebolt.
"Pleased with your handiwork are we?" Kingsley wetly spat out, around a small dribble of blood. His one remaining eye screamed out his judgement without sound and left Harry completely unruffled.
"Not really. Moody regrets training you now, you know. I think that he hates you more than he ever hated Parkinson. He says that you have spat on everything that he ever tried to teach you, that you have abused and twisted it into something vile".
"Clearly not that much, as I'm guessing he trained you. Besides, there is no such thing as right or wrong when you are at war and fighting for your own survival".
It might have been the idea that help was on the way or the result of his recent treatment that made him so bold with his answers. Of course, the potions he had been force-fed and the compassion charms in the room helped with that too and they also made him less prudent with his answers as well.
"Oh, forgive me," Harry said with a thick layer of false sympathy in his voice. "I didn't realise that you were at war with Nysa. Tell me, when did you misbegotten nation declare that?"
"You know what I mean," he responded angrily.
"I understand that you are an idiot as well as a cold-hearted bastard. You have declared war whether you want to see it that way or not. I doubt that Magical France will see it any differently and they will be eager for both you and your master's blood for what you have done".
"So that's your grand plan? Blame us for actions that were necessitated by others? Construe us gatting a wayward and confused citizen home to do his civic duty as a true attack on a Magical Nation? You call me cold-hearted…"
"How bloody delusional are you? I am not a wayward citizen, I've made my choices and just because you disagree with them it doesn't give you the right to try and abduct me. Besides that, even a first-year Healer-in-training knows that if someone is afflicted with an unknown dark curse, especially in the pain family of spells, you should run for medical treatment. You were an Auror and ignorance is not something that you can claim, if it was even a defence, as you didn't do that… you did worse… you reapplied it after watching long enough to cast it without knowing everything that it did. For the record, that was horrendous and I am not, nor have I ever been, a citizen of Magical Scotland and any ties that I have to Magical Britain I cut years ago".
"Which is why I was sent to find out where you were...for extraction later," Shacklebolt replied firmly, before softening his voice with his next words. "Come home Harry, it's not too late to help the people that need you, that love you".
"I'm happy with the people here, thanks so much," Harry's voice turned cold and uncaring then. "Let me be clear, you are looking at a life spent in a cell much worse than this one… at best. At the moment Sebastian is alive and if that is ever not the case … I will kill you myself and in such a way that you will beg before the end".
"You don't have the ability or the stomach. Killing in cold blood is unlike anything else you could ever do," Shacklebolt answered, dismissing his threat.
"You know nothing about my ability or my stomach. Besides, if that comes to pass and I don't do it, his daughter will. Trust me when I say I'm much more comfortable with your death on my conscience than hers".
"Harry," Moody growled as he entered, "you are needed for a meeting of the Ten. I'll watch the scum".
Harry nodded, more than happy to wash the blood out of his clothes and leave the delusional prisoner to the not so tender mercies of his former teacher.
-HPCOD-
"Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!" Hermione screamed. "Keep the spell matrix steady".
Her wand was moving in a very precise but equally frantic way. She was trying to find the right thread of the working that was affecting Sebastian so that it could be safely removed and he could be, hopefully at least, restored. The problem was that, as she searched, it still hurt him and it was like trying to find a single splinter in a mountain of splinters.
While she was doing this, the other Healers were managing the collection of spells that were keeping him alive. This mesh of power, delicate enough not to feed the curse and yet strong enough to keep him from death, was often shorthanded to the term spell matrix. It also required constant tending as some interaction between the curse and it was unavoidable and, where they interacted, corrections needed to be made.
Though the delicate balance wouldn't last forever, no matter what changes to the matrix they made.
"His heartbeat is fading," another witch said, in a cooly detached and professional tone, even as her wand spat out specific numbers that were all related to the patient screaming and writhing on the bed. "Do we know what curse it is yet?"
"It's the Chains of Acheron," said a third voice in alarm, one that belonged to the other healer working on the man and one that was distinctly masculine. "He's seizing".
"Damn it," hissed Hermione, "it had to be that one. It has to come off of him now".
"Are you insane?" The man nearly screeched, even as she gathered her magic and prepared herself for a massive magical burst. "That curse is wrapped around nearly every nerve in his body. If you try and brute force it, he could die in under a minute from the shock alone. The damage to his body will be massive and all that would probably do is kill him in the next few hours".
"Probably. Maybe. If we continue as we are he will be dead in thirty seconds. Any damage that has already been done is dark magic… we wouldn't be able to fully heal it anyway. Save his life now, worry about the damage later".
"But the nerves," the man objected again. "You know that we can't fully heal them and we stand no chance of doing anything about them if they are fully destro-".
The man never got to finish his sentence as Hermione and the other witch got to work over his objections. It was all he could do to keep the man alive rather than argue anymore as Delacour screamed and blood began to stream from the very pores of his skin.
-HPCOD-
"What is the status of our defences?" Dan Granger asked the Council of Ten while they were sitting in their meeting.
"The Hawks are ready," Sirius replied. "The magical divisions are prepared and the non-magical auxiliaries have been given the best weapons that we can enchant. They are well trained, very disciplined and are ready to fight with the Goblin Nation".
"Which has," added Bonecrusher, "increased the regiments available for the island from two to six".
"Why six?" Harry asked, interrupting the goblin, "Dumbledore would send maybe a quarter of our number if he wanted to leave himself open to Voldemort. His power lies with magic and the strength of his charisma, not numbers. Three regiments would be overkill for what he can bring given that, never mind six".
"It was the trunk," Dan replied. "When Moody examined it they found a cleverly disguised locator on the bottom of it. After speaking with Shacklebolt again we found that he had no knowledge of it and that the trunk itself was taken from an agent of Voldemort".
"The Sirens are nearly ready. They apologised but they hadn't expected to defend their new home so soon," Luna added. "The Veela are ready and the ward stones are ready to be placed on a war footing. Once the order is given they will switch fully within three seconds".
"Three seconds is a long time," Susan Bones interjected.
"I know," Dan replied. "It can't be helped. These are, apparently, powerful wards and the island isn't exactly small. The city?"
"What about Shacklebolt? Is he alive?" Fleur added her own interruption to the mix and no one at the table missed the almost predatory tone of her voice.
"For now," Dan answered carefully. "We will discuss him and your father's condition once we have, as a group, checked the state of our defences. The city?" She didn't look happy about it but, with a growl, she settled for the moment.
"The defences are primed, the Home Guard are ready, and the people are aware of the evacuation plan. Portkey's have been issued where needed". Robin Abbott's voice was crisp and business-like.
"Good. Magical France?"
"Is preparing a task force to take the fight to Dumbledore but, realistically, it will take time to figure out a plan as getting through Magical England will be… challenging. They don't want the risk of Voldemort destroying them from behind or counter-attacking against their homeland without challenge". Fleur, though she answered quickly enough, was still a stark contrast from Robin Abbott's.
"So they are stuck at the moment?" Hermione asked.
"Without full support from the I.C.W, yes. It would be unreasonable to think that France alone could support us against two separate countries. Both of them are under the control of some of the worst Dark Lords in history and they have no doubt have surprises in store for any invaders. That scenario is something that they are simply not willing to risk...if it was one or the other...maybe... but not both at the same time".
"We wouldn't be able to either, not in a pitched battle anyway," Dan answered. "That being said… eventually either the heads will be killed or… the I.C.W. will come together to act. That's what is being worked on at the moment...conclusive and irrefutable proof of damage to the Statute or...the destabilizing of the regimes. We cannot risk more without harming those under our protection and I can only hope that one of these is in time. Now, what is Sebastian's condition, Hermione?"
"He will live," she said and, by the simple fact that she didn't react to the news, Harry could see that Fleur had already been told as much. Everyone else around the table relaxed slightly as their worry for the man eased a small fraction. "However, the nerve damage was as extensive as it was devastating to his system. The Chains of Acheron have never, in recorded history, been left on a subject for so long".
"Is there a chance that Shacklebolt didn't know the ins and outs of that particular curse?" Fred Weasley asked, for simple clarity if nothing else.
"Every chance, but the man was an Auror. He was trained by Moody to recognise and respect the volatile nature of curses like it and… it's more than common sense, it's common humanity to not leave those kinds of things on a person".
"What is the prognosis then? Given that Shacklebolt didn't show some shadow of decency and remove it?"
"Not that great," Hermione answered bleakly. "He is paralysed from the neck down and is likely to be for the rest of his life, thanks in no small part to the ruling families of Europe historically… doing away... with such problems when they happened to their own, very little research has been done".
"My father," Fleur snarled, "will never walk again, eat by himself, hold his wife, dance with his daughters or play with any grandchildren thanks to that man". By the end of her sentence, she was nearly sobbing in rage dulled grief and their collective hearts went out to her and her family.
Harry wished for the first time that he could transfer the power that he took from others so he could help the man. He had tried before but, it was like he hit a brick wall and it either escaped into the world or fell back into him. Pure magic had been known, in less than one per cent of cases and large enough doses, to heal injuries that even phoenix tears couldn't touch. The problem was that all large sources of that power were dangerous volatile and...wild... So the other ninety-nine per cent died quickly and horribly.
It was not really a risk that he was willing to take.
Besides which, no matter how much he could draw at one time, he would never be able to gather enough power to do that. His form simply wouldn't be able to contain that much, even if he could transfer it, and in even attempting it he was certain to die as his body was overwhelmed. Powerful he may have been but, he was still limited by the fact that he was human and therefore, on the grand scale of things, a human being with magic rather than a creature wholly of magic with a living form (if such a thing even existed).
The only exception to the idea that he couldn't transfer power was Hermione and even then it was tiny amounts as, no matter how much he practised, too much was lost in transfer for it to be of any use to anyone. They both had come to the conclusion it was likely due to the fact they did their rituals together and where they had done them that created a unique set of circumstances that could not be repeated.
"We do have one advantage though," stated Harry. "We can move faster than they can. Neither Dumbledore nor Voldemort has held onto power this long by being rash. Voldemort will want to grandstand and crush what he views as resistance….wether that means a hard surgical strike, overwhelming us or simply grandstanding to show his brilliance, it will take time to plan. Dumbledore is...cautious. He will scout first and then act with a larger force if he thinks it's appropriate and neither know we are underwater".
"That," Neville said, speaking for the first time while chuckling darkly, "will be messy".
Harry glanced at his friend. He looked tired and drawn, though he knew it wasn't because of what they were currently facing but the fact that he had been like this since he had found out he was going to be a father. The mood swings and morning sickness had already started for Hannah Longbottom and Neville was taking the brunt of that.
They didn't know the sex of the baby yet but, neither was concerned as long as it was healthy. They also knew that, despite Harry's jokes, it wasn't twins.
'Voldemort or an angry pregenant wife?' Harry thought, 'I'd face Voldemort every time...I'd live longer.'
"You seem to know a lot about the way they think, Lord Emrys," Robin Abbott said in what was not quite a question and not an accusation but rather somewhere in-between.
"I've literally had one of the bastards in my head for years and the other trying to get in there for just as long… you pick up a few things".
From then on the meeting devolved and moved on to less weighty topics.
-HPCOD-
Siphoning even the tiniest amount of power from the (admittedly dwindling) pool available for the Hogwarts wards had not been easy. In fact, that was the most blatant of understatements as it was more akin to juggling, hopping on one foot, swimming and writing a symphony all at the same time. In other times this would have given him accolades, awards and prestige throughout the magical world, even if it had taken him three years.
'But, this isn't those times. It hasn't been since Harry's thoughtless and willful disobedience,' Dumbledore mused.
The result of this herculean effort lay on his office desk as he sat in front of it surrounded by those he trusted and it looked like a simple piece of rope. As with most things in the world, appearances were deceiving as this wasn't a simple rope or just a portkey as this was (for lack of a better term) a supercharged version and was designed to pierce any wards that Harry had used to hide himself.
"Let me be clear about the risks. Fawkes can get me in and out but cannot do the same for you, all he can do is help guide the portkey in. We have to assume that they have some countermeasures to portkeys so you will only be able to get in using this. You may need to fight your way out, at the very least to get physically through the ward line, and I cannot say that it won't be dangerous but, if Voldemort is to be stopped, we need this. The wards may even heal as you land and block you from going through without one of their own portkeys".
"Why would they do that?" Dedalus Diggle respectfully questioned his leader even as the others in the room looked at each other with grim expressions.
"If I had enough power to spare, the time to do so and the inclination to hide, it is what I would do. It is also harder to detect than simply increasing the strength of the wards and more devious too".
"Why not just send Tonks? We should have sent her in the first place, with her gifts she would blend in far better and could take Harry without bloodshed or detection," Podmore, a balding former shopkeeper, added.
"I wish it was that simple but, alas, it is not. If it was, then you are right in that we would have simply sent her in the first place. Her bloodline was, and is, as much of a hindrance as it was a help for the task that Shacklebolt volunteered for".
"Her Black Lineage," finished the final member of the group, a fairly pretty young woman roughly the same age as Tonks, called Emmeline Vance.
"Indeed. Though we don't know where her parents are, we can safely assume that they are with Sirius as we do know he reinstated them to the family and that automatically reinstated Miss Tonks as she is their child. We are trying to find Harry and though Lupin has hidden, I saw Sirius grow from a child into the misguided man he has become. He will never abandon Harry so we have to assume that he is with him. As Lord Black, he has an affinity for the magic of his house and would be able to feel her before she could do what we need her to do".
"Not to mention the rumours".
"Ahh yes, the Black Family magic. Few families are that old and many wish that the capabilities of their Heads were as shrouded in mystery and alledged capabilities as that family. If even half of the rumours are true, Miss Tonks would be a dangerous liability if she were to go with us and come under the command of her Head of House. However, it is more than simple rumour that precludes her… she has shown signs of obliviation. Not enough that she could be a double agent but, her memories have been tampered with enough that she cannot be fully trusted".
Then they all paused for a long moment as Dumbledore watched them. He could see them weighing up the risks, trying to decide whether the risks were worth the reward and the consequences of not going, of disappointing him.
Ultimately, as he knew it would be, it was a foregone conclusion. They trusted him, they always had, and it was that (and the idea that he was the next Merlin) which caused them to disregard any doubts they had and any worry they felt for their own self-preservation.
"So," Diggle said after they had come to their silent conclusion, "when do we leave?"
"Now," Dumbledore answered even as Fawkes flamed into existence on his shoulder.
-HPCOD-
When Dumbledore arrived on the islet he was covered in blood. It took him a moment to recover from the shock of that and realise that the blood was not his and another for him to pull out his wand and absently use his wand to clean both himself and his companion.
Only after he had done that did his brain register the horror that it wasn't just blood on him, there were bits of bone and flesh that he had vanished as well. All the bits, he absently noted, looked like it had been put through a very rough meat grinder and concluded that this was the reason he was alone and not with his team.
He was both right and wrong as, unfortunately for her, Emmeline Vance didn't die as easily as the others or as quickly.
-HPCOD-
Far above him (and beyond even his considerable senses) the magic of the portkey had failed and deposited her in the cold and salty North Sea.
She didn't have time to reach for her wand as she was both magically drained by instinctively avoiding the same death as the others when the portkey tried to force them through the literal tonnes of water between her and the goal. She found herself unprepared for the sea itself.
Her first breath began the spiral of her doom as she drew the dark water into her lungs. It was also cold, at this depth bitterly so, and she was sluggish even in her panic from that. In short, she was in dire straights as she was bruised, frozen and taking on water rather than oxygen from her very first moment.
To make matters worse, around her were ten Sirens. They simply watched, with weapons drawn, as she struggled to survive.
She reached out a hand towards them, desperately beseeching them for aid even as her vision began to darken. No aid would be forthcoming from them though, not to an invader of their home and all they did was pluck her wand from her wrist so that she couldn't hurt them.
She died slowly, panicking all the way, abandoned and alone.
-HPCOD-
Back with Dumbledore, the man was busy using his considerable experience and knowledge to study his surroundings. He was so involved with his intensive examination of what he could see and feel that, if anyone was watching him, they might believe him to be a statue from a distance, rather than the wizard of the light that he believed himself to be.
It was, perhaps, because of this intense study though that he spotted the small sparkle of light that was slowly resolving itself into a rune before his eyes and as it picked up speed he also picked up his wand.
Each of the three powerful wizards would treat this same rune differently, proving that magic was less rote and more art the more you delved into its mysteries. Voldemort might power through the rune, breaking it in his desire to see what it was made of and trusting in his power to protect himself.
Harry might have carved his power around it, forming a scoop. Then he would put it underneath the rune and lift it out, gently, like a surgeon might exorcise a tumour. He would carefully judge, as he did, whether the rune could be replaced or whether he needed to run like the north wind.
Dumbledore was different again. His magic reached out in gentle strands, caressing the rune with the lightest of touches as a lover might. Slowing it the tiniest of moments again and again so that he could try and discern its purpose even as more began to react to it and spring to life.
He smirked in triumph as he realised its purpose, even if he didn't realise quite at this moment exactly how it was going to do what it was designed to do (it was still resolving after all).
'Very clever Harry… but not clever enough.'
A torrent of seawater came rushing in at him from all directions except the floor beneath his feet. He, however, was unconcerned and smiling because even as that began to happen his wand was a blur of motion.
Right before the water would have swallowed the man it hit a translucent shield that covered his entire body in a dome of force that kept the deluge away. Then, with a particular twist of his foci, his vision became clear as if the water itself was made of the finest glass.
Only then did he begin to walk forward, the water bending around his protection as he moved.
"More runes? Harry really, I confess I am a little disappointed. Then again, Celtic, Sumerian and Norse all strung together...how clever". As he got closer to them he began to understand their meanings and could help but try and puzzle them out. "Bring the… Sun? No. Bring the light? That's not it either. Create the wind?"
He paused then, even as his understanding caught up with mental gymnastics that his brain had been doing to decipher three ancient runic languages cobbled together all at once.
"Fawkes!" Dumbledore's voice was not that of the calm and assured grandfather type figure that most had come to expect but, rather it was one of panic and desperation.
He was gone in a flash of fire and not a second too late. The entire dome filled with light a heartbeat after he left. The area where he had just been standing was a boiling froth of death as the self-contained globe experienced the full force of natures fury and lightning zigzagged all through it creating a killing zone and protecting the Siren's that stood guard outside of it.
Dumbledore knew that this method of entry was not something that he should try again, not without any other option. They would be better prepared the next time.
-HPCOD-
Magicals couldn't get cancer and tobacco was only a tenth as addictive to them as it was to muggles. They paid for that advantage (and others like it) by being vulnerable to a whole host of other diseases that only affected them. There was a rough balance to it with the only exception being H.I.V. but the contraceptive potion did work as a vaccine against that illness so infection was a very rare thing.
All of this explained why Hermione merely rolled her eyes when she saw Harry smoking a rollup on their porch and absentmindedly changing the smoke that came from his nose into different colours with every breath.
"Hey," he said without turning to her and giving a soft smile that she couldn't see when she wrapped her arms around him. "Did you make the I.C.W. team?"
"Yes. Two from here or France, two from Germany and two from Spain. It's me and Jones, though they wanted you".
As she spoke he knew that wasn't really a comment but rather a question that she wanted to ask.
"You know I can't leave. Voldemort is coming".
"Do you think he'll do a Dumbledore or storm the gates full force?" Hermione asked, even as she conceded the point.
"Neither. From what we can gather his hold on Britain is growing but, at the moment it is through proxies. It's a tenuous powerbase because, though there are some that will accept the limitations the Mark places on them, I have no doubt there are others that have hired others to break it".
"What magic does, it can undo?"
"That's the theory. Besides that, he's a paranoid bastard that will be expecting something like a betrayal from almost every quarter and he doesn't want the internationals to move on him yet".
"Shame it's just a theory. Do you think that he's planning for the I.C.W's attack?"
"If he's not, Parkinson is. It's what I'd be doing in their position and we can't discount it". Harry replied.
"He is a man who likes backup plans".
"Horcruxes," Harry agreed with one word. "He'll come. I think that it won't be his full force though and he'll likely have a distraction or two to try and maximise his advantage. I do have something for you though".
"Now is not the time," she responded with a light chuckle and causing him to smirk.
"Not that," he said as he twisted around to face her and blatantly looked her up and down even as her eyebrow rose in accusation. "Alright maybe that but, also this," he handed her a small runestone as he finished speaking, "just in case. For the love of God be careful… we don't know what plans and preparations the others have made and I want you prepared".
"This was meant to be used later when…" she began before he interrupted her.
"I know, but if it's a choice between protecting you and some grand plan. I will always pick you, before and above anything else...every time".
"You say the sweetest things," she replied dryly. "Now...about your other gift?"
Harry grinned.
-HPCOD-
Three days later the situation had changed once again for all involved. Cold wars were fluid like that, with too much to track, too much unknown and hidden for someone, anyone, to follow. Like watching an iceberg on the water you missed much and had to adjust often, lest it crashes into you.
Dumbledore had received notice that both the Vella Clans of Europe, thanks to Appoline Delacour and the Magical Nation of France had officially declared war on him and his.
Ironically, as he did not want anything to do with the I.C.W's anger at the moment and that meant that, until they were provoked or came to their conclusions, his greatest enemy protected him from the fury of three separate nations. Nysa didn't need to declare war as it was a French Protectorate and where the parent country went, so did they.
So here he was, metaphorically licking his wounds as he accessed (through a hidden portrait behind the staff table in the Great Hall) the library of the Hogwarts Headmaster. People often assumed that the small bookcases in the Office of the Headmaster were that library and they did nothing to dissuade that idea.
In reality, it was here and the other one was merely for show and books that they found of interest, innocuous books. Here was where, behind many hardwired protections, the dangerous books, the ancient tomes and knowledge that had long been lost to almost everyone.
He moved quickly and efficiently through each row of books and though the scholar in him always wanted to stop, he did not have the luxury of time. He mentally disregarded every title he came across as he let his mind freely wander as he followed his instincts and a half-remembered idea that had occurred to him years ago as he awaited the idea that was just at the edge of his mind to surface.
Harry kept no prisoners (at least not for long enough to be of any use to him) but both he and Parkinson saw their use even if they disagreed on what their use was. Dumbledore had to gain information and manpower, he had to bridge the divide between him and those that would stand against what must be in a different way.
That didn't mean that he didn't have one or two very special ones though.
"You were supposed to die with Voldemort," he murmured, even as he found what he was searching for and turned the ancient book to a particular page and began to read. "It's your fault that the plan is shattered and, if you survive what is going to happen then I will have to clean up the mess before you get too strong".
With that grim thought in the forefront of his mind, he turned to go and make use of a very specific prisoner, one taken very soon after Harry left. He wasn't going to interrogate her for information or take some dark pleasure out on her but, rather he was doing what he was about to for the Greater Good.
'War hardens the kindest of hearts,' he thought even as he prepared and arranged to meet Arthur Weasley when he was ready.
The man had one final purpose to perform.
-HPCOD-
"Down!" Hermione screamed at the two other people beside her, a man named Gibenburg and a Spanish witch that refused to give her name or reveal her face from under the heavy cloak that she wore. All of them were, more or less, in versions of their individual nations Unspeakable gear answer the best and brightest that each of their countries had to offer.
'We also have the dubious distinction,' she reflected even as they all ducked the spellfire headed their way and shimmered for the third time in thirty minutes, 'of being the only ones not captured or killed'.
Thanks to the I.C.W. being sure of their fearsome reputation and powerbase (not to mention the security having holes in it that were often ignored or overlooked) they hadn't thought that Britain would put up much of a fight and wouldn't know that they were coming.
They were wrong on both counts.
Her former countrymen had prepared very well for this moment. She had no idea who had done it, whether Voldemort, Parkinson or someone else set it in motion didn't matter at this point, what mattered was someone had ordered the entire south coast raised to stop them leaving and void the threat they represented.
That took power, coordination, time and (magically speaking) the right to do so. The Ten collectively, the Head of the Council and maybe Harry could have done something similar on Nysa, but no one else would have stood a chance.
In Britain that meant Voldemort and or Parkinson had set this in motion regardless of who had actually carried it out.
Jones paid the price first as, only minutes after they had shimmered in, the borders went up and the ambush was sprung. The borders were ancient wards, not designed to stop someone travelling across the physically (though it did slow the act like you were moving through syrup) but to trap and detain magicals when the ratio between them and their muggle cousins had been much closer than it was today.
Seeing him fall, out of nowhere, to a skin peeling curse was the only warning they had gotten. The fact that it had happened in front of her eyes would haunt her nightmares for quite some time and the memory of his screams on the wind would stay with her far longer.
Within minutes most of the others had been either killed or captured, surrounded as they were. It was only through a combination of teamwork, stubbornness and luck that they had also been taken. They were being tracked though, as they had been for the last three days since the ambush and it was all they could do to stay alive.
They fought tooth and nail though, in this running retreat, to half-remembered places and locations that they hoped were safe.
And every moment they were bathed in more blood. Eventually, they were free again as the last of eight bodies fell to their desperate fury.
"We can't keep doing this," coughed a weary Gibenburg as he used his wand to absentmindedly heal a long shallow gash on his arm.
"No, we can't," agreed the Spanish witch even as Hermione gripped the runestone that Harry had given her, wondering if now was the time that she would have to use it.
"Come," she said as she tucked it back into her pocket with a sigh, "I have an idea where we can regroup. Besides, we have to try and find the others… those that were taken".
Fifteen dizzying and exhausting shimmers later, to avoid any pursuers, and they found themselves at the same camp that Hermione's team had managed to set up the last time they were on British soil.
It was still stocked with supplies, enough she believed to sustain them while they hunted for the others. They couldn't leave until things calmed down (the barriers couldn't be held up forever as they simply weren't designed that way) and, given that, how could they simply leave their friends, compatriots and colleagues to be killed and tortured?
After that, they could get out of this hellhole of a country and retribution would come, assuming they lived that long as they went about their almost impossible task.
-HPCOD-
Voldemort had realised something that Dumbledore refused, time and again, to really see and understand. He knew that the Harry Potter of today was a far cry from the boy that he had first met when Harry was eleven. That fact was obvious to him, as was the knowledge that even if Harry had learned little by the time he had left Hogwarts (in comparison to himself anyway) he was still more knowledgeable than most that graduated from those ancient halls.
He was also keenly aware that, when you are exposed to the wider world it offered many more opportunities for learning if you knew where to look.
'It would be foolish to think that he hasn't even attempted that,' he thought, 'so we have prepared'.
Thankfully, for him, being in charge of a country (even if he handed off the day to day) gave him options that he hadn't had before.
Options that he hadn't yet used on Dumbledore because he found the man useful for pulling all of his enemies into one spot. Harry Potter, on the other hand, was a constant irritant, an annoying reminder of one of his rare failures. Besides, Dumbledore's resistance had an inbuilt time limit and he was aware that, if he didn't find Harry now, his prey could just disappear again.
Part of this preparation involved the Department of Mysteries, though the British version was dismal in comparison to its counterparts having had to be rebuilt from the ground up in the last five years as they had fought his takeover to the last man. The new department was at least component though and it was through the work of this body that the graveyards of Britain were emptier than one might expect, by at least half.
That was not all of the assets that he called upon though, to do just that would have been foolhardy in the extreme, he also had Bella. She was his eager attack dog and Askaban had only honed her psychotic tendencies to a fine bleeding edge.
Her sister would be of use as well. Narcissa used to be the poster child for the ideal pure-blood princess but, the earth of her beloved son and the loss of her new families wealth (but not the death of her husband) she had hardened and the darker aspects of her bloodline had flourished in her. He privately enjoyed nurturing the madness of the Blacks as it was so unpredictable.
In her sister, her madness was explosive and gloried in blood, but in Narcissa, it became a cold and focused thing. Her eyes, which were once so bright and full of life, were now dead. They were always focused on her task but unsettled anyone who saw them as they reminded people of a corpse.
He loved it.
Plus, where Bella was enraged at the world for not bowing to his brilliance, Narcissa had one target for her fury and one person that she blamed for all of her misfortunes, Harry Potter. That was the weakness he had taken advantage of and, like her sister, he had made a masterwork of her.
Both of them were bound to him now, loyal to him above all else, and he found himself oddly grateful to Potter. Without him, Narcissa's intellect and entrancing madness would never have been allowed to flourish but, instead, would have languished under the burdens and lines of both trophy wife and mother.
Both had their uses and strengths of course. Bella was an explosive dynamo of rage and insanity that caused fear wherever she went and left nothing but pieces of corpses in her wake. Narcissa was cool efficiency made manifest. Her emotions were tightly controlled and expelled only at his command though of the two she was slightly less powerful, she was the more versatile.
'One a vicious psychopath and the other a delicious and ruthlessly inventive master of dark magic. How could I not take two such beautiful creatures with me?'
-HPCOD-
"You know, I'm still surprised that Hermione doesn't smack you one for smoking mate," Neville said even as Harry took another puff and the glowing red end slowly burned down in the morning light.
Although they weren't technically brothers (they both knew that) they were Godbrothers and they were supposed to be raised together and they would have been if it wasn't for the interference of Dumbledore. No matter what had happened in the past they now each viewed each other as family, brothers in all but blood and there was some blood shared between them, though not for a few generations.
Their families had a long history of intermarriage, alliances and friendship stretching back (on and off throughout the generations) to the founding of Hogwarts itself. In the last five years, both of them solitary men by nature and having spent a long time alone whether they wanted to or not, they had grown closer than any Longbottom or Potter/Emrys had in as long as anyone could remember.
"Trying to escape Mrs Longbottom and her terror twins in the making? How are her hormones?"
"It's not fucking twins. She's irritated by everything… understandably. You try carrying a baby for six months and feeling like a whale no matter what your poor, beleaguered husband says to you".
"Oh you poor bastard," Harry laughed, with layers of false sympathy in his voice even as he opened a small cool box by his side and passing Neville a beer before opening one of his own.
Both men enjoyed the silence for a moment, enjoying each others company without a word being spoken before it was broken with a question.
"So it's today then?"
"So the spies say," Harry agreed.
"You would know, as you are one aren't you?"
"You know, you never believe me when I tell you I'm not a spy".
"What else would a spy say? Besides, where else would you go on your trips?"
"Wandmaker remember? Rare woods are hard to find". It helped that, long before this the Department had organised such things, including contacts to say he was there so that he always returned with at least some raw wood.
"And do any of your trips," Neville began pointedly, "ever return you to our former homeland?"
"Now, really Nev, why would I risk that? Sure England has some rare woods but, there are vendors outside of the country if I find that I'm running low on say, old english oak. You assign me too much guile and I always wonder why I can never just win this argument with you".
"Because I'm the handsome and charming one," Neville retorted quickly. "Merlin only knows what you got out of the deal".
"You prick," Harry replied, amused even as Neville grinned.
"So are you," he chuckled, "but I'm better at it of course".
"Of course," Harry agreed amicably, even as the two men drank and looked contentedly at the land they had, in a very real sense, had a hand in creating.
-HPCOD-
"What the hell is this place?" Gibenburg asked with abject horror. "What has the locator spell led us to?"
Even as he asked this, the Spanish witch gutted the last guard with a very wicked-looking knife. The place looked like a simple office building but, it was clearly anything but.
They had managed to get in with almost no magic and no alarms being raised and they had spent the last ten minutes in a small room that was used as a file room for the vile place.
"The polite term," Hermione bleakly began her answer, "is reeducation centre. The reality is…"
"A concentration camp," finished the Spanish witch, even as she banished the body and removed the blood with her wand.
"And brainwashing centre," Hermione added grimly.
"For dissidents?" The Spanish witch asked, as she locked the room with one spell and then gave it the durability of stone for good measure.
"For everyone," Gibenburg voice was full of hopelessness as he looked through more records. "It makes sense. From everything we know Voldemort rules with an iron fist through Parkinson but, that's bound to upset people. This makes places like this a necessity for them, as for the brainwashing aspect… that seems a special 'service' used only on our people for the moment. I don't doubt that, if it is widely successful, it will be turned on the rest of the populous".
"Very smart, as long as they remain undiscovered long enough," added the Spanish witch and she spoke with a sick, twisted kind of admiration. "We know, from Nysa's reports, that he is lacking in skilled wands, especially Unspeakables. If they succeed, they address that while weakening their enemies. That's not even considering sending their new converts back and the tactical advantage of controlling the information that their enemy learns about them, if they are inclined to do it".
"They are still our people," Hermione said, as she had also kept reading the files as the Spanish witch was speaking, "and they are three levels down. The southern end, cell block sixty-three and there should be at least seven guards. Assuming the brainwashing hasn't worked yet, we will get to them and we will get them out".
The Spanish witch began laying magical explosives throughout the room and, in hindsight, Hermione realised that she had been doing it as soon as they entered the place. To be fair, they were all rather busy fighting and trying to be unseen to fully pay attention to what each other was doing outside of combat and before finding this room.
"In case we cannot, or we are stopped in any way we are not to be captured. This mission and our report to the I.C.W. are everything. If we fail and they take us the enemy wins, not just here but... thanks to the information we hold… everywhere else too".
The other two nodded in agreement. Whether it was sentiment or whether it was to plug the security breach before it truly became one was beside the point, all three were resolute in their purpose.
They had known the importance of this job going in and the risks. They knew that casualties were to be expected even when they tried everything to avoid them.
They knew and accepted that they likely would be some of them in the end.
-HPCOD-
When the attack began, the method was as vicious, flamboyant and childish as both Harry and others that had fought Voldemort before had come to expect.
The first warning that Sirius had was when the alarm in his office, often called the Heart of the Nest, that registered mass portkey signatures incoming sounded and he wasn't worried in the beginning.
Nysa, after all, was ideally placed to make a good ninety per cent of portkey signatures to be scrambled, thanks to the water around it. Those that did get through were often damaged, disorientated and certainly drowning. He was also aware that both the Sirens and the Veela would hear the alarm from their own versions of this office that were all magically linked with his and know what they had to do.
That was until he studied the magical signature report more closely and found signs of a particular dark magic that, given his family history, he was more familiar with than he ever wanted to be. Having grown up a Black he knew the feel of this magic like a boxer knew the taste of his own blood. He had never done it himself (as he was the proverbial white sheep of the family) but had felt this before many times, if on a smaller scale.
He knew, better than anyone, the stench of the freshly raised dead. Every Black had, at one time or another, raised an Inferi and his once large family had done it enough that it was not uncommon to feel that putrid work once a week growing up.
'My twisted family called it a bloody life skill. They may not have meant it to be a hypersensitivity to the magic but, fuck, I hate when they are right'.
The only way that he could feel it from this distance, as opposed to if he was in the next room to them, was if there were a lot of them. It made sense as, if you wanted them to do more than guard an area or mindlessly shamble about and attack anyone within range, a dark wizard had to be directing them.
'This is bad,' he thought even as his wand moved in a blur and sending signal after signal. He summoned everyone and everything that he could to the fight.
It didn't matter that a great many of them would be destroyed in transit and arrive in bits and pieces, they had less raw magic running through them than wizards so portkey's would be safer for them and paradoxically they had just enough throughout their flesh that pressure would affect them less. They didn't breathe so they wouldn't drown and were conversely protected from their greatest weakness, fire, by the water they would find themselves in.
And that was just the basic model without any enhancements that could be done with time and effort. Voldemort had unknowingly unleashed a very good weapon against them, but every defence had a trade-off, every choice would exclude another. That was not just the nature of magic, but life as well.
"We're going to have to let them in,' he concluded aloud. "Thank Merlin for the Veela".
Still, he knew that the losses taken by the Sirens as they fought, died and got out of the way, would be horrific.
-HPCOD-
The easiest way to take out Inferi was fire, everyone knew that, but it was also not the only way. The muggle idea of zombies was not a perfect analogy as headshots didn't kill them and only served to draw their attention but, decapitation worked.
'No one is stupid enough to try that and risked cursed wounds,' Sirius thought, 'no one human anyway. Goblins are a blessing in that regard though, they are more resistant to curses than we are and are both fully armoured as well as prepared with enchanted blades that will burst into flame on command'.
"It's a shame," said Bonecrusher, easily reading the gist of the man's thoughts, "that those blades take so long to enchant and train someone with. Maybe in the future, we might train a few humans to be at least competent, then the weapons could be of more use… if there are any humans that could be taught".
"Casual racism?" Sirius questioned. "From you?"
"No," he replied with subconsciously stretching in his armour and checking its flexibility, part of him wishing he could join the battle that was about to begin. "Just being honest".
Both watched from a hill nearby the city as they awaited the enemy force approaching Arcadia. They were too far out to make more than the mass of them with the naked eye (not to mention too far above them) but, Sirius assumed, there were certainly enough to cause trouble.
"Humans might just surprise you," Sirius's counter was perfectly timed as the crack of a firing sniper rifle shattered the air and an Inferi burst into flame when it was hit. Some few, it seemed had managed to arrive closer than the others.
"I see you and your Hawks prepared nicely," Bonecrusher responded as more shots followed the first in an uneven wave. His voice was darkly amused at this little surprise that Sirius had kept from him.
"Well, as Gringotts reminded us, he did use them a lot in the last war. Frankly, the surprise is my fault as I thought it would make a good prank. Really though, you have Dan Granger to thank for this as, as soon as he understood what we were doing, he mentioned a muggle invention called a flare gun. We ran with that but, we couldn't make it work with the latest muggle weapons. Ones from before the nineteen twenties work well enough... plus, not that it's much of a surprise now, but there will be more shocks for our enemies than just this".
"Well, I'm of two minds whether I should look forward to the point where we will need reinforcements. On the one hand, that means that we have been forced out of position, need emergency relief or too many have died. On the other hand…"
"You want to fight them, clear them from our home".
"So do you," Bonecrusher remarked even as Sirius nodded. "The Inferi...they're moving like an army...they almost seemed organised. Is Voldemort controlling them do you think?"
"No. He wouldn't want his focus split on what he thinks of as his day of triumph. I have a good idea of who is though.."
"You're not going to share?"
Sirius shook his head and didn't speak, his eyes focused solely on the horizon and the death that was to come.
-HPCOD-
Voldemort almost smiled when his feet found the solid ground of Nysa far from the main combat. The power the portkey took from him was more than he expected but, in what he believed was a sign of his own greatness, he managed the trip and managed to carry two people with him.
A feat he was sure that no other wizard could do. He was wrong, of course, but there were very, very few who could.
'I can feel it now, in the back of my mind, the strings of fate were all drawing to a close. This place would make a wonderful capital for my country when all is said and done. A perfect seat of power, crafted by destiny and my enemies just for me.'
They were attacked before he and his servants could take three steps though, with the Black sisters flanking him and his own power, he was unconcerned.
Twelve fully armoured Goblins, this far from the main host, may have been a concern for lesser wizards but not for him or his companions.
"Protect your sister," he hissed softly at Bella.
It was needed less because she was the weakest of the three but rather because she was distracted at that moment, bending his dead minions to her will on his behalf. She was using a pendant as a focus for the spell but, even with that, her mind and magic were sorely taxed and she would have little free to add to this confrontation.
Then he exploded into action and, within the first heartbeat, three were dead, all without being close enough to use their weapons. He relished the adrenaline running through his system even as it fueled his bloodlust, his need to kill.
More than that, it was the demonstration of his power over them, of being so far above them that they were nothing but gnats to him, that he craved.
In the distance, Harry and Neville rushed to join the conflict before all the Goblins were all killed and, with a wave of Harry's wand, all combatants were knocked back from each other momentarily.
Thanks to the nature of the melee, none of them could defend themselves from that spell but, equally, Harry couldn't launch anything deadly for risk of killing the Goblins.
-HPCOD-
As Harry and Neville joined the rapidly reorganising ranks of the Goblins and melded with them for a moment, Voldemort and the Black sisters were regrouping too.
"You and the Goblins need to stop the Black sisters, I've got the snake faced drama queen over there". Harry spoke quickly and concisely to Neville, even as the other man chuckled and nodded before his tone turned deadly. "Remember your training. Use your anger don't let it use you. I don't want to explain to Hannah why her baby doesn't have a father".
Neville's face lost all traces of mirth and his mouth settled into a grim line even as the Goblins, seasoned warriors that they were, all nodded in approval at his words.
Anger had its place in combat but, it should never control the fight.
At that moment Harry was amazed and impressed by one Neville Franklin Longbottom as he had been so many times over the years. Aside from Herbology, he had no innate savant-like skill with magic and (though his power levels were somewhat on the higher end) he hadn't undergone any rituals as Voldemort as well as Harry and Hermione had.
Despite that and an upbringing which, while loving, often involved him being compared unfavourably with his father he never stopped trying. He never gave up and never stopped learning.
To Harry, he was resilience incarnate.
That fact was never more apparent to him than right at that second as he and the remaining Goblins moved to engage the skilled pair of witches. As they did that, Harry was busy heading towards their Master.
Even before the first spell of this 'duels had been cast Harry's enhanced (and still growing) senses showed him that Voldemort was different to every other magical that he had ever met.
Each Magical had a certain glow about them that varied in many ways, in part due to their magical strength, but also much more than that.
The truly virtuous tended to glow with far lighter colours than what was the norm and their emotions tended to make this pale light twist in nearly hypnotic ways. Those that were bound to another, like House-elves tended to be connected by a thin thread that pulsed with a mixture of magic from all parties involved.
What he had been expecting then, when he saw the Dark Lord again with his new senses, was some sort of twisted and misshapen lump with a very dark hue somewhat similar to other wizards who had delved into the darker sides of their nature so deeply. Instead, it wasn't dark so much as nearly the complete absence of light. Whatever the man had done to himself there was not even the memory of humanity, of compassion, in him except how he might twist it to further his own goals.
It got worse than that though because overlaying that sickening sight, he looked like some sort of monster as hundreds, maybe thousands of tentacles spread from in and went in all directions, very soon vanishing from Harry's limited ability to see. All were the same void-like black as he was, all were twisted mockeries of any other bonds that Harry had ever seen or heard of.
The seething and malignant mass of lines seemed to sway in an invisible wind, as tall grass might, and they appeared to suck the light in around him more and more as Harry, oh so briefly, focused on them. Harry knew that wasn't possible as what he was seeing wasn't real in the traditional sense but rather the way his brain interpreted what his magical senses were telling him, it had nothing to do with light, his eyes or his optical nerves.
Still, in the last five years, he had not been idle so his first question turned an amused Voldemort into an angry one.
"Horcruxes? Really? I mean, I knew you were an idiot but not to this degree".
A trio of killing curses was Voldemort's concise answer to that comment even as Harry continued to rile the man up. "Do you actually know anything about them, beyond the diseased ramblings of Herpo the Foul?"
Even as he continued to scold the Dark Lord, the Earth rose to block the three curses and then, wave a lazy wave of Harry's wand turned into thick vines with very sharp thorns and launch themselves at speed towards the man.
"So. Soul Jars. Let's talk," Harry continued, as calmly as if he were having a conversation over a very slow lunch.
-HPCOD-
'Two,' Hermione thought in disgust, 'we only managed to save two and now we are well and truly hunted. It makes what we were facing before feel like a leisurely stroll in comparison. They won't be lost easily this time, especially after that explosion'.
She was glad that, no matter the cost, that it had gutted the place to its very foundations even if it drew this kind of attention.
Reckless? Probably. An emotional response? Certainly. However, she knew deep down, in the most primal part of her brain, that a place like that couldn't be allowed to exist, no matter the cost that might have to be paid for it. It wasn't just what it could cost Nysa, to Hermione who treasured knowledge and her sense of self, that place was as close to Hell on Earth as she ever thought possible and it could not be allowed to exist for one more second than absolutely necessary.
"They will be mobilizing even more response teams right now," Gibenburg said darkly. "This place will be crawling with more people than ants soon enough".
"Even without our recovered and injured people transfigured into sticks, we can't outrun even this many to your safehouse and that will likely be found in short order if we stay there. This is not the Ministry of old, what they lack in skill they make up for with a fanatical unity of purpose," added the Spanish witch unhelpfully.
"We can make it out the muggle way if we can make up the time so they can't catch us," she said quietly. As she spoke she pulled out the runestone that Harry had given her before she had left, hating to have to use it now but knowing that it was needed.
"What's that?" The other woman snapped grumpily, "The fabled Ressurection Stone?"
"Better," Hermione muttered back, with a grim note of finality in her voice.
-HPCOD-
The Ministry was in an uproar. The news of the destruction of their main reeducation centre did not sit well with the majority of them but, Parkinson was not that concerned. There were others, not as effective and much smaller but, there were others.
To him, it was a minor setback, neither the people that were being educated (he was unaware of their newest acquisitions at the moment) nor the people who ran it were that important that they couldn't be replaced. The task would be time-consuming and annoying but, that was all.
There was no problem that he believed that the Ministry could not overcome and, it was in this spirit that all of the Department Heads were meeting with the Minister now to put plans in place to deal with the loss and the enemy agents in their borders.
As he sat at the head of the table he glanced around at the powerful men and women that sat on it. All were respectable, upright individuals of good standing that believed in the new order and the vision of the eutopia that Britain was becoming, despite the actions of dissidents and terrorists.
Charles Ungart was the Head of Portkey Tracking, a new department that used experimental spells to determine who was using those items illegally. The spells, being new were often ineffective (they only worked slightly under twenty per cent of the time) but they did catch people needing reeducation. The people also knew that the department existed and the fear of it and what it could do settled the people more and more every day.
As with all Department Heads of the new regime, he was a pure-blood going back a minimum of fifteen generations. Like all of them, he accepted 'gifts' viewing them as his right as he was better than the average wizard due to his bloodline and even the worst pure-blood was better than their half-blood servants, muggle-born slaves or the filth that was the muggles themselves.
Now, they were about to reap the whirlwind of their greed as Hermione activated the runestone.
"Minister, I got the portkey monitors…" Ungart only to begin to choke and, within seconds, spewed forth a pink froth violently from his mouth and into the air. He was also gasping for air that would never come as his face turned red, then slowly drained of colour and he desperately grasped at his neck.
Before Parkinson could say a word or call for help, each other Department Head began to fall though not in the same fashion as Ungart. Some clutched their chests, some began to scream and claw at their own eyes as blood streamed from their mouths, noses and eyes and some even had what appeared to be stab wounds appear as if from nowhere and either began to bleed out all over the place or desperately tried to hold in their intestines as they fell out onto the floor and desk.
If the shoe was on the other foot he would have found the whole sight deliciously inventive as, with magic, inventiveness and time were the only true obstacles to a massacre. That fact escaped him, as did any desire to help his ailing staff, as he had his own problems and was unable to help them anyway.
He felt it first, with a closing of his throat, not enough to stop him breathing but enough that he couldn't cry out. With slowly dawning horror his extremities began to feel hot, then boiling as he found himself rooted to the spot.
Then the heat moved, with an agonising slowness, towards his head and heart condensing and pressing harder, feeling even hotter as it went. He would scream if he could, as it felt like acid eating his insides, even as sweat streamed down his face. He hoped for mercy, mentally cried for it or at least for it to happen quicker and end his torment.
His prayers were unanswered as of all the magically activated binary poisons, this was the worst of them, though the deaths of the Department Heads had been recorded by the wards of the Ministry and Healers were on their way.
The fact that there was no solace for him was exactly the point. He had given none to his victims so now, in his hour of need, he found none himself. He didn't think of that though, in fact, he only had one single thought before passing out from the pain.
'Someone planned this...they planned for me to be last and to see this happen'.
By the time that the Healers finally managed to enter the room most of the Department Heads were dead and the few that were still alive were circling the drain. A few would live, but they would hardly be lucky, as they would be forever damaged and weakened by what had happened to them.
In their defence, it wasn't just in that one office or simply the Heads of Department that were affected. Almost every single high ranking pure-blood was poisoned in one way or another and they were more than hard-pressed to meet the sudden demand.
Regardless, it caused all Ministry operations to grind to a standstill and (until they figured out that it was an activated poison already in their system many hours later) the search for an assassin who would be so brazen to attack the Ministry itself began.
It also recalled almost all of the units searching for Hermione and her team and, in this way, she gained her time to escape. All the while the people at the Ministry were running around like headless chickens, being treated or lying dead on the floor.