The woodland glade was lit as rays of sunlight filtered through the tall forest trees. Truly, the Sun was shining with all its might to illuminate the patch of open space amidst the trees, and this was odd because it was the middle of the night.
Still, none of this had yet mattered a jot to those at the centre of the patch of woodland, for there stood a long table with white tablecloth, perfectly set cutlery and other various bits of paraphernalia for a tea party. Seated at this table were three figures – or at least, three that could be seen at any rate.
The first figure sat at the head of the table, and was probably the most normal of the trio, being a tall man with smart Edwardian-style clothing, grim countenance, and gun-metal grey hair poking out from under a large top hat, with a small note reading 'In this style, 10/6' atop its brim. The man – who bore a striking resemblance to one by the name, Michael Caine – took a sip from a porcelain cup of hot tea while nonchalantly surveying his surroundings as well as his companions.
The first of his compatriots was sitting bolt upright in his chair, glancing around quite frantically at the dark, seemingly endless woodlands beyond the glade, the table layered with teapots and cake stands, and the man sitting calmly to his left. As he turned his head so wildly, his large ears flopped about and his buck-teeth gnawed anxiously upon his lower lip.
"Where the bloody 'ell is this, and who the bloody 'ell are you?" the anthropomorphic hare – for that is what he was – enunciated in a thick accent of indeterminable origin.
"I think," replied a small voice from opposite him, "that that's Michael Caine."
The Hare turned to glance at the third member of this meeting, spying a more familiar visage in the small dormouse sitting atop a miniature high-chair upon the table top, smoothing her dress down while fingering a large needle that almost dwarfed her tiny body in size.
"I believe," the silent figure finally spoke up, "that I am the one that they call Scrooge. And yet, I am not." He made no mention as to the potential plot hole of having a fictional character know of the very real actor whose visage he sported, nor of the fourth wall breaking this implied. "I am the stand in as a personification of the author."
"The author?" the dormouse squeaked incredulously.
"Yes, the one typing all of this as we speak."
"Ah, that makes a wee bit more sense," the hare stated as he poured his own tea, "it's been a good long while since we've been written aboot."
"It's all been films of late," the dormouse commiserated while spiking a chunk of cake with her needle without moving from her spot, "lord knows how they got so far from the source material." At this, the man who may or may not have been Scrooge chortled, an amused smile stretching across his features.
"Yes, well, that may be, but I think we are in no position to speak of such things given the contents of this story we are appearing in," the man wryly replied.
"Oh?" inquired the hare as he dropped a lump of sugar into his now filled cup.
"Yes, this exists within the realms of fanfiction, you see." At this, the pair both jumped, the hare spilling his tea all over the place and the dormouse dropping her crumb of sweet sugary delight.
"Oh gods please tell me I don't have to go up anyone's behind?" the small rodent whimpered, seemingly shrinking into herself.
"And it's probably a crossover with eight different fandoms, and with a harem story with every female to boot!" the hare added angrily, "and ah'll have to spend chapters being subjected to endless petting before being blown up by a golden hand grenade! I tell you, I am no rabbit! Entirely different subspecies!"
"Calm yourselves, nothing of the sort is going to happen," Scrooge interjected, making a small motion with his hand. "We are merely here to serve as the… Author's Note, I believe it is named."
"What, that space at the start and end of each chapter where authors write far too much drivel keeping people from the main story?"
"Yes, well," the man pointedly looked away, "it's something of a new thing the author wishes to test out with this chapter; partially as an apology for such a wait it has been since this tale was updated – they apologise profusely by the way, something about 'real life' being awful, and appreciating all the support from the many reviewers who lent kind words earlier in the year."
"It's awful to not keep your word like this; truly shameful!" the resident rodent rallied with needle once more held aloft, "thou should not promise when thou cannot deliver!"
"Again, the author respects the dislike of the delay and is verbose in both apology and appreciation for sticking along," Scrooge continued, "the other, perhaps larger, reason for this diversion away from the norm is that they wish to give some – albeit belated – tribute to a man named Bob."
Two teacups and a needle were lifted aloft in toast, while "Thou shalt be sorely missed," was intoned solemnly by all three, a tear pooling in the hare's eye at the literary loss.
"I guess that explains a bit," the dormouse allowed as she returned to pricking the nearby cake for titbits.
"Indeed," the man in the hat replied, once more taking a sip of his tea. "There remains but one thing to say and make this thousand word note meaningful to some cold hearted persons in legal departments about the world."
"May I?" the Hare inquired sorrowfully.
"Go ahead," Scrooge stated with a waved hand. The leporine creature turned towards the sky, and shouted his declaration to the night sky where the Moon and Sun could be seen arguing with each other, pausing their debate to observe the moment that made their existence meaningful:
"This is a work of fanfiction, and the author owns nothing! All property referenced belongs to their respective owners!"
Chapter 18
Lucius Malfoy glared balefully at his glass, eyes unwavering in the dimming firelight. Said container was of fine, artfully cut quartz of high quality; an antique perfectly suited to his great manor and his standard of living. The brandy within was delightful too, an expensive vintage aged for more than 150 years and its exquisite taste reflected that.
Both were muggle made.
Both were shaking in his hand.
With a growl the blond aristocrat roughly slammed it down upon the nearby table, and leant back into his armchair – clenching his hands into fists to avoid the post-cruciatus tremors. Slate grey eyes found the crackling embers in the ornate fireplace, trying to gain some solace amongst the ashes. That damn woman; her words had been burning in his mind for days. Everything she had said… and what was worse was that it was all true!
Even now, the Dark Lord would likely still be holding court at the other end of the house, some of the most influential men in their society grovelling at his feet. At the feet of a half-blood. His own blood boiled at the very idea.
And it wasn't even his blood status that was so awful, it was that he had been had! For decades Lucius had been proud to bear the Dark Mark, proud to have done something to defend their society from the mudbloods and blood traitors intent on destroying it. But even that very word… 'blood traitor,' he had invented it to characterise those who stood against them, to demonise and dehumanise them. How many families had been branded as such? How many ancient bloodlines wiped out?
'With age comes experience.'
How many mistakes had he made when looking back upon old decisions?
"Argh," the inarticulate snarl of frustration was echoed by a shatter as he cast his glass into the fire, watching the crystal shatter and a blue flame ignite from the spilled alcohol. Standing up from his chair, he glared around at the sitting room with its ornate fixtures and the great tapestry of the Malfoy family tree. This was his home! His family's home; their birth right and seat of power.
It was not a guest house for mudblooded bastards.
"Hoppy!" he called, to clean up the room, having made his decision. A scowl covered his visage upon remembering that ruddy snake had eaten his most recent servant; those bloody things weren't cheap!
With a few flicks of his wand, the fire was doused and the glass reassembled itself and joined its fellows. With determination in his steps, Lucius left in search of quill and ink; he had a letter to write.
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The man once known as Tom Riddle, more commonly referred to by those around him as 'My Lord,' and colloquially named 'You-Know-Who' was in a frustrated form of two minds. On the one hand after so many years as a wraith he had finally regained corporeal form and his position as resident Dark Lord of Britain, with none seemingly the wiser - the Ministry even denying all evidence when presented with it, blaming everything on that incompetent rat – which was actually somewhat insulting, but he'd take the advantage as it came.
However.
On the other hand, nothing quite felt right. In the graveyard he had been expecting a Heroic moron of Dumbledore's making that he could easily slaughter and empower himself with, then going on to reclaim all his former followers. Instead, though the ritual did work, she had proved far more resourceful than expected, and his supporters seemed to be dwindling. Staring out at the crowd of silvery masked minions before what could accurately be called his throne he couldn't help but feel that it seemed thinned.
"Where is Rowle?" he finally asked, stopping his pacing in front of his kneeling subjects. No answer was forthcoming, and he resisted the urge to growl or lash out at one of the assembled – his temper did seem oddly hot of late. Of his faithful, several had seemingly gone missing since he had first summoned them together, every meeting thinner on the ground from his old inner circle he had believed he could rely on to rally around him. Stalking to his seat, the snakelike sorcerer pondered. At this point it could not be denied that something was going on; most likely one of two options. Either someone was targeting his loyal Death Eaters and acting as a vigilante to remove them from the brewing war, or else they were leaving his service willingly and attempting to run as Karkaroff did.
Idly, he casted a crimson eye upwards to glance at the iron cage hanging from the ceiling. The ex-headmaster's corpse was slowly decaying up there, his face caught in a frozen cry of agony. No, his faithful had all returned on the eve of his 'resurrection,' and had subsequently seen how he dealt with traitors – and those who had decried and betrayed his name. He had long since charmed and commanded them; they would not betray him in such numbers.
So that left a deliberate attack upon them. But who would even know to attempt such a thing? Moreover, even to dare assault his men.
Regardless, best to tread carefully and continue with his plan to subtly build up his forces without making his presence obvious. But he would find whoever was doing this, and they would pay. After all, one did not earn the title 'Dark Lord' by being kind to one's enemies. Or even one's followers, for that matter; he still had to deal with the risk that his loyal had been captured instead of killed, in which case he needed to turn their brains to mush before they could answer any pertinent questions. Dark Marks were really one of his better ideas.
"Here, Wormtail."
And once he'd dealt with this wrinkle, maybe it was time to send out some missions to probe some of Dumbledore's forces.
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Why did nothing go as it was supposed to?
This was the question that endlessly plagued Albus' mind as he organised items upon his desk. Every plan he made seemingly fell apart in ways he could not have ever expected, and the old man felt he was already losing the war before it had begun. For every step he made, he had to take two steps back, or else his opponents took another four steps for good measure.
Why could people not see the big picture? That the Greater Good was the ideal to strive towards. Why could they not trust in him, as many had done since his battle with Grindelwald? On that fateful day in Germany, as his blasted Reich fell about him, Albus had made a fateful choice; to sacrifice his own desires for the Greater Good that the pair had come up with many years before. It would have been so easy to join with his old lover, to rule the world with an iron fist, but it was not the right thing to do.
And so, he put his own first – and only – love in a prison designed to house Dumbledore himself. Upon his return to Britain, roles had been quickly foisted upon him and it was only through his own reticence that he never became Minister. Albus quickly learned to rise to the challenge, sinking himself into responsibilities to the people; his actions had always been in their interest.
But now they resisted him, challenged him even. Could they not simply trust that he acted in their best interest?
None was this more evident in than Jasmine Potter, the most important weapon in his arsenal stubbornly staying beyond his grasp. Over the years he had tried to sway her, but she was oddly reticent towards him. He was, however, allowing of this likely teenage rebellion; she should receive some happiness or resemblance of a childhood, especially with that awful fate resting over her head.
For she had to die, and at Tom's hand no less; the prophecy was quite clear. And he did wish it did not have to be so, but unfortunately it did.
So, he allowed her some dalliance – granted, he had come very, very close to ruining his legendarily calm demeanour when she blackmailed him of all things, and with that Lockhart business that flooded him with howlers for weeks on end. However, his fears had largely been assuaged in her second year when she went after the Chamber all on her lonesome, defeating Slytherin's monster to save the life of that Weasley girl, and after her dedication to save her innocent godfather – what a legal mess that had been. The worrying incident in first year with Granger's theory was easily categorised a mistake; after all, what did a little first year know about the matter? The lecture he had been forced to give her about leaping to conclusions and the seriousness of accusations had hurt her, he knew.
However, he could no longer afford to be lenient; the time was at hand. Altogether too soon for his liking, but needs must when the Devil drives. This year she would have to fall in line in order to embrace her destiny, doom-filled though it may be.
But first, he would need to set about reconvening the Order; her godfather being his first port of call, he should be able to bring her firmly to the Light.
##########################################################################
'I take it all back,' Sirius thought to himself as he gazed upon the sheaves of parchment littering his desk. 'I'd gladly take dull and cooped up over this.'
He loved his goddaughter unconditionally, despite the fact he barely saw her during the school year, and even the holidays - though he treasured every letter sent, and moment with her. However, he had had his patience severely tested in the time since achieving his legal freedom. The fidelius was still in place on his house - it still wasn't quite a home yet, maybe it never would be - and he had grated at the fact that he could not control that personally. Partially this had been about having to take the women he picked up to hotels rather than back to his abode, but more so was the lack of freedom and feeling cooped-up in the old building, something he distinctly loathed the idea of after more than a decade in a tiny prison cell.
So yes, while he loved his goddaughter, he was also immensely frustrated by her at times. Her platitudes and reticence, always changing the subject when he brought up certain topics - like the Fidelius and her unexplained feelings towards Dumbledore to start - had grated on him at times. She acted somewhat like a figure of authority, which was an idea that the old Marauder was not overly fond of.
Still, he appreciated the strong wards now he knew Voldemort to once more be wandering the Earth, and hadn't that been something that shook his world to the ground.
His mind was on the girl due to all these bits and pieces surrounding him; 'proper prior planning prevents piss poor performance' Jasmine had said before giving them to him. And planning it was, across numerous sheets of parchment in neat and ordered script, admittedly with a fair few splodges - more than normal for an experienced quill user, Sirius noted, maybe her pot was leaking? In detail were listed actions, events, things that needed to happen according to her, and fell under his purview. Quite a few required him to get back up in front of the Wizengamot, something he'd avoided since being freed, instead making Andy his representative in the body. She actually enjoyed the politics and the general mess of governing. Women. Mad, the lot of them.
'Although,' Sirius mused as he read another piece of parchment, 'they can also be insanely clever.' Here and there, patterns were emerging he could just make out; plans forming through the actions occurring. And yet, he couldn't help but feel he was missing a lot; like he was looking at one part of a much bigger picture. 'What is your overall plan?' he wondered, a smirking ravenette in his mind's eye. For there was assuredly one, her approach to the Triwizard had certainly shown she was a planner and a plotter.
He sat back while rubbing tired eyes as he wondered if his goddaughter would ever trust him enough to tell him of her plans. Regardless, he would keep trying to reach that state.
##########################################################################
The tolling of the two grandfather clocks outside the meeting room was interrupted by the routine clacking of heels upon the hardwood floor, which paused as the door was opened, and swiftly closed after the figure had gained entrance, quickly seating herself near the head of the table. To those who knew of her, the appearance was most definitely off as she was well known to despise tardiness – though of course, she wasn't technically late, having been seated before the chimes finished tolling the hour. Still, that she would cut it that close when normally she was seated long before anyone else was a sign in and of itself.
Nothing was said for a precious few seconds before – as usual – the seat at the head of the table was suddenly filled with a cloaked figure.
"Welcome, all," the figure declared in that authoritative voice that few had ever heard outside of this very room. "Your attendance is appreciated at this short notice to discuss matters of some import." Some of the more intelligent there had thoughts as to their appearance there being very much mandatory; one did not simply refuse the call of the mysterious head of their organization – of whom many present did not even know the name. "There is a threat to our business upon this island. Loathe as I am to put our European expansions on hold, we must concentrate inwards to strengthen our position here."
##########################################################################
The house of Granger was quiet and still, with nary a stirring from anywhere to be heard. Of course, this was hardly surprising given the time of night; most every sensible person up and down the country would be in bed and asleep. However, in a bedroom upstairs, a light was on, clearly flouting the reasonable restrictions of normality. Therein was contained a young woman - a teen by age, yes, but a woman nonetheless - and she sat up upon her bed, glaring with hatred at one thing:
Her own traitorous, trembling hand.
It hung in the air, seemingly fine before twitching every now and then, or facing an involuntary shake. It made the ravenette's blood boil. Her head snapped around as the door to her room creaked ajar, and a pair of blue eyes peered in.
"You should be asleep," the bushy-haired brunette beyond stated, opening the door fully.
"By that admission, so shouldn't you be?" Jasmine replied after a moment's contemplation.
"I had a hunch to follow up on," Hermione affirmed, stepping inside and carefully closing the noisy door behind her. Jasmine couldn't help but notice her girlfriend's burgeoning form, clad as she was in thin pyjamas; once more emphasised as from the Yule Ball that Hermione was destined to be more 'blessed' than she as far as appearance went. Such thoughts were of course present as said woman slipped under the covers, and wrapped an arm about her as the Ravenclaw shuffled along to make space.
"What would your parents think of this, I wonder?" she mused aloud.
"I imagine they would think us hormonal teenagers," Hermione responded with a slight smile that quickly grew more serious, "and don't try to draw conversation into a different alley; I saw you." The brunette clearly struggled for words for a moment, debating approaches no doubt. "You can't beat yourself up over this; you could never have anticipated what happened, nor the consequences, you can only try to work past them." The words were accompanied by a squeeze from the warm arm about her shoulders.
"It's not this," Jasmine replied, gesticulating with the offending limb, "it's what it embodies; failure." Emerald eyes once more gazed upon ashen skin with pure disdain. "It represents my failure to anticipate events, it represents my failure to concentrate on what was important instead of getting caught up in games and frivolities, it represents... arrogance." The last word was all but growled. "I do not fail, I do not lose, but in winning I became confident, I became cocky. This, this is a consequence - no, a reminder."
"No-one is infallible, Jasmine," Hermione whispered softly, comfortingly.
"No, but that's not the same thing. I've faced setbacks before, problems and issues, of course I have. But I have worked past them, I have always been assured of victory eventually, I could always trust in my own mind, my own two hands!" With a deflated sigh, she turned the pale limb over. "Now look at them. I can't hold a wand without fear of a flick the wrong way upsetting every spell; I'm going to have to learn point casting just to keep up this year!"
"Then that's what you do - no, what we do," emerald met sapphire at the impassioned proclamation, "in your words, we treat it as a setback and work forwards, and yes Jasmine Potter, I will keep saying 'we' until you get it into your head that we are in this together."
"I thought I was supposed to be the closet romantic," she deadpanned in reply, before giving a grin and laying a kiss upon the woman's forehead as she drew her closer. The smile did not reach her eyes, however. 'No more games,' were the resolute words that echoed through her mind.
##########################################################################
Waking up next to another warm body was a new experience for Jasmine, albeit a not-unwelcome one. Indeed feeling Hermione's bosom pressed into her back was quite pleasant, as was the pleasant heat of sharing her bed with another. Of course, the shifting behind her was also what had woken the ravenette.
"Good morning," the woman said quietly with a yawn taking over from anything further she might have said.
"And to you," Hermione replied, giving a squeezing hug with arms that were surprisingly already wrapped around her, "and Happy Birthday." Jasmine blinked at that, having practically forgotten the date; today was the 31st of July. "Accio." The Ravenclaw turned to see a small blue wrapped package float over from where it had sat upon the dresser - feeling a slight bit of pride at her girlfriend's aptitude for wandless magic, experimented with after her defeat upon the duelling stand. "I was going to leave this at the door if you were asleep, but as is..."
The ravenette smiled, twisting about under the covers to face her girlfriend and the present in her hands. With care, she took it and slowly undid the spellotape perfectly securing the paper from behind, savouring the Gryffindor's impatience. When finally the paper was unfolded, two long and thin leather chords were revealed, each with a silver item at the base.
"Pendants?" Jasmine queried, picking one up to study the jewellery at the bottom. It seemed to be a rounded cylinder, but on closer inspection it was made of several separate rings that appeared to twist around, and each had a small rune engraved and outlined in black.
"Remember that crystal you gave me at Christmas?" Hermione queried with a smile, "I did some experimenting with it, and what you did at the second task gave me some thoughts about sympathetic magic and the Protean charm. After what happened at the end of term I made these; there's a piece of crystal in each. When one moves," Hermione picked up the second pendant and turned one of the rings with a barely audible click, so too did the one in Jasmine's hand move. "and it's so low level as to be practically undetectable, until..." a few more twists brought each ring's rune to line up and glow slightly, and Jasmine could feel her own warm up in response. "Aligns to make an array that strengthens the link; should be enough of a connection to apparate through or at least track if there's anti-apparition wards up."
"For emergencies," Jasmine concluded, not visibly reacting to the idea.
"Basically," the brunette placed down the other pendant and rubbed the back of her head, "at the Third Task... I've never been more terrified; you were gone for hours, and no-one had any idea where you were or if you were even still alive. I can't…"
"Look at me," Jasmine demanded, tapping the other teen's chin. "You're not getting rid of me that easily," she completed with a smile, looping the leather about her slender neck.
#############################################################################
The rain splattered and ran off Jasmine's umbrella in sheets and torrents as she waited under a spluttering street lamp, deep in the warren of London's backstreets. Outwardly she didn't react at the faint crack of apparition from nearby, the sunglasses so out of place in the dead of night obscuring any emotion her face might have given away as the nondescript blonde woman approached. For a long moment that dragged out, the pair merely regarded each other – Jasmine's glamours and smart, expensive clothing compared to the other woman's more simplistic garb designed to slip into the background.
"You have the information?" the ravenette eventually spoke.
"You got the gold?" the blonde immediately shot back.
"You wound me," a small pouch was pulled from a coat pocket - magically expanded to hold a large sum of coins, of course. It was quickly swapped for a sheaf of parchment, which Jasmine swiftly scanned, examining the names and where each person could be found. The other woman made to turn leave before pausing.
"You do realise what you're asking for, right?"
"I would not have asked if I did not," she replied, eyebrow raised.
"It's just… most of those people go to a lot of trouble not to be found, to not even exist. And most of 'em have a screw or two loose; Dark Magics can do that to you."
"I am fully aware of what they are capable of; it is for this knowledge I wish to contact them. I assure you I can handle myself, though your concern is noted."
"I make it a point to try and keep my customers alive, and you haven't tried to screw me over yet. So, y'know, try not to die."
##########################################################################
"Rook to E4, checkmate," the ravenette enounced clearly, the black piece in question sliding across the board without her touching it.
"Well played indeed," her opponent drawled, leaning back to stare at her with those unsettling, piercing eyes that never blinked enough, "are you sure you would not care for another?"
"No thank-you; I am quite attached to my limbs, and have no desire to gamble them more often than necessary," she replied simply. A flash of sharp teeth answered her.
"Spoilsport. I will one day get to taste your flesh, though," his grin was too wide, and his teeth sharp and white. Jasmine knew not what ancestry he had - although she had her suspects that it was fey in origin - only that it was not entirely human, and he had an odd predilection towards cannibalism. "Your books are in the box over there," he continued with a lazy gesture towards a box that had not been there a moment before, "for the required payment, of course."
"Of course. One quart of unicorn blood, freshly drawn."
##########################################################################
"They are really gunning for him, aren't they?" Jasmine muttered, putting down a sheaf of parchment in favour of sipping her tea.
"Fudge has got it into his head that Dumbledore is after his position as Minister, and his entourage is only encouraging him – since they stand a better chance of power through him if the man is not advising anymore," Amelia replied from her position in a wing backed chair across the coffee table. The woman looked tired – hardly surprising given the activity in the DMLE of late, and the day's Wizengamot session earlier turning into a huge event as Fudge moved to get rid of Dumbledore following his campaign to convince the world of Voldemort's return.
"It certainly accelerated our plans to put forward Diggory into place, he'll make a far better compromise in wartime; you've briefed him, presumably?"
"Yes, he's aware of what's coming and what he'll be taking on. Opinion of him was favourable amongst those I spoke with, as well."
"Good, everything is nearly in place then," Jasmine leant back contemplatively, staring into the ornate fireplace of Bones Manor's drawing room. "Though the DME reform curveball was not something I anticipated. The question is whether we can afford to use the time and political capital to devote to dealing with it, or whether we must let it go ahead."
"I think it best to choose our battles wisely," the older woman said knowingly – now long since used to treating the teenager with respect and as an equal, "besides, some of this reform could actually do some good. My main worry is who they will send in to replace any inadequate instructors."
"Well, one more incompetent professor won't make that great of a difference; what's the worst that can happen?"
##########################################################################
With a grunt, Jasmine settled herself into a chair within the sealed compartment behind her London office. With frustration her lightly blood splattered coat was thrown across the floor, a slight shimmer fading as her bodily proportions returned to their natural state.
"Is the whole bloody world filled with incompetents?" the ravenette all but growled while rubbing tired eyes under her customary aviators. It had taken a fair while's combing the woods around Little Hangleton to find the old Gaunt residence with its very well hidden ward set. Of course knowing Voldemort as she did Jasmine came prepared to break into a secure location – four curse breakers from Gringotts' ranks to do the job, an emergency portkey for herself, and a fair few potions for all occasions for what might go wrong.
The first dunderhead – as Snape would have labelled him – triggered a flesh-stripping ward, requiring a stasis charm to be placed on him immediately before he died a painful death.
After they spent hours carefully bringing down the wards, number two got bitten by one of the highly venomous snakes that swarmed the group. He got a general-purpose antitoxin, and another stasis charm, and they were down to three before even reaching the doorway of the heavily dilapidated shack.
Going very carefully inside, and avoiding various traps embedded in the floor and walls, they managed to locate a sealed compartment beneath a floorboard. Number three knelt down to open it slowly while number four crouched behind with her wand trained on the space. As soon as the board was up, they both froze at whatever was within, and Jasmine saw a dozen and one emotions flit through their eyes – surprise, interest, greed, desire, etcetera. Number three reached for the contents, but his co-worker moved quicker, shifting her wand to blast said man point blank in the back of the head with a nasty piercing hex, before reaching for the interior herself.
Jasmine had watched incredulously as within a miniscule timeframe the woman went from tentatively anxious, to murdering her co-worker, to finally giving an ear-splitting screech of pain as she clutched a rapidly darkening and shrivelling arm – a particularly strong withering curse being the culprit, by the looks. Rather than risk problems from the now deranged woman, the Ravenclaw had just sent her own piercer through her chest – leaving only time for the ex-curse breaker to register a look of confusion and surprise before toppling over backwards, still shrivelling to become a blackened corpse as she went.
Given the very obvious warning of compulsion charms, and time to prepare and steel her mind, Jasmine was able to push past the very powerful enchantments – which tested even her iron will with their whisperings - to find the contents, and remove it into a safe container. Of course, the mission being a success didn't make her any less pissed off at the situation. A little of that anger had been relieved by removing the two still-living curse breakers from the equation – with them in that shape, it was far easier to do so rather than spend time having them constantly watched to become conscious again and only then memory charm them, not to mention infinitely more satisfying. Of course, that still meant she had to barter with Gringotts over loss of personnel.
"All over this," the ravenette muttered, pulling a glass case into her palms. About the size and shape of a book, the glass shimmered in the light with engraved runes along each edge, reinforced in each corner with metal. Hanging within, perfectly still and not touching the sides was a chunky, gaudy golden ring with a black stone inset. The whole piece of jewellery positively reeked of dark magic when outside the container, stronger than anything she had seen before now. What was it exactly?
The most complex identifying charms she knew had revealed only the school of magic: Necromancy. And considering how familiar the symbol atop it was to certain legends Jasmine had researched after receiving her cloak…
She needed this identified and verified by an expert opinion. Maybe it was time to follow some of those leads trying to discover more about Voldemort's repeated refusal to just bloody die.
##########################################################################
The Wizengamot - despite being an august and ancient body - was an unruly one for sure. It was not until several minutes after the most recent meeting was due to start was an actual quiet reached and brought to order. About the huge room, old men sat upon worn seats that had held up their fat buttocks for decades, and their ancestor's before them. Being below the age at which a head of house should technically ascend to position, Jasmine was of course the youngest there, but by a wider margin than could exist; the next youngest was in fact the head of House Hawthorn at 23 - a relatively minor house that was cadet to the Lestrange family, so he was only there by default as the head of that house sat in Azkaban with his wife. This room was full of the complacent and the conservative; those stuck in their ways and resistant to change or any threat to their way of life.
Time to shake things up.
"I have a declaration to make," Jasmine announced upon standing, feeling the eyes of all present turn to her; the young and quickly rising figure of the Girl-Who-Lived, already head of her own house and heir to the powerful Black line. "By the ancient rites of combat, I have defeated mine enemy thrice when he sought to end my life. As he claimed himself vassal to an Ancient and Noble line, I have claimed said house as my own," she held aloft a hand upon which now rested three items of jewellery: her head of House ring for the Potters, a surprisingly ornate and chunky gold ring with the family crest upon it; a much more simple, unmarked black obsidian band that signified her as heir to the house of Black; and finally a delicate piece comprised of two silver snakes wrapped about each other, coming together to grasp an emerald within their jaws that seemingly shivered with an inner light. "As head of the Ancient and Noble house of Slytherin, I do hereby lay claim to its seats upon the Wizengamot as is my right!"
A/N: And there we have it. Finally. You have no idea how difficult this was to write; both generally as a chapter, and also as I really got very rusty in the time I abandoned writing to focus on my exams. It didn't help that reading back through this I've come to dislike many aspects of the story and the loose plot-threads all over the place. The show ain't over, mind you, just that I'm not as invested as I once was, and updates will be slow comin' - nothing like the weekly or fortnightly schedule I kept up at the start.
However I must emphasise this: I really am sorry, I know this is many, many months after I promised it. I feel horrible for the delay, but this just simply wouldn't come and I was constantly rewriting what I did have when it just didn't meet decent standards. It's taken me months to be able to write anything in a decent sitting, and I'm still struggling for time, enthusiasm and inspiration – turns out a full time job, moving to a city, and continued health problems are huge drains on your life; who knew?
Also, I would like to give massive, massive thanks to the heartfelt reviews – especially when I put this on hold for my exams. I really did not expect the outpouring of support (to be honest, I expected anger) and I cannot express how much your words meant to me.
Finally (god my A/N's are getting longer and longer…) I would like to give a shout-out to 'the stargate time traveller' and 'ShadowedFire66' who are both making their own forays into Moriarty Fem!Harry stories (apparently I started something vaguely fashionable? Huh.) The former has already posted two shorts for perusal, and the latter is in-process thereof. So, keep your eyes peeled ladies and gents.
Okay, that's finally it. Prof out.
