The old man held the pipette up to the sole window in his laboratory, checking it against a chart to ensure the liquid was the exact colour and consistency it was supposed to be. Satisfied that he had prepared it correctly, he emptied the pipette into a vial over which he'd secured a square of cheesecloth to filter out any remaining solids. After removing the cheesecloth, he stoppered the vial with a wax plug and slipped it into a pocket of his robes.
He went back to his office before summoning one of the Hogwarts house elves, absently noting that for some reason they were a little slower to respond to him lately. "Bring Ronald Weasley to me," he ordered. He frowned at the elf's visible relief as it frantically nodded before popping away.
The elf returned a few minutes later with the bleary-eyed ginger and wasted no time in disappearing again. Well, he'd certainly have to deal with this attitude soon, he decided. But first things first.
"Why so early," the half-asleep boy mumbled.
"Well," the headmaster began, "I thought you might want to help me bring young Harry back into line, but if you'd prefer to sleep…"
"No, I'm awake now!" the Weasley boy exclaimed.
"Good. I trust you've been exercising the spell I gave you?"
"Yes, sir. Would you like to see it?"
"I'm sure that won't be necessary," Dumbledore said with an indulgent smile. His compulsion charm on the boy ensured that it wasn't. "I think breakfast would be the ideal time for this," he continued, handing the vial to the boy. It was accompanied by another compulsion charm, this one designed to make him be extra-careful with it. The last thing they needed at this point was for Mr Weasley to spill it, wasting half a year's work.
He had to take a seat afterwards. Performing any spells now took a lot more out of him than it did before he lost the allegiance of the Elder Wand. Fortunately, Harry didn't seem to realise that he was the true master of the famous wand.
"So what will it do?" Ron wanted to know as he stared at the clear amber liquid.
"Don't worry about it," the headmaster said, waving the boy's question away. "It would be too complicated to explain quickly. All you need to know is that if it works out well, Miss Granger should be yours, so long as you get it into her drink without her knowing."
A thoroughly unpleasant smile twisted the Weasley lad's face as thoughts of utter depravity filled what passed for his brain. Even Dumbledore shuddered to think of what unclean thoughts were spawned behind his covetous and lecherous eyes. He almost felt sorry for what was in store for Miss Granger, but reminded himself that she had chosen to forsake the Light – therefore, whatever happened to her was simply justice being served. Perhaps, over time, she might earn her way back into the Light, so long as she showed genuine remorse and repentance like Severus did.
It all hinged upon how Harry truly felt about her.
***FTR***
Ron left the headmaster's office nearly pissing himself in excitement, the precious vial of mysterious liquid secure in his pocket. All thoughts of the sleep he was missing were long gone. He was absolutely certain that by the end of the day Potter's bitch would belong to him and he'd be fucking her brains out. Gotta be careful with that, though, he smirked to himself. That bitch still has to do my homework, so I can't fuck all her brains out! Laughing at his own joke and congratulating himself for coming up with such a witty remark on his own, he hurried back to the Gryffindor common room to await his sister.
The minutes seemed to drag due to his excitement, but it was less than a half-hour later that his sister Ginny trudged down the stairs leading to the girls' dormitories. Her demeanour was beaten down and defeated, and her red-rimmed eyes had dark circles underneath. Her hair hung limp around her face after only a token effort to brush it.
Wonder what's up with her, Ron mused. Potter won't ever notice her if she doesn't take care of herself. He shrugged off his moment of sibling concern, not really considering the fact that this was the first time in his life that he'd ever been concerned for another human being, let alone voiced it – even to himself.
"Morning, Gin," he greeted. Her reply was little more than a grunt, but he didn't slow down. "I need your help at breakfast for a project Dumbledore gave me," he went on. "If everything goes right, I reckon you could get Potter for your own too!"
Her eyes shot up to meet her brother's, and for the first time in months he saw a spark of life in them. "What do I have to do?" she asked.
"Just distract them for a moment," he said. "Best if you come up behind them so they have to turn around."
She thought for a moment and nodded. "Okay," she said.
"Let's get on down there," Ron said as he walked to the door. Ginny followed close behind, a new bounce in her step and the beginnings of a smile on her face.
***FTR***
The Potters sat at their usual spot at the end of Gryffindor table, Harry seated between Hermione and Luna with their backs to the wall, allowing them to easily see the entire hall. Fleur sat across from Hermione at the end of the table and alongside Neville. Beside him sat Daphne and Viktor, and Susan sat beside Luna with Cedric at her other side.
They all felt a measure of relief that the Second Task was over with no one getting hurt. They knew that the respite was only temporary, as the Third Task was still yet to come, but for the moment it was still far away and they could afford to relax just a bit.
Dumbledore didn't even look at the Potters these days. The couple hoped that he finally learned his lesson, but neither one believed that he had. The headmaster was already sitting in his ornate golden chair, intently focused on breaking his fast.
Ron came into the hall and sneered at them as he usually did but otherwise said nothing. They ignored him as he began piling entirely too much food on his plate.
A few minutes later, a nervous Ginny Weasley approached the end of the table. "Lo… Lord and Lady Potter. May I speak with you for a moment?"
***FTR***
Further down the table, Ron smirked to himself as his sister approached his former friends. He'd prepared a cup of tea in the manner Hermione took hers as soon as he sat down, but hadn't touched it since. While Ginny distracted the Potters and their gang, he stealthily popped the wax stopper out of the vial and poured it into the cup.
***FTR***
"I… I've not been a very good friend this year," Ginny said, looking at her feet. "I've fancied the Boy-Who-Lived since I can remember, and when I found out that you two were married I kind of lost the plot, I think. I'm sorry for my behaviour and I hope we can still be friends." She looked utterly miserable, but the Potters weren't really buying it.
"We'll see," Hermione said. "That is actually going to depend entirely on you, and it will take a long time. Your record currently speaks against you, and only you can change that. We'll see you later." Dismissing the ginger girl, she picked up her tea.
***FTR***
For the past six months, Ron had relentlessly practiced the switching charm. He was now at the point where he could cast it silently, a fact which made him even more proud of himself. He didn't realise that it was Dumbledore's compulsion charm that drove him to that level of practice, nor did he learn the corresponding lessons regarding the direct relationship between practice and capability, or apply said lessons to his other studies.
The only thing he cared about was possessing something that Harry Potter wanted.
He saw Potter's bitch dismiss his sister and pick up her tea, and cast the spell right as the cup touched her lips.
***FTR***
Luna suddenly received a horrific premonition and leapt to her feet. "Hermione! Don't!" she screamed, knowing already that she was too late.
***FTR***
Hermione swallowed the mouthful of tea just as she heard Luna scream. She hastily dropped the teacup and leaned over the side of the bench in an effort to retch the liquid back up, but she could already feel her throat starting to swell and constrict. She grabbed her husband's arm in a panic as tendrils of fire and ice spread out from her stomach and burned their way through her nervous system. Her lungs began to burn and her breathing became exponentially more difficult with each breath. Her vision began to grey out at the edges but she could still distantly see her friends scrambling to lay her out on the bench. The screams and shouts for Madam Pomfrey sounded like they were coming from the other side of the school instead of scant feet away, and were overwhelmed by a steadily slowing thudding sound in her ears, a sound that kept increasing in volume even as it slowed in its rate. The last sensation she was aware of was her white-faced husband squeezing her hand in his own.
***FTR***
Ron was actually surprised to see the bitch begin convulsing, and the way everyone was running around it looked like she was dying. He was disappointed for a moment but shrugged it off. If he couldn't have her, at least Potter wouldn't either.
***FTR***
Albus Dumbledore carefully pushed down his elation as he watched Miss Granger convulsing at the end of the table. Even at this distance he could see her face start to turn a bluish-purple as the alchemical poison took effect. It wouldn't be long before she started foaming at the mouth, and then death would take her. He suppressed a chuckle as he watched Madam Pomfrey stuff a bezoar in the dying girl's mouth. While it was the single most effective treatment for standard poisons, the concoction he'd made wouldn't even be slowed down by it. Only an obscure spell designed specifically to counter the three spells cast at critical moments during the brewing process would see the effects of the poison begin to unravel. Seeing even the healer start to panic as none of her treatments had any effect, he arose to his feet and made his way regally down the aisle alongside the Gryffindor table.
"Ah, Harry, my boy," he greeted in a solemn tone as he neared the end. "It appears that you are in a spot of trouble here. Poppy, were none of your treatments helpful to Miss Granger?"
"None at all, Albus," she replied, her voice brittle.
"I see." He made a quick show of looking over the unconscious witch before continuing. "I think I recognise what ails her, and I may just happen to be able to reverse it. However…" He turned a raptor-like gaze at Harry. "As with everything in this world, my boy, there is a cost."
There were several shocked gasps from bystanders, horrified that the "Leader of the Light" would dicker with the life of a young witch not yet of age according to her years. They actually backed away a few steps so as to not be too close to an old wizard who suddenly became even more odious in their eyes.
Harry's jaw clenched tight but externally he gave no other reaction. "Go on." His voice was utterly flat.
"First," the headmaster sternly declared, "you must abdicate your lordship. You are obviously too immature to handle these responsibilities, especially as you have so many more important ones to focus on. Second, you must annul this wrongful marriage with Miss Granger. Again, the both of you are too young to even consider such, and clearly you two are a wretchedly poor influence on each other. Third, you must place yourself back under my guardianship. There is too much at stake for our entire world, and I must guide you on your proper course. Miss Granger will be given over to Ronald Weasley while I guide you to your destiny. He will keep her influence over you to more manageable levels, and perhaps may even save her soul."
Time seemed to slow as Harry listened to Dumbledore's ultimatum. He knew in his heart that his beloved wife would rather die than be Weasley's slave, just as he would rather die than be Dumbledore's.
He looked down the table to where Weasley sat, a look of unbridled greed and lust dripping from his countenance. The disgusting piece of shit was literally rubbing his hands in gleeful anticipation like a cartoon villain.
Suddenly he remembered a snippet of conversation that may have been a lifetime ago. No, she still has a couple of chances left. And it was then he realised what he had to do. "Forgive me, my love," he whispered.
His hand moved like lightning, there was a glint of light reflected off metal, and Albus Dumbledore felt a slight sting across his neck. A moment later the headmaster was staring straight up at the changing cloud patterns of the Great Hall's ceiling and wondering why he couldn't move.
***FTR***
During that indeterminate amount of time Harry and Hermione had spent in the afterlife being whipped into shape by their reapers, the focus of Harry's training had been overseen by Shepherd and Chopper. The end result was that he excelled at brawling, knife work, and shooting.
Hermione, on the other hand, trained almost exclusively with Valkyrie, with some firearm training from Shepherd and exercise-coaching from Chopper. This enabled her to become a duellist without compare, as evidenced by her taking out the Death Eaters at the World Cup.
Harry also received some tutelage from Valkyrie, and while he was nowhere near as accomplished a duellist as his wife, he did become quite skilled in the art of iaijutsu – the quick-draw sword technique. This skill gave him the capability of drawing his katana and striking a lethal blow with one smooth, sudden movement.
***FTR***
Stunned silence filled the Great Hall as the headless body of Albus Dumbledore crumpled to the flagstones along with the severed beard. The head hit the ground a couple of yards away, an expression of utter surprise on the slack face and rapidly dimming eyes.
"Accio Dumbledore's antidote," Harry said.
Nothing happened.
To be honest, Harry really wasn't surprised. It would be just like the old bastard to tease him with the promise of an antidote only for it to be revealed as yet another lie after he was back under the old man's thumb.
He looked at McGonagall as he took his wife's cold hands in his own. "The Ancient and Most Noble House of Potter has endured an intolerable series of systematic attacks from the head of this institution," he called out, his voice frigid. "This latest attempt was by far the most atrocious, and as Head of House Potter it is my belief that Mr Dumbledore was seeking nothing less than the subjugation and/or annihilation of the Potters, for reason or reasons unknown. As such, I, Harrison James Potter, Lord of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Potter, declare that Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore was a clear and present danger to the safety and security of House Potter, and has been dealt with accordingly after all reasonable alternatives were exhausted."
The Gryffindor Head of House bowed her head, shock and horror running through her system. Tears slid down her cheeks as the unconscious body of her favourite student ceased all movement. "I concur, Lord Potter," she whispered.
Luna flew into Harry's arms as he gently lay his sword on the table and buried her face in his chest, bitterly weeping. Their friends were in similar states, eyes wide and watering as the couples held each other. Even Ginny had her hands up to her mouth in horror as she realised what her brother had intended and seen how Harry had responded.
Evidently Harry had pieced it together as well. "Ginevra," he growled, "you will not move from that spot until you answer my questions to my satisfaction. Ronald!" he barked at the lanky redhead, who appeared to be trying to slip out of the hall unseen. "If you so much as move another fucking muscle without my leave, I will cut your goddamn black heart out and make you fucking eat it! Now sit your fucking arse back down and don't you say a goddamn syllable until I say you can!"
Terrified, Ron practically ran back to his seat, but not before everyone saw that he'd pissed himself.
***FTR***
Hermione opened her eyes only to see a familiar dusty waiting room. "Oh, fuck me sideways," she muttered under her breath, sinking down onto the bench.
A man who had surely been a pirate turned to face her, a curious expression on his face. His beard was mostly close-cropped except on his chin, where it forked into two narrow braids. His hair was in Caribbean-style braids and held back by a greasy red bandanna. A white tunic under a brown leather jerkin, canvas trousers, and cuffed leather boots completed his outfit. A silver-buckled bandolier was slung over his shoulder, from which hung a cutlass. A gold tooth reflected the afternoon light as he gave her a smile filled with innuendo. "That an invitation, love?"
She gave him a frosty glare. "Not on your bloody life," she said. "There's only one man in the universe with that particular invitation, and he's not here."
"Too bad," he said with a smirk. "Don't know what you're missin, you know."
"And yet, somehow, I imagine that I'll survive."
The pirate chuckled as he turned back around and left her alone.
A couple of minutes later, the Asian receptionist approached her. "Hi, Miho," Hermione said. "I need to speak with Valkyrie, I think." The Asian lady nodded as Hermione got to her feet. "Lead on, then," she said. "Let's get this over with."
Miho nodded in response and took Lady Potter down the long hallway and stopped outside a nondescript door. She gave Hermione a quick hug before returning to the waiting room.
She sighed and opened the door, stepping inside. The office was the same as she remembered, a few files stacked neatly on one side of the desk and a small bonsai tree in an ornamental pot on the other side.
The woman she knew as Valkyrie arose from the other side of the desk, a faint smile on her lips. Without saying a word, she came up to her charge and pulled her into a warm embrace. "Welcome back, Hermione," she said.
The warm welcome was frankly not at all what Hermione expected. "I don't understand, Valkyrie," she said. "I thought you'd be upset that I'm dead again."
"You were murdered this time through treachery and deceit, not dead from poor choices or insufficient preparation. You and your man have actually done quite well."
The younger woman was breathing much easier now. "That's a relief," she said. "I was afraid I'd fucked things up by dying again."
"No, but don't make a habit of it. You've only got one more death before you're on your last chance, like your husband, so please don't waste it."
A cheerful electronic warble sounded from the desk, and Valkyrie reached back to pick up a cellular telephone. Hermione stared at it in wonder as her reaper flipped it open. The phone was a lot smaller and sleeker than the cell phones she remembered seeing back in Britain.
"Yes?" the reaper said. "Yes, she's right here. He is? Excellent. I'll let her know. Yes, we'll be along shortly. Thanks!" She ended the call and smiled at Hermione. "I've got a surprise for you," she said. "Come with me."
***FTR***
Albus Dumbledore opened his eyes to find himself in a large room, empty except for row upon row of largely vacant worn wooden benches consisting of varnished wood planks bolted to metal pipes anchored in the smooth concrete floor. The walls were made from cinderblocks painted with thick off-white paint. The ceiling must have been thirty feet high and was little more than metal beams supporting the insulated underside of the roof. A row of small windows circled the room at the top of the walls and was protected with chain-link fencing anchored into the walls. Large bright white lights hung from the ceiling in metal fixtures. It was a bleak, institutional-feeling room that was utterly depressing, though Dumbledore had never seen anything like it before.
He began to look around at some of the others sitting in the room, hoping that they might provide a clue as to where he was and why he was there. Unfortunately, the others were a rather eclectic bunch and he was left with more questions than before.
A haggard-looking Hispanic man with a distinct scar over his left cheekbone sat hunched over, elbows on his knees and hands clasped in front of him. Dark bags hung under his sunken, hollow eyes. His black hair was somewhat unkempt, but nowhere near as messy as Harry Potter's. He wore a black three-piece pinstripe suit and a white shirt with the top three buttons undone, revealing several gold chains around his neck.
Not too far away was a white man with a crazed, intense look in his eyes. His dark hair was slicked back from his receding hairline and was just starting to turn grey. He wore an orange jumpsuit, but his arms were secured in a dirty white straitjacket. Perhaps most terrifying of all, a hard tan mask covered his lower face beneath his eyes, including his nose. Three thick pins of metal blocked the mouth hole of the mask, allowing him to speak but preventing anything wider than a drinking straw from getting through.
Albus shuddered as he turned away. Somehow he didn't think that that man would be all that helpful. The third person he saw, though, was like something out of a nightmare.
The man had lank, curly hair that might have once been blond but was now tinted green. His face was covered with white greasepaint, like a court fool, but it was smudged, cracked, and faded in spots, looking for all the world like it was rotting off. Black paint was haphazardly applied around his eyes and was in much the same shape as the white. He wore red lipstick, which was also applied to two horrific scars, one on either side of his mouth, emphasising the disfigurement rather than concealing it. It looked as if someone had carved a grotesque caricature of a smile on his face at some point. The demented clown makeup was almost enough to distract from his dark plum-coloured suit, emerald vest and tie, and blue-violet patterned shirt.
With that nightmarish figure, Dumbledore stopped looking around. There was a sinking feeling in his stomach as he considered what it might mean for him to be in the company of people such as these. He hunched over with his head in his hands, somehow unwilling to get up from the bench.
After an indeterminate amount of time, a shadow fell across the floor in front of him. "Albus Dumbledore?" a cheerful voice inquired.
He looked up to see a smiling brunette woman wearing what looked like a black muggle police uniform. An embroidered patch designed to resemble a police badge decorated her left shoulder above her breast pocket, while a black leather bandolier crossed from her right shoulder down to her left hip where it fastened to her two-inch wide black leather utility belt. A stick that he could only assume was a truncheon hung from her belt. A nameplate reading "Huxley" was fastened to her uniform above her right breast pocket. She glanced up from the metal clipboard and looked at him expectantly.
"Yes, that's me, young lady." It was curious; although the uniform suited her very well, and not just the fit but the fact that she not only seemed born to wear it but had earned the right to wear it as well, there was nevertheless an air of innocence about her that seemed at odds with a seasoned law enforcement officer.
"Mellow greetings, Mr Dumbledore. Your designated arbiter is ready to receive you for processing before consignment to your judgement."
"I beg your pardon? Where am I and why am I here?"
Her eyes widened for a moment. "Oh my. Heartfelt apologies, Mr Dumbledore. My understanding of your unawareness of your location was lacking. This is Death Management (Arbitration), a subdivision of Death Management, Inc. You are here because you are deceased and by your deeds have been declared a maniac and unsafe for the general public."
Dumbledore blinked. "Deceased? A maniac…" His eyes narrowed in confusion. "I don't understand. Are you suggesting that I am being considered the same as these…" (he waved his hand vaguely towards the demented clown and trussed-up masked man) "…unsavoury characters?"
She gave him a thin smile. "What seems to be your boggle, sir? According to these reports, you are responsible for many multiple counts of murder-death-kill as well as repeated abuse-torture-neglect. Are you denying this?"
"Of course I am!" Dumbledore exclaimed. "This is preposterous! I have never murdered a soul during my entire life! Nor have I abused or tortured anyone!" The very idea! He was the Leader of the Light! He conveniently overlooked the fact that the alchemical poison he'd created meant that Miss Granger would die a painful death. It was, after all, Ronald Weasley who had actually given her the poison, and if Harry had complied with his demands then he would have cast the counterspell on her. Shaking his head, he began to arise from the bench. "Now this has gone on for quite long enough, young lady. I must insist that you return me to Hogwarts immediately. Too much is at stake for our world, and I must be there to make sure that everyone involved is guided to their proper destiny."
Huxley shook her head. "I'm afraid that is quite impossible, Mr Dumbledore. The charges I just told you may have been by proxy, but up here we make no distinction between whose was the hand that actually carried out the atrocities and whose was the will behind it. No, once you are here the only way out is through your arbiter's office and on to your judgement."
"This is intolerable!" the old man bellowed. "I will not allow it!"
"Mr Dumbledore, you need to enhance your calm." All traces of pleasantness fell from Huxley's face as she unclipped the rod from her belt.
"And you need to get the hell out of my way!" he retorted, raising his hand. He didn't have a single wand in his possession, but if he concentrated, he knew he could cast a wandless stupefy at least. "I am the most powerful wizard in the world, and I will not be treated like a common criminal!"
Shaking her head, she stepped to the side. As he tried to brush past, though, she brought the rod up and gently tapped him on the stomach.
Dumbledore was immediately overwhelmed with extreme nausea, accompanied by debilitating stomach cramps. As he fell to his knees in agony, he threw up what felt like everything he'd ever eaten in his century-plus of life. Weakened and shivering as he broke out in cold sweats, he supported himself on trembling hands and knees as he heaved up several more times.
He was barely aware of being pulled back up and having his hands manacled behind him. As Huxley guided him towards the single steel door in the room, the sound of maniacal laughter followed after as the clown in the purple suit slowly clapped his hands behind them.
Half-guided, half-pulled down the hall, Dumbledore suddenly realised that they had come to a stop in front of another metal door. The hall stretched to the left and to the right for as far as he could see, with not a single other door in sight.
"Your arbiter is waiting," Huxley said as she opened the door and pushed him inside. "Be well, Albus Dumbledore." Her voice dripped insincerity as she turned and left. The door shut behind him with a solid thunk.
A short three-legged stool stood in front of a metal desk painted grey. Behind the desk, smoking a cigarette, sat a striking woman with a tanned and well-toned physique emphasised by the black tank-top she wore. Her hair was light brown but bleached almost blonde by the sun, and was pulled back in a simple ponytail. Her eyes were hidden behind a pair of round-lens sunglasses with side shields. Her attention was focused on a report on the desktop in front of her.
Dumbledore took advantage of the woman's preoccupation for a moment to glance around the office, which contained very little. A battered filing cabinet behind the desk was the only other piece of furniture. On one of the side walls, also cinderblocks thickly painted with the same off-white paint as the reception area, hung a large black poster with two words written in big white block letters: No Fate. Though he couldn't for the life of him identify the items beyond being muggle weapons, there was a Colt Detonics 1911 pistol and a Ka-Bar combat knife lying on the desk. Likewise, a Colt Commando CAR-15 stood propped up in the corner opposite the filing cabinet.
Without looking up, the woman pointed at Dumbledore and gestured to the stool. "Sit," she commanded. Her voice was of one who expected immediate compliance.
The old man, of course, bristled at her tone. "Young lady, do you know to whom you speak?"
The woman stopped and looked up. Her face could have been carven from stone. She slowly removed her sunglasses, revealing piercing blue eyes. Dumbledore inadvertently took a step back from her raptor gaze.
"I'm speaking with Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, undeclared dark lord, tyrant and despot, puppet-master and manipulator, abuser and murderer, thief and destroyer of lives. I know exactly who and what you are, motherfucker. Now shut the fuck up and sit your ass down!"
Gaping like a goldfish, the old man hurriedly sat. The stool was just low enough for him to feel slightly off-balance with his hands still cuffed behind his back, while still allowing him to see over the top of the desk. It was an obvious ploy designed to make a person feel inferior, and Dumbledore didn't appreciate it at all. And he'd never admit that the strategy worked, especially when used by one as powerful as this woman was in spite of her obvious lack of magic.
"Really, my dear," he tried to bluster. "I must adamantly protest these charges."
She took a deep drag of her cigarette and kicked her feet up on the desktop, revealing that she also wore black cargo pants and combat boots. "I'm sure you must," she replied sardonically, blowing a plume of smoke into the air. "So you're telling me that you are not responsible for the unnecessary deaths of multitudes of people, that you do not move people around like pieces on a chessboard, that you have not forced people to endure torment that they would have otherwise avoided at all cost?"
"All I have done was for the Greater Good of our world," he said piously. "And I deny that I am responsible for anyone's death, save one."
"Yes, you're talking about your sister. At least you're taking responsibility for that one. What we're concerned about, amongst other things, is you allowing known murderers and rapists to walk free without consequence. They learned that they could do as they pleased without fear of punishment, and thus had no incentive to change their ways. You were in a position to hold them accountable, but you betrayed the innocents by allowing monsters like Lucius Malfoy and Walden Macnair to escape their well-earned punishments. Neither of them changed because neither had any inclination to change. Malfoy was a paedophile who targeted nonmagical boys and girls, using them up and disposing of them when he tired of them. Macnair was one of the most sadistic serial killers I've had the misfortune to see, a beast who revelled in torture and carnage. They continued their vile acts of depravity after you forgave them and let them go. They held no remorse for their crimes whatsoever. And rest assured, Albus Dumbledore, every drop of innocent blood those monsters shed after you unleashed them back upon your world is on your head – along with those victims of all the others you released."
"They had to be forgiven so they'd have an opportunity to be enticed back to the Light!" Dumbledore insisted. "It was just Tom Riddle's influence, that's all. With him out of the picture, I'm sure they all would have come back to the Light after seeing the futility of their cause."
The arbiter shook her head. "You truly don't get it, do you," she stated. "Riddle only cared about immortality. His so-called Death Eaters were nothing more than a means to an end. They had money and access to obscure lore, which he used to fund his research into achieving immortality. He never gave a shit about blood status, he just used it as a rallying cry because he knew the purebloods did. He just unleashed them and enabled them to do whatever the hell they wanted, and they loved him for it – as much as those fuckers could ever understand such a thing, at least. In many ways, Riddle was more of a victim than his followers – not that he'll be able to use that as an excuse, mind you. Though he was their 'Lord' and they committed their atrocities in his name, they were the true monsters. Your misplaced concern for their welfare not only cost the lives of thousands of innocents, it may have cost the souls of the very ones you were trying to save. By refusing to hold them accountable, not only did you deny them incentive to change, you effectively told them that their behaviour was acceptable. Using the two examples I gave you earlier, it wasn't until Lord Potter killed Malfoy in a sanctioned duel and Lady Potter killed Macnair at the Death Eater reunion after the World Cup that those monsters stopped their predations. Now they are in the holding tank awaiting their ultimate judgement."
"Harry and Miss Granger both killed people?" he asked, horrified.
"Look, you sanctimonious son of a bitch, their deeds are none of your concern. You especially have no right to judge Lord Potter's actions after your unbelievable crimes against him. Violating his parents' wills? Placing him in an abusive environment, knowing full well what he'd suffer? Forcing him back into that same abusive environment every year? Putting a child in life-or-death situations on a yearly basis? And this is barely scratching the surface!"
"It was all necessary for the well-being of our world," Dumbledore said unapologetically. "According to the prophecy, young Harry was the only one who had the power to defeat the dark lord. He had to be shaped and tested for the salvation of us all. I regret that he had to suffer so, but there was no alternative." He sat as confidently as he could on the short stool.
The arbiter gave him a long, searching look as the cigarette smouldered between her fingers. At last she took another puff and blew the smoke towards the ceiling. "You really believe that shit, don't you." It was another observation, not a question. She shook her head, incredulous. "If you were so convinced it was real, then why the fuck didn't you actually give the boy some legitimate training?" she demanded. "Why was the one useful class that goddamn school of yours offered in that regard such a fucking train wreck? It seems to us that you were trying to get him killed when he confronted Riddle, assuming that the fucking prophecy was legit in the first place. What, were you planning on using him to soften Riddle up a bit before stepping in when he fell?" The look on Dumbledore's face confirmed her words. "Asshole," she growled.
Gathering his scattered thoughts, he tried again. "The prophecy…"
"Is complete, utter horseshit. As is every other so-called prophecy."
Dumbledore couldn't believe his ears. "What?"
"It's simple," she said. "Please try to keep up. Prophecy does not exist, not like what you're thinking. The very concept denies free will, one of the most precious gifts the Creator has given us. You just can't tell the future like that."
"But the Hall of Prophecy…"
"Irrelevant. Only fools try to follow prophecy, and they usually wind up fucking things up even worse when they do." She rose to her feet and leaned forward, bracing herself on the desk, and fixed him with a cold stare. "The future's not set. There's no fate but what we make for ourselves. I was first told that by the bravest man I've ever known, and since I've arrived here it's been confirmed by On High."
Dumbledore shook his head. "I can't believe it," he said.
The arbiter shrugged. "Not my problem," she said. "I didn't make the rules, and you sure as hell didn't either. My job here is done…" (here she stamped the first page of the report, signed it, and closed the file) "…now." She picked up the file, followed by the 1911, and slid the pistol into the holster strapped to her thigh. "On your feet."
The old man broke out in a cold sweat. "My dear, could we not discuss this further? I'm sure…"
"No. There's nothing to discuss." She walked around behind him, grabbed the chain of the handcuffs, and lifted while pulling straight back. With a cry of pain, Dumbledore got to his feet as quickly as possible. "The only choice you have in the matter is to come along quietly or in pain." Keeping the handcuffs lifted behind him, she guided him to the door through which he'd entered. Before opening the door, she grabbed a lever beside it and moved it down one position.
When the door opened, Dumbledore was shocked to see a bare corridor extending straight out from the door instead of to either side. He gave the arbiter a quizzical look. "Wasn't this…"
"Move," she snapped, shoving him forward.
His hands bound as they were, he had no choice but to comply.
It could have been just a few minutes, it could have been hours, but the institutional cinderblock hallway petered out into a natural stone corridor with a hard-packed dirt floor. Dumbledore's apprehension grew as he realised that the floor was indeed sloping downward and getting warmer as well. He unconsciously slowed down, only to yelp and pick up his pace again as the arbiter yanked his arms back and punched him in the kidney.
"Keep moving," she said.
He groaned and trudged forward, beginning to wish he'd never heard of magic, Voldemort, or Harry Potter.
***FTR***
"Where are we going, Valkyrie?" Hermione asked.
Her reaper had led her from the office, down the hall, and to a cargo lift. After lowering the gate and closing the wooden doors, the lift began to descend.
"You nervous?" the reaper playfully asked, bumping the girl's shoulder with her own.
"Well, you said I wasn't in trouble, but I've been led to believe that downward movement in the afterlife is typically not a good thing."
The other woman laughed. "No, don't worry. I said you weren't in trouble and I meant it. We thought you might like to witness the sentencing of your former Headmaster."
Hermione's head shot up, a feral glint in her eyes. "Really?"
"That's right," Valkyrie laughed. "We figured after all the grief you and your man suffered at the hands of that wicked old man you deserved the opportunity. So does your husband, in fact, but him being here to witness it would mean there's some pretty serious problems for him, wouldn't it?"
Hermione shuddered at the thought. "Indeed it would," she said.
"And speaking of deserved privileges, Hermione," her reaper continued in a soft voice, "I think it's time you know my real name."
Her eyes widened. "Really?" She said again.
"Yeah. Just call me Beatrix, kiddo."
For some reason, there was a mischievous smirk on the reaper's face that Hermione couldn't understand. She chose to ignore it. "Beatrix, huh? I like it. Thanks for sharing."
Beatrix put her arm around the younger woman's shoulders as the lift came to a halt. When the doors opened, Hermione was surprised and elated to see Shepherd waiting there.
"Well, if it isn't my man Harry's little lady!" he exclaimed when he saw her.
"Hey, Shepherd," she greeted as she gave him a hug. "How the hell are you?"
"Pretty damn good, Hermione," he said. "Lookin forward to dealin with that ornery ol bastard for good."
Hermione smiled at her husband's reaper. "You remembered my name this time," she teased.
"Bout goddamn time, too," he responded. "Hermione, honey, please don't take this the wrong way, cause your name truly is one of the lovelier ones out there, but what the hell were your folks thinkin, saddlin you with that handle?"
"You're fine," she said. "My parents are fans of Shakespeare, that's all. I'm just glad they decided not to call me Juliet." She gave a deliberately overdone shudder. "Being named after a virtuous queen is infinitely preferable to being named after a girl who kills herself over a boy because of inadequate communication."
The reapers laughed and began walking with her down a torch-lit natural stone corridor.
"How's Chopper?" she asked.
"Still liftin weights and goin over to the Valhalla club," Shepherd said. "He says the cage fights there are the best he's ever been in."
"Yeah, they were pretty fucking intense," Hermione agreed. "Harry and I figure we might participate ourselves once we're back."
The corridor opened up onto a ledge thrusting out into a vast cavern. Dull, orange light came from the depths below, and the still air was just a little too warm to truly be comfortable. Hermione was somewhat disconcerted to hear muffled screaming, moaning, and wailing echoing up from the abyss before them.
At the far end of the ledge was a carven stone dais overlooking the rift. A shadowy figure stood at the far edge, backlit by the dull glowing light from below, and still too far away to distinguish.
"Alright, Hermione," Shepherd said, lowering his voice, "you're about to meet our boss."
She looked at him in shock. "You mean…?" Her wide eyes unconsciously flickered upward.
Shepherd chuckled. "No, not Him. Our boss is the Head of Death Management, Inc."
"What's his name?"
"Ya know, nobody really seems to know. He's been called different names, and he answers to em, but he's never said what his folks called him. We just call him Boss."
Hermione nodded and followed the Reapers onward. As they neared the dais, the man standing there unhurriedly turned around. He appeared to be in his thirties or so, and his blue-grey eyes peered out from a grizzled, weather-beaten face. A brown flat-topped cowboy hat was pulled down, almost obscuring those same eyes, and he quietly puffed on a small cigar. A sheepskin vest with the fleece on the inside was worn over a pale blue shirt. A tan poncho was thrown over one shoulder, revealing a leather pistol belt containing a holstered 1873 Colt Army revolver with raised silver coiled rattlesnakes on the wooden grip. Dark blue jeans and leather boots completed the man's ensemble.
"Hey, boss," Shepherd said as they drew near.
The cowboy gave them a slight dip of his head. "Evenin," he replied with a noticeable Southwestern United States twang. His baritone voice, with just the slightest hint of a rasp, was quiet but powerful.
"This is Hermione Potter," Beatrix introduced them.
"Hello," she said, taking the cowboy's proffered hand.
"Good to meet you," he replied. "You and your fella have done well this time through. I reckon it won't be too long before y'all have things wrapped up." He looked back towards the tunnel they'd just exited and moved to one side of the dais. "They're gonna be here in a moment, so y'all come stand over here."
Sure enough, almost as soon as they relocated, Albus Dumbledore came stumbling out of the corridor. His hands were manacled behind him and he was being shoved forward by one of the toughest-looking women Hermione had ever seen. The woman pushed the old man none-too-gently up onto the dais before joining the others. "Here's the charges, boss," she said, handing the thick file to the cowboy. As he opened it and scanned the contents, she nodded to the two reapers. "Winnfield, Kiddo," she greeted.
"Connor," Beatrix replied.
Hermione narrowed her eyes as it clicked. "Kiddo?" she asked, facing her reaper with a mock-glare. Her reaper just smirked at her.
When Dumbledore recognised Hermione standing there, he couldn't help giving her a cruel smile. "So, Miss Granger," he said, his tone just shy of gloating, "it would appear that you are to receive your judgement too. I hope you're prepared to pay for your sins, for turning young Harry away from the Light." He honestly felt elated. He could face whatever the afterlife held for him secure in the knowledge that without that troublesome tart's influence, young Harry could easily be brought back to the Light and, under the guidance of Molly Weasley (who would certainly not allow any other young lady to get close to the boy, besides her daughter Ginevra), his vision for the magical world would come to pass. As much as he hated the woman, she was nonetheless fanatically loyal and a true believer to boot, and her force of personality should be plenty capable to bully young Harry back into line – especially as the Granger bint was now out of his life.
"You utter bastard," Hermione growled. "You of all people have no right to talk about Light and Dark and judgement of anyone. Mind your own fucking business, why don't you?"
"For the record, Albus," Beatrix said, "Hermione Potter has done very well as far as we in Death Management are concerned. In fact, we'll be sending her back to her husband's side when we're done her."
"You murdered a teenage girl for your own ambition, motherfucker," Shepherd added. "Trust me, that's definitely comin back around to drill you in the ass."
Dumbledore gaped at them, gobsmacked and more than a little upset. Before he could say anything, though, the cowboy looked up from the file.
"Alright, settle down," he said before fixing Dumbledore with a squint-eyed glare. The old man squirmed before the cowboy's penetrating gaze. It literally felt as if his soul was laid bare before this man and every deed he had done exposed to him. Instead of reciting a litany of charges, though, he simply nodded. "Everything's in order," he said. "Albus Dumbledore, I reckon you're bout one of the most ornery hombres it's been my misfortune to see. You are guilty, without a doubt, and you know it to the core of your rotten soul." He turned to Shepherd and nodded. "Go ahead, Jules. You've earned it."
The reaper fixed the old man with a cold smile. "You ever read the Bible, old man?" He began to walk forward at a casual pace, angling his gait to put Dumbledore in between the edge of the chasm and himself.
"I'm sorry, what?" Dumbledore asked, confused.
Shepherd waved a dismissive hand. "I really doubt you have, given who and what you are, and at this point I don't guess it really matters. Anyways, there's a passage I got memorised, and given how bad you've fucked over my man Harry and his lady, it seems appropriate for this situation and all, so here it is: Ezekiel 25:17. The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the iniquities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men."
The glare he gave Dumbledore left no doubt in the former Headmaster's mind as to which role he was being considered.
"Blessed is he who, in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children."
Hermione smiled to herself as she immediately realised why Harry's reaper called himself Shepherd.
Meanwhile, Shepherd had drawn his pearl-handled pistol and was now pointing it at Dumbledore. His voice took on a commanding, powerful tone as he continued his quotation. "And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers…" (here Dumbledore visibly flinched) "…and you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon you!" He had barely finished speaking before he was rapidly squeezing the trigger.
While there were no actual bullets being shot, Dumbledore still felt the impact and pain of each and every shot, just without the normally accompanying bloodshed and physical trauma. The repeated impacts, though, were enough to knock the old man backwards. Barely keeping his feet, he teetered on the edge of the rock shelf for a long moment before a final shot hit him between the eyes. His head snapped backwards from the force of the impact, disrupting his precarious balance, and he fell screaming to the vast lake of molten brimstone far below with the rest of the damned. The last thing he saw before disappearing over the edge was the vindictive smile on Hermione Potter's face.
As Dumbledore's scream faded into the depths and merged with the faint cacophony of the chorus of the damned, Shepherd raised his pistol before his face and blew away the thin wisp of smoke rising from the barrel. "Goddamn, that felt good," he remarked to no one in particular.
Hermione turned to her reaper. "Thanks for letting me see that," she said. "I know Harry will appreciate it."
"I'm sure he will," Beatrix replied. "Now, let's get you sent back to your man."
"Before you go," Shepherd interjected as he rejoined them, lighting a cigarette at the same time, "I really need to put in my two cents' worth."
Hermione nodded as she shifted her focus on him.
"Okay," he said, "first off, y'all have done a fan-fuckin-tastic job. Y'all have taken out a sizeable portion of ol snakehead's support, wiped out almost all the motherfucker's soul jars, neutralised the goat fucker, marginalised the Weasels, built a solid support staff for yourselves, gotten hitched, cleared Sirius, and are well on your way to finishin your assignments successfully. Well done, both of you."
"Thanks," Hermione smiled.
"Now," he went on, "all that bein said, I have but one question: why the hell y'all still fuckin around with ol snakehead?"
Hermione blinked. "Sorry?"
Shepherd gave her a teasing smirk. "Y'all been workin with the goblins, right?"
"Yeah…"
"And they're watchin Riddle, his goddamn snake, and the rat bastard Pettigrew, ain't they?"
"That's right…"
"So why haven't you given them the attack order? They could have the whole thing wrapped up in fifteen minutes. Those little bastards have forgotten more about the art of killin things than any of us will ever know."
It took a moment before it dawned on her. "Goddamn it," she moaned, hiding her blushing face in her hands. "Was it really that easy?"
"In all fairness, your plan to disrupt the resurrection would've worked just fine," Shepherd acknowledged. "Harry's lack of interest in winning would've worried Crouch Junior enough for him to slip him a portkey instead of him sabotagin the Triwizard Cup. Still, why risk it?"
Mortified still, she nodded vigorously. "We'll be sure to do that," she said.
"Other than that, y'all are kickin ass and takin names. Keep it up!" He gave her another fond hug and ruffled her hair. "Tell Harry I said hi."
***Author's Note***
I added a sentence to Dumbledore's alchemy scene a couple of chapters ago to explain why house elves could not access his laboratory. If he uses them as his spy network, knowing their capabilities, I've no doubt he'd ward the hell out of his office to prevent the same measures being used against him.
I also went with the premise that while Heads of House can get away with a ridiculous amount, there are still a few limits to what they can do. For example, arbitrarily and preemptively murdering someone without immediate cause or solid proof of wrongdoing just wouldn't fly, even if you knew beyond doubt that they were a danger. There is also the issue of Dumbledore's support - there are too many people that are convinced that he is the Leader of the Light (certain actions notwithstanding) and that whatever he does, he must have a good reason. The Potters are focused on removing that support by destroying the old man's public image in a trial - but like any government, the wheels turn at the speed of bureaucracy. (It seems like government and efficiency are physically incapable of coexisting in the same space - just head down to your local BMV to see it in (in)action!)
Likewise, Dumbledore knew that the Lord and Lady rings would protect the Potters from mind magics, so he decided that an alchemical poison that would ignore a bezoar and have a spell-based component to neutralize it would be the way to go. Given the length of time some of the high-end standard potions would likely take (at least as described in quite a bit of fanon) I could easily see an alchemical concoction of this nature taking six months or so to brew - at least if we're assuming that alchemy is exponentially deeper and more potent then standard potions.
Anyway, hope y'all enjoyed this installment, and I hope these comments clarified any confusion! We're starting to get close to the end now - we've got three more chapters to go. Have fun with the cameos! Next time - what happens to Ron? Heh heh heh!