The trio felt much better the following morning, and after their morning ablutions they went down to breakfast, stopping as usual at the foot of the Grand Staircase to await the rest of their friends. As they intended to meet with the goblins today, the Potters wore their bespoke black suits. Luna decided to stay at Hogwarts and make sure her homework was caught up, and so it was that after notifying the new headmistress of their intentions, the young couple called for Dobby and requested transport to Diagon Alley.

There were few people in the alley this morning, and those that were hurried about their errands with grim efficiency. It wasn't as bad as Harry remembered from the previous timeline after Riddle took over the Ministry, but it was easy to see that people's lives had been turned upside down. After reading the Daily Prophet's lurid headlines, Harry could see why they felt uncertain and suddenly unstable. After all, having one of the most trusted and revered wizards in society, the same one entrusted with the welfare of their children no less, be suddenly implicated in a murder plot against one of the children under his care would certainly be grounds for confusion, not to mention that he was also dead for that same murder plot. He imagined it would be akin to the Prime Minister getting murdered only for it to be revealed that he was involved in a conspiracy to murder political opponents, or selling children as slaves on the black market, or any number of similar atrocities.

As they entered the bank, one of the interior guards approached them and bowed. "Lord and Lady Potter," he greeted. "Well met. May your gold flow and your enemies tremble at the sound of your name."

The Potters returned the bow and the salutation. "We apologise for arriving without an appointment, but we need to speak with Account Manager Skullcrusher as soon as he has the time to see us," Harry said. "He needn't rush anything on our account, though."

The guard nodded. "I will be happy to pass your request along," he said. "In the meantime, please feel free to avail yourselves of the amenities in our dignitary lounge." He led the couple to an oaken door with brass fittings polished to be as bright as gold. Inside were tables, plush chairs, sofas, a buffet line, and an adjoining room that held a couple of guests inside partaking of thick, fragrant cigars. "Our lounge has complementary water, coffee, tea, and beer; an excellent buffet, and very comfortable seating," the guard continued. "There is also an assortment of premium cigars, whiskies, wines, and brandies available at nominal fees, which may be deducted straight from your account. I will return for you as soon as your account manager is available."

"Thank you for your assistance, Mister…?"

The goblin smiled. "I am Legionnaire Shatterstone, Lord Potter," he said.

"Legionnaire Shatterstone," Harry said, dipping his head. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"The pleasure is mine, good sir and lady. I shall return anon."

Shatterstone left them to enjoy the comforts of the lounge, returning half an hour later. "Account Manager Skullcrusher will see you now."

The Potters followed the legionnaire to their account manager's office, where they were shown inside and warmly greeted. "How may Gringotts assist you today?" Skullcrusher asked after the initial pleasantries were completed.

"It's, uh, somewhat embarrassing," Harry said with a quick glance at his wife. "It's in regard to that special project Legate Ragnok has been helping us with."

"Ah, yes," the account manager said. "If you'll pardon me for a moment, I believe the legate will want to hear this directly." He picked up the receiver of a rotary-dial telephone and dialled a four-digit number. Once answered, he spoke a few words in the guttural gob'leh d'ghuk language before listening to the response and hanging up. "Legate Ragnok has asked us to come to his office," he said.

The young couple exchanged glances. "He didn't have to…" Harry began.

Skullcrusher waved their concerns away. "Don't worry about it," he said. "The legate insisted that he be involved with anything to do with this project."

"Well, okay then. Just so long as we're not imposing on his time."

They followed their account manager to the legate's office where they were quickly admitted. After their greetings were exchanged, Harry asked if the team of warriors, warders, and curse-breakers were still watching Riddle, the snake, and Pettigrew.

"They are," Ragnok confirmed. "Four teams a day, six-hour shifts, not including shift-change overlap."

"Thank you," Harry nodded. "We have word that there will be a resurrection ritual attempted by Riddle on June 24, and our focus up until now has been to sabotage that attempt. After some input from a source that must remain anonymous, we were wondering if the surveillance team could take out all three now instead of waiting for the resurrection attempt."

Ragnok agreed. "That would be less risky overall," he said. "Better to take him out now while he is still in a weakened state than risk him getting any more of his power back, even if the ritual has been sufficiently sabotaged. Excuse me for a moment."

The legate picked up the receiver of a telephone virtually identical to Skullcrusher's and dialled a number. He issued a quick series of commands, waited for acknowledgement, and hung up. "I have a courier en route to Little Hangleton with another fist of legionnaires for support. We should have a report within half an hour if you would care to wait."

Harry and Hermione exchanged a quick glance, slightly surprised that the legate would issue the strike order just like that. "Uh, sure," Harry said. "We didn't say how long our business would take, so we should be okay."

"Regardless," Hermione interjected, "this is much too important. Thank you, Legate. We're honoured by your invitation."

They took the seats offered by Ragnok, as did Skullcrusher, and engaged in small talk as they awaited the news from the surveillance-team-turned-strike-team.

***FTR***

Upon receipt of Ragnok's strike order, the warders on the surveillance team immediately activated the runic wardstones they had strategically placed around Riddle Manor in Little Hangleton. Impenetrable wards sprang up in a dome enclosing Riddle Manor and the strike team, ensuring that none could leave before the situation was resolved.

Once the outer wards were activated, the warders turned their attention to bringing down the interior wards. This they accomplished by setting up a series of highly restricted wardstones, each one guarded by five legionnaires and operated by a dedicated warder. Once activated, the wardstones generated a null-magic field within their perimeter, toppling the wards immediately and negating any and all magical spells and effects contained therein.

A fist of legionnaires stood by, fully armoured and wielding warhammers and battleaxes, awaiting the signal to storm the decrepit, rotting manor house and slay the occupants. It was an old joke among the warriors that magic-users were for the most part absolutely useless without their wands and were therefore beneath contempt. Even the average non-magical human was infinitely more dangerous than the average disarmed wizard. This prevailing attitude was why the customers of Gringotts bank, frequently arrogant snobs themselves, were so often on the receiving end of rude disdain that bordered on open hostility. Politeness earned no higher consideration than neutrality, as many first-gen magic-users discovered; but confident, authentic bravado bought a healthy measure of respect, as those rare souls like the Lord and Lady Potter had found out soon after their return.

Moments after the inner wards collapsed, a soul-rending scream of the damned echoed from within the crumbling walls, accompanied by a second with a slightly different tone but that was no less terrible.

"Strike Fist Ashwinder, go!" Decanus Bloodrage, leader of the Ashwinders, gave the command and led the charge himself. "And watch out for that gods-cursed snake! If it kills any of your worthless hides I'll beat you to death myself!"

The goblins burst through the cracked and faded door, tearing it off its hinges in the process, and into what must have once been a grand entry hall. Twin curving staircases led up to the first-floor landing while double doors on each of the three inner walls of the ground floor led to different areas of the manor house.

Bloodrage quickly split the fist into five two-goblin teams, including himself, and assigned a door to each team. Though their intelligence indicated that the only occupied room in the decaying mansion was the primary sitting room straight ahead from the entrance, there was an established proper procedure for clearing and securing buildings, and he'd be damned if he'd deviate from it. The best he could hope for if he did would be to answer to the centurion for his failure and be allowed to spill his entrails before his commander. The worst would be ejection from the legion in disgrace, a dishonour that would follow him for the rest of his days.

The decanus chose the room he knew to be occupied as his own.

The two goblins charged through the double doors under the sagging balcony and into the next room, swiftly but thoroughly assessing the scene.

An abnormally large snake of some unknown origin was flopping and flailing in the middle of the room, oblivious to the newcomers, while further movement closer to the grungy bay windows showed a stout, balding man with a pinched, rat-like face convulsing on the floor.

Without breaking stride, Bloodrage swung his axe and cut the snake's head off. Black ichor spurted from the severed neck as the body spasmed. At the same time, the other goblin slammed his warhammer into the convulsing man's head, caving in its side and snapping his neck at the same time.

Now that the snake and the wizard that was undoubtedly Peter Pettigrew were dead, Bloodrage conducted a more thorough search of the room. He almost smiled when he saw a corpse the size of an infant half-buried in a pile of filthy, tattered cloths. Upon closer examination all mirth disappeared – it was the corpse of an infant. Hideously scarred and mutilated by ritual and venom, this corpse must surely have belonged to the unfortunate soul Tom Riddle had murdered so that the body could be used for his homunculus form, hosting what was left of the dark lord's shattered soul.

After the null-magic field was brought down, the curse-breakers confirmed that it was only the blackest of ritual magic that held Riddle's tattered soul to the infant strongly enough to animate the desecrated corpse, and the null-magic field was all that was required to disintegrate that tenuous hold. With the filthy arcane energy dispelled, the corrupted homunculus form reverted back to the original form of the infant, though the corpse of the poor child was horrifically ravaged from the experience.

Once the last remnants of Riddle's soul were expelled from their hosts, the null-magic field drained all remaining energy from the wraith-like fragments. Too fragile to remain on the material plane, the feeble shards dissipated into the aether before they could escape the field.

The bodies were collected by the goblins for proper disposal and the original surveillance team reported back to Gringotts, leaving the newly-arrived support team to secure and clean up the area.

***FTR***

After a burst of indescribable agony followed by a chill numbness that throbbed in his very soul, he gradually became aware of his surroundings. He was back in a body again, but every fibre of his existence ached. Barely able to move, he slowly looked around to try to get his bearings.

His heart sank as he saw a room not unlike the gymnasium at the orphanage where he'd spent his childhood. The paint on the cinderblocks was a different colour, but it had the same sterile institutional feel. Even the tiny windows at the top of the walls were protected with chain-link fencing painted the same depressing off-white as the walls.

He didn't recognise this place, not exactly, but there was a similar feel of timelessness as there was to another place he remembered from his youth that caused his heart to clench in fear. Not wanting to think about the implications of what that could mean, he surreptitiously glanced at some of the others sitting nearby on the varnished wooden benches.

A bald man wearing spectacles and a goatee was nearby, stony eyes staring forward and ignoring everything else. He wore a striped button-up shirt under a black jacket and khaki pants, with a black porkpie hat completing his look. He had an air of academia about him, but there was also something… dangerous. It was a decidedly unusual combination.

On his other side sat a tall, leggy blonde woman whose short hair was immaculately pulled back in a French twist. She wore a sleeveless white dress that was so tight and so short that she seemed either one deep breath or one crossed leg away from revealing far too much of herself. When she caught him staring at her, she gave him a heavy-lidded, sultry smirk filled with innuendo and promise. Blushing in spite of himself, he turned away. Everything about her oozed sex, and he had no doubt that a liaison with her would be the stuff of legends. He also had no doubt that there was little to no chance of actually surviving the encounter.

The appearance of the person right behind him, though, put all thoughts of sex, deadly or otherwise, completely out of his head. A white man in his teens stared back at him, a psychotic glint in his eye and his mouth twisted into a sadistic smile. His curly blond hair was topped by a black bowler hat, and for some reason he wore carefully-applied kohl around his right eye in a pattern like a starburst, or heavily-exaggerated eyelashes. He wore a heavy white button-up shirt and white trousers tucked into black combat boots, as well as, disturbingly, a pale tan codpiece worn over his trousers and held up by a pair of white braces.

Shuddering, he turned back around. Looking into that young man's eyes was like looking into the face of pure evil, something that even he had yet to experience. There was not the slightest flicker of conscience, the slightest hint of remorse for his deeds. This was someone who, as young as he was, not only enjoyed hurting other people, but lived for it. Torture, assault, rape, murder, it didn't matter. He'd known people who had done it all – hell, he'd done so himself – but never had he seen someone for whom those activities seemed as natural a part of who they were.

He frowned to himself. It had been decades since he'd felt such emotions, and that bothered him. He was certain that the measure he'd taken had pushed him beyond such petty considerations, but the fact that the person behind him disturbed him so deeply instead of making him want to recruit him was a sure sign that something had gone terribly wrong.

Not to mention blushing like a schoolboy when that blonde sex pot had smiled at him.

He looked down at his hands and froze. Instead of the pale, scaly hands he remembered from the last time he had a body, these were the hands of a teenage boy. And his robes were no longer the expensive but stylishly tattered ones he used to wear for their intimidation factor, but instead were Hogwarts school robes trimmed in silver and green. He hesitantly brought his hands up to his face and felt smooth skin instead of cold, reptilian flesh, and on his head he found thick, wavy hair that he knew would be dark brown and the cause of several teenage schoolgirl heartthrobs.

Somehow, his shattered soul must have been restored. And if that was correct about his earlier assumption, he was also dead.

Really dead this time.

He gave a resigned sigh and buried his face in his hands, waiting for the inevitable. After an indeterminate length of time, he sensed a presence nearby and looked up.

A pretty brunette with a cheerful smile stood there holding a clipboard and looking at him expectantly. She wore some kind of police uniform he didn't recognise along with a truncheon or baton which hung from her belt. "Tom Riddle?" she inquired.

He briefly considered a condescending, arrogant remark, but dismissed that thought. These people would not be impressed or intimidated, so it would be a futile endeavour. "Yes?"

"Mellow greetings, Mr Riddle. Your designated arbiter is ready to receive you for processing before consignment to your judgement."

Shoulders slumped in defeat, he slowly stood up to follow her. As he got to his feet, the psycho behind him began humming a wordless tune. It took a few moments before he recognised the tune as part of a movement from Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. Music was one of the few things he could recall from his childhood in the orphanage.

It was a strange thing indeed to hear coming from such a disturbed individual.

Though he was in a body he hadn't seen in over fifty years, he felt nothing like a young man. Still not quite seventy years old, he nevertheless felt the weight of ten times that many years. He trudged after the police officer, not really paying attention to where they were going. There was no point in resisting anymore; he'd gambled heavily and lost mightily.

They stopped at a metal door down a long hallway that appeared to stretch forever both in the direction they were facing and back the way they came. Not another door was in sight in either direction, on either side of the hallway.

"Your arbiter is waiting," the woman said as she opened the door. He shuffled inside without any further prompting. "Be well, Tom Riddle."

As the metal door shut behind him, Riddle slowly walked forward and sat on a stool in front of a battered metal desk. On the other side of the desk sat a figure, presumably male, wearing a brown trench coat, buttoned and belted, and a matching brown fedora. A light grey scarf was tied around his neck with a loose overhand knot, the ends tucked under the lapels of the coat. Although the figure wore leather gloves, his dexterity while flipping through the pages of the file he was reading did not appear to be affected in the slightest. Bizarrely, his face was obscured by a white cloth mask pulled over his head. Black splotches were painted on the cloth in a random, non-objective pattern, though they were symmetrical on either side of an invisible line going down the centre of his face.

Riddle was surprised a moment later when, even as he watched, the splotches shifted their pattern completely, though they maintained their symmetry.

"Tom Riddle," the figure said without warning in a gravelly baritone. "Born December 1926. Assigned special duties at birth but failed to accomplish. Given multiple opportunities to complete duties but was thwarted each time until duties were abandoned." The arbiter looked up, affixing Riddle with his faceless stare. The mask shifted again to yet another pattern. "First duty: vanquish undeclared Dark Lord Albus Dumbledore and set magical Britain free from plots and manipulations. Second duty: marry soulmate, Myrtle Warren. Lost without each other, but together you synergise and become greater than either would be alone. Third duty: together with Warren bring in new age of peace and prosperity to magical Britain."

Riddle closed his eyes and lowered his head, unable to look at the arbiter. Dear Merlin, he hadn't thought of Myrtle in decades. He remembered a pleasant brunette Ravenclaw with glasses and a mild case of facial boils who suffered horribly at the taunts and bullying of some of her older housemates. It wasn't at all fair to her either – anyone with a bit of intelligence could have easily seen she would be a lovely young lady once she hit her late teens.

The arbiter pushed on relentlessly. "In defence, Dark Lord Dumbledore sabotaged you and set you up for failure every time. Responsible for each of your deaths, directly or indirectly. Case assigned to Death Management (Probationary). Allowed to retain memories on fourteenth life. Scared to screw it up, began researching methods of immortality instead of focusing on duties. Research led to Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets and discovery of basilisk, which accidentally killed soulmate. Overwhelmed with guilt and fear, you framed Rubeus Hagrid for Warren's death, rejected duties, and focused exclusively on gaining immortality and power to sustain it.

"Discovered concept of horcruces during research, also learned truth of parentage, magical and nonmagical. Murdered everyone on paternal side, everyone except uncle on maternal side, framed uncle for all of it. Used murders as rituals to create first two horcruces: journal and family ring." He shook his head. "Stupid thing to do. When soul is shattered, so is sanity."

Guilt and fear. Unfamiliar emotions. He hadn't felt anything more than rage since his first horcrux. Having his soul rejoined again brought all of those lost emotions back, along with the clarity offered by hindsight to finally understand that everything he had done since was in a futile effort to fill the increasingly larger voids in his soul. It was easy to blame Dumbledore for setting him on this path – no one could really deny that he was a victim of the older man's Machiavellian scheming. However, Dumbledore never forced him to shatter his own soul and make horcruces. That was solely his own decision, and that was likewise his sole legacy and testament to an utterly pointless and wasted life. Another strange aching sensation entered his awareness, and it took a long moment for him to recognise it.

Remorse.

For the first time since he'd been a fearful orphan cowering from the predations of the older children, Tom Marvolo Riddle wept.

The arbiter waited in passive silence, offering neither encouragement nor condemnation, until the unexpected tears ceased. "Are you ready to receive judgement?"

Riddle nodded wearily. "I am," he whispered.

"Then arise and come with me."

As he stiffly got to his feet, a thought entered his head. "May… may I ask a question?" he said.

The arbiter turned his faceless mask towards Riddle. "Ask," he finally said.

"Did I get Vito fired?" He remembered his reaper as a gruff, no-nonsense fort with greying, slicked-back hair, pencil-thin moustache, and immaculately dressed in a three-piece pinstripe suit.

"No," the arbiter replied. "Had you simply failed then answer would be yes for insufficient preparation. Moment you made first horcrux your case went to Arbitration and Vito was reassigned." He shook his head. "He made offer you should not have refused."

Head bowed, the penitent Tom Riddle followed the arbiter, knowing full well that his newly-rediscovered conscience and remorse was too late, and that he truly deserved whatever judgement awaited him.

***FTR***

"That's all it took?" Harry stared at Legate Ragnok, an incredulous look on his face.

"That's correct," Ragnok said. "Once the null-magic field was activated, Riddle was unable to maintain his connection to this plane of existence. It had the added benefit of dispelling the horcrux in the snake as well."

"Motherfucker!" Harry cursed. "Goddamn that meddling old bastard!"

"Harry, love, it's all over," Hermione soothed. "He's up to his ears in brimstone now. He'll never bother us again."

"You're right, Mione," he agreed, "but when I think of all the shit that sanctimonious son of a bitch put us through, only to learn that if he'd only pulled his thumb out and actually done something then none of it would've been necessary…"

"At least we stopped it before too many people lost their lives," she reminded.

"Very true," he conceded. "Legate Ragnok, thank you for allowing us to be here for this. It really means a lot to us."

"It was our pleasure, Lord and Lady Potter," he replied with a smile. Despite his outburst a moment ago (something few had ever dared in the legate's presence), Lord Potter already looked as if a massive weight had been lifted from his shoulders. It warmed the old goblin's heart to see the young man actually begin to look like a young man, with nought but a young man's cares to worry about. "Congratulations on your victory."

"No sir, if you please," Harry replied, rising to his feet. Hermione rose to join him, her eyes sparkling. "This was our victory, not mine. We could not have done so well without the aid of the Goblin Nation. We do not yet know what course our government will take, but as far as House Potter is concerned, the Goblin Nation will always be considered allies – and friends." He executed a perfect bow, precisely done for a lord of his status to the head of a nation, and was joined by his wife.

The legate returned the bows with equal aplomb. "You give us much honour," he said. "As far as Gringotts is concerned, House Potter will always be considered allies, and Friend of the Nation status will automatically be bestowed upon the current Head and his Lady. Subsequent generations will be given the opportunity to confirm Friend status as they come of age."

"You honour us as well, Legate," Harry said. "We humbly and enthusiastically accept."

With their new status as Friends of the Nation, Legate Ragnok ordered Skullcrusher to escort the Potters to the Gringotts internal portkey and apparation point. From there the couple could return to Hogwarts without first leaving the bank.

***FTR***

The dissolution and banishment of Tom Riddle's homunculus form had more far-reaching effects than initially expected, and the end results took several days to become public knowledge.

When new recruits joined the ranks of the Death Eaters, they bound themselves to their master by a vile corruption of the marriage bond, effectively binding their very souls to his in the ritual that engraved the Dark Mark into their flesh. The twisted emblem of a writhing snake crawling from the mouth of a skull showed their membership in the band of terrorists, and also allowed Riddle to summon his followers to his location. What they didn't know, however, was that it also siphoned off a portion of their power and fed it to Riddle, helping him attain his unprecedented power levels. As long as his soul was tethered to the Material Plane, even as an incorporeal wraith, then the bond remained intact. But when the goblins erected the null-magic field around Riddle Manor, the tattered piece of soul remaining was not strong enough to withstand the absence of magic. As it was banished into the aether, where it would ultimately be reunited with the other fragments and then sent off for judgement, the bond connecting it to each of the remaining Death Eaters was severed. The resulting backlash of their power rebounding back into them destroyed the magical core of each and every marked Death Eater. Most of them were not strong enough to survive the loss of their magic. Those in Azkaban, dreadfully weakened by the constant presence of the dementors, expired almost immediately. The few who did manage to survive were partially crippled as the explosive bleed-off of their magic desiccated their left forearms around the protean tattoo, leaving little more than shrivelled limbs of parchment-like skin stretched over brittle bones.

As it was a Saturday morning that Riddle was vanquished, no one noticed when Severus Snape and the man everyone assumed was Alastor Moody collapsed unconscious. Both professors were in the habit of disappearing into their private quarters over the weekends, so no one gave it a second thought when neither showed up to any of the meals. It wasn't until Monday morning and they still hadn't been seen that McGonagall ordered a search of their quarters.

Snape was found unconscious, devoid of all magic, and his left arm a mummified ruin of what it had been. Madam Pomfrey shook her head when she saw the state he was in. It was unlikely that he would ever brew again. It was a pity, to be perfectly honest, for despite the bitter man's acerbic attitude, there was no denying that he was one of Britain's most brilliant Potions Masters.

When the staff went to search the Defence Against the Dark Arts office, they found the corpse of a man about the same age as Snape with blond hair and a terrified expression on his face. Moody's peg leg and spinning magical eye lay on the ground beside him. McGonagall recognised him as Barty Crouch Junior, who was supposed to have died in Azkaban Prison years ago, and called in the DMLE. A thorough search of the office found an extremely disgruntled Alastor Moody securely bound in a multi-compartment trunk, a good portion of his hair missing as it was being used as the final ingredient for Crouch's polyjuice potion.

Igor Karkaroff was found on the Durmstrang ship in his quarters, slumped over his desk with a spilled bottle of vodka beside him. All efforts to revive him failed. Madam Pomfrey was summoned there as well, and she declared the Durmstrang headmaster deceased shortly thereafter. The deputy headmaster was raised in his stead for the duration of the tournament. His continuing status as headmaster would be determined upon their return to their school. Pomfrey called St Mungo's, requesting personnel from the coroner's office to collect Karkaroff's body. After the requested personnel arrived and claimed the corpse, it was cleaned and prepared for travel before an assistant coroner transported it to the Scandinavian Ministry of Magic via portkey.

The discovery that Barty Crouch Junior had until recently been alive and well raised several questions to which the DMLE wanted answers. The most likely source of those answers was actually Barty Crouch Senior, but he had not been seen for quite some time. Inquiries in the Department of International Cooperation revealed that Crouch had been out sick for several months now, and had been communicating with his assistant Percy Weasley via owl post for the duration. Further interrogation found Percy admitting that he had not actually seen Crouch this entire time, but assuring the DMLE that he recognised Crouch's handwriting and followed his instructions faithfully.

Director Bones was unimpressed. "So in other words, you're saying that you were unable to determine whether your boss was writing to you under duress or not, or even whether his instructions were a clever forgery or not." She scribbled down a few lines from a poem she'd always enjoyed from an American poet and story teller, Edgar Allan Poe. Then, after casting a spell and tapping the parchment with her wand, she slid the scrap across the table. Percy's eyes bugged out when he saw that the writing was an exact match to that of his mentor. "You're a bureaucratic fool, Percy Weasley," she snapped. "Everything coming out of this office since Crouch took ill is now suspect, simply because you were filled with your own overblown sense of self-importance and had your head stuck so far up Crouch's arse that you couldn't see the damage you were doing. You won't be charged for anything, because unfortunately it is not against the law to be a fool, but I would strongly suggest that you seek alternative employment – preferably somewhere that does not affect the lives and well-being of a significant number of people."

The DMLE proceeded to visit Crouch Senior's home of record, where they found the missing man shackled to his bed by a chain and missing his wand. He was emaciated but alive, and revealed that his son had visited twice a week to empty the provided waste bucket and to make sure that he was fed and watered enough to stay alive. There was some initial sympathy towards his plight – no one deserved to live in conditions like that – but further interrogation revealed the sordid truth of his son's escape from Azkaban. A half-hearted promise to a dying wife, a late-night visit to the cell of their wayward son, a couple of doses of polyjuice, and Barty Crouch Junior walked out of the inescapable prison – not really a free man, as his father placed him under the Imperius curse almost immediately – but finally breathing free air again. Any sympathy Crouch Senior may have gained was forever lost with these revelations.

The sudden demise of the Death Eaters left the Wizengamot as well as the Ministry in an uproar. Many of them had been considered upstanding pureblood pillars of the community, not to mention Heads of House of many prominent families. The Dark faction in the Wizengamot was effectively gutted, because the family magics were not accepting the heirs for some reason. It took the Unspeakables in the Department of Mysteries a few days to discover that the affected houses were considered to be conquered, as the former Heads had bound themselves to Riddle. The problem was, as best as they could tell, it was a group of goblins who had defeated Voldemort, and by extension conquered those same houses. The House magics, however, could not recognise a goblin as Head of House due to the incompatibility between human magic and goblin magic.

An emergency Wizengamot meeting was called to address the issues of suddenly needing a new Chief Warlock as well as the succession problems of the now-Headless houses. Even more troubling was that without Heads, the house vaults were in stasis and could not be accessed by the families. With assets frozen and family magics on hold, there was a very real possibility of the families being forced to dissolve.

As soon as the emergency session was underway, the question of a replacement for the Chief Warlock was brought up. The proceedings were almost immediately sidetracked when the Senior Under-Secretary to the Minister of Magic, Dolores Umbridge, all but demanded that Harry Potter be immediately arrested and brought to trial for the assassination of Chief Warlock Dumbledore. Umbridge, a loathsome woman with the features of a particularly repulsive toad and the charisma and personality of a dementor, made a passionate plea regarding the loss of such a wise and valued statesman. Her rhetoric fooled no one, as she had consistently been Dumbledore's chief opponent, and after Fudge resignedly told her to sit down and be silent, Madam Bones took the stand to explain precisely why she would not arrest or prosecute Lord Potter.

Umbridge glared daggers at the DMLE Director but otherwise held her tongue. She was livid that the minister was paying more heed to that war-hawk battleaxe than to her, but Bones was too powerful to simply remove as she had removed so many other political opponents. Likewise, the Director was too seasoned a fighter to risk an assassination attempt, and too skilled an investigator not to trace any such attempt back to her. And so for now, Madam Bones was untouchable, and all Umbridge could do was to bide her time and hope the arrogant bitch messed up somehow.

After several candidates were nominated and had spoken, the assembly took a vote for the vacant seat. Lord Cyrus Greengrass won the election by a fair margin, and after taking the seat of Chief Warlock and calling for order, proceeded to the next item on the agenda; namely, the disposition of the Houses currently in limbo.

Again Umbridge spoke up with her opinion, which amounted to little more than to insist that the "filthy creatures immediately relinquish all claims to the affected Houses or suffer the consequences." Ignoring the incredulous stares from those members who seemed to disagree with the concept of deliberately antagonising the nation that held your gold behind their doors, Umbridge kept running her mouth, even after Madam Bones hit her with a silencio.

Bones gave Minister Fudge a measured look. The man was shaking his head with his face buried in his hand. "Just why do you keep that woman around?" she quietly inquired.

"Because unfortunately she's excellent at her job," Fudge whispered. "She needs a firm hand from time to time, but is too good to just sack without a sound reason. None of her unpleasantness so far warrants it. Believe me, I've looked."

"Would it help if you had someone else who is just as skilled?" she wanted to know.

"Oh dear Merlin, yes!" he exclaimed. "Anyone would have to be more pleasant to work with. Do you have any recommendations?"

"I may," she allowed. "Give me a couple of days and I should have a short list of likely candidates."

The whispered exchange went unnoticed as Chief Warlock Greengrass opened the floor to discussion. Umbridge actually continued her ranting for a few more minutes before she realised no one was paying her the slightest mind. Her inaudible diatribe trailed off mid-sentenced before she took her seat in a huff.

Given that the vast bulk of remaining seats in the Wizengamot were held by the Light and Neutral factions, the proposals offered were much more diplomatic and conciliatory in tone.

Umbridge's face reddened and her jowls trembled in rage as she heard suggestion after suggestion that ran counter to the entire spirit of her personal belief system. The few remaining seats in the Dark faction collectively looked as if the holders had bitten into particularly sour lemons, but not a one dared voice dissent. She was disgusted with them as well for not standing firm against this assault on traditional wizarding values. The wrongness of these proposals should be patently obvious to any right-thinking individual! How dare they suggest grovelling in front of these disgusting creatures, hats in hand, as if they were at all worthy of a pureblood wizard's notice, let alone respect!

When she heard the proposal to move the Goblin Liaison Office from the Being Division of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures to the Department of International Magical Cooperation as a gesture of goodwill, the squat witch blew her top. Leaping to her feet, she began screaming at Lord Amos Diggory, the man who had initially made the proposal, only to realise that she was still silenced. Before she could be rebuked by Fudge, Greengrass, or Bones, she stormed from the chambers swearing retribution on them all. Not that anyone actually heard her threats.

With the exit of the thoroughly disagreeable woman, the debates flowed much smoother, though just as spirited. It was ultimately agreed that while goblins should not be represented on the Wizengamot (as some of the more radical of the Light faction had suggested), neither should they be shunted off into the DRCMC. Neutral and Light faction members alike agreed that grouping a sapient species with their own society, language, culture, and law in with animals like nundu, kneazels, and nifflers could easily be taken as an insult of the highest order. Officially recognising that species as a sovereign nation in their own right was only logical, and long overdue. Doing so was enough to appease the more progressive elements in the Light faction, while also satisfying the more traditional elements in the Neutrals, who were not interested in subjugating nonhuman species so much as preserving their heritage and ensuring the prosperity of their economy and culture. The Dark faction was collectively focused on maintaining its power first and their society's traditions second. The overall economy was also secondary to their personal wealth, which largely fuelled their power, or at least it had before the current situation.

Although there was some grumbling about keeping lesser beings in their places, the few members present from the Dark faction contented themselves with abstaining rather than outright opposing the measure.

Afterwards, it was decided that Fudge, Greengrass, and Bones would visit Gringotts, inform the goblins of the new disposition of the Goblin Liaison Office, and seek a meeting with the bank officials to request the release of the magics and vaults of the Headless families. That decision made, the session was closed and the Ministry personnel returned to their offices to execute the new changes.

Another unexpected repercussion of the demise of the Death Eaters took place in St Mungos. Though the times were never verified, the moment that Bellatrix Lestrange expired in Azkaban, Frank and Alice Longbottom awoke from their vegetative state. The astonished healers gave them a thorough examination and found them weakened but relatively healthy. After a night of observation, they contacted Augusta Longbottom, Frank's mother and Regent of House Longbottom. After a joyful and tear-filled reunion, Augusta immediately left and apparated to Hogwarts to collect Neville so that he could be reunited with his parents. When he learned what had happened, he insisted that Fleur come along as well.

When they returned to Hogwarts, Neville doubted that a dementor could remove the smile from his face. Hand-in-hand with his girlfriend, they found the Potters and told them the happy news. They immediately congratulated him and told him they'd be hosting a celebration that night in their flat for their closest friends in his honour.