Chapter 1: Inklings
Late May, 1995 Berlin, Germany
"Wolfgang, Wolfgang! It's happened, the Apocalypse has come!"
"What the devil are you talking about man?"
"This!" Exasperated, Judah van Helsing shoved a small hand-written note into Baron von Hess' hands. Giving Judah a look, Wolfgang quickly read the note, then re-read it. Damn...
"As I said, the Apocalypse has come."
The telephone rang. As Wolfgang picked it up, Judah ran to close to door.
"Baron von Hess, IHA, German Office."
"Hello, Wolfgang." It was Dumbledore.
"Headmaster!"
"Has Judah delivered my note?"
"We were discussing just when you called, Headmaster."
"Excellent. Now listen, there is much to tell you. Could you possibly make it here by tea-time?"
"Here, as in Hogwarts?"
"Correct."
"Yes, I should be able to."
"Splendid. I'll see you then, Wolfgang." With that he hung up.
Wolfgang placed the phone back on the hook and leaned back in his chair. Again he looked at the note. Voldemort is back. Get ready. Albus Dumbledore.
"Well?"
Wolfgang looked up, having completely forgotten about Judah, who stood leaning against the desk on his hands, a peering look in his eye. Wolfgang smiled slightly; he remembered that look well.
"Can you join us for tea at Hogwarts?"
"Today?"
"Yes."
"I think so."
"Good. Until then, I'd suggest you return home and polish that Winchester of yours."
"Great; just when I thought it was over..."
"Judah, you're starting to sound like an innocent."
"Oh God, Wolfgang, first Richard now you; can't everyone just get off my back?"
"Because Judah, you are on the brink of bringing shame to your family and the IHA by you insistent refusal to fulfill your duties. A fine picture we'd present to the rest of the wizarding world if the heir of the Van Helsing name shirked on his duties."
"You all seem to be forgetting a very important point, Wolfgang; I never asked to be born into this family, or this life. It was thrust upon me, thrown at me like some hex."
"You never had any trouble facing down these so-called "hexes" before, Judah."
"No, but that was before I had to experience the murder and torture of some of my closest friends, before I had a family to worry about, before Patrick lost everything dear in his life, before..."
"Will you listen to yourself? You, a Van Helsing, whining and complaining like an ordinary wizard. Your list of grievances could easily be recited by at least three-quarters of the hunters in the IHA, myself included. I've yet to hear them complain, though. We've all lost friends in this struggle, that's part of the job. Your family? You're lucky to still have a family to worry about. Also, remember that its not Helena whose asking you to quit; she knows the risks involved in being a hunter's wife, but unlike you she seems to be willing to take them. Grow up Judah, remember the man you used to be; the young hunter with those piercing grey eyes and a fiery spirit, who enjoyed nothing better than wreaking havoc on the forces of evil. That's the hunter I took under my wing, the hunter I taught the greatest magic any wizard could practice. Not this coward standing in front of me."
"You've got no right to talk to me like that Wolfgang," Judah retorted, taking a deep breath as he tried to swallow the insults hurled at him. "I've given forty-four years of my life to this widows' society, and for what? Family honor? That's the same kind of crap that the Pure Bloods have been gushing forth since Salazar Slytherin. Fighting evil? A worthy enough cause, I grant you, but some of my colleagues are so maniacal in their quest that even the vampires consider them monsters. Thirteen years ago, we thought we had won. But no, he's back now; what have we gained? A thirteen year rest. I'm tired Wolfgang. Sick and tired of this killing spree."
"Are you still going to join us?"
"I don't really have a choice, do I? Even if you're not twisting my arm, Helena's going to be making me go, isn't she?" Judah turned and walked out of the office, slamming the door behind him.
Wolfgang sat at his desk, starring into space. Burned out. It was a normal occurrence among hunters; one could only stand so many years of working among death and destruction, seeing one's closest friends killed off, or worse, changed into vampires. Normally it was the older hunters who felt it most strongly. That was before Voldemort. Afterwards, many of the younger hunters were starting to feel it as well. One young man he knew, a Hungarian, had lost his wife to Voldemort's Death Eaters. They had only been married for two months, and she was three weeks pregnant. They had taken their time killing her, and the crime scene had sickened many of the most hardened hunters. The young man, only 23 at the time, had fallen into depression, and had only now begun to recover. Of course this had happened to many other hunters; it was, as he said, a risk that came with the job, and it took a special woman to accept that risk. As a rule, many hunter's wives often matched, even exceeded, their husbands in courage. But it had never happened on such a large scale though, that was the problem. Never had so many given so much.
Once the debris had cleared, though, the adulations poured on the hunters by the press had quickly evaporated. Ordinary, run-of the mill wizards had always been suspicious of the hunters, with their supernatural powers, archaic forms of magic, and the arrogance they often displayed towards other wizards, even Aurors. So it was a thankless job as well, and many of the younger hunters were falling into a cynical frame of mind too soon. After all, they reasoned, why bother to protect a group of people who hate you for who you are, no matter what you do for them? Might they not deserve what they get? Yet they still fought and died for the rest of that thankless, thoughtless world, as they had every day for two-thousand years. As much as many of them had come to hate their calling, they still thrived on the hunt. For many, it was all that kept them alive.
Late May, 1995 Hogwarts
As Wolfgang stepped through the fireplace into Dumbledore's office, the rest of the assembled crowd looked up from their tea.
"Eh, Wolfgang, a bit late, aren't you?" It was Fred Abberline, Chief Inspector for the London house of the IHA.
"A hunter's never late, Fred; everyone else just happens to be early."
A quick laugh passed through the group as he sat down in the remaining chair, and the teapot floated over to fill his cup.
"Where's Dumbledore?" he asked.
"No one's sure. There was a note instructing us to sit and eat until he came in."
Wolfgang looked around. Judah was there, sitting in the corner, looking morose and ignoring his teacup. Richard was discussing the latest Ministry complaints against IHA policy with Fred, while Ivan and Patrick were relating their latest outrages to Moses Ajande, the young Ethiopian who had recently been made attaché to the Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense in the U. S. Kiratune Endo-Shan, Superior of the Monastic Community in Nagasaki, sat off to the side, quietly sipping his tea and observing the others.
"Where's Luther?"
"Funny, we were about to ask you about that, old chap. I suspect he'll arrive when he feels like it. You know how he is."
"Ja."
"Is Valerius coming?"
"I sent a message to the Gypsy camp, but I can't guarantee anything. He's not bound by the same rules we are, you know?"
"Aye, it's going to be the same way with Blade. I sent the message myself, but all I received was a note saying merely 'I'll consider it.'"
"And Riddick?"
"Come now, old chap, do you really need to ask?"
"No. Oh, where's Barty?"
"Barty Crouch?"
"Yes."
"Well, haven't you heard the news old boy?"
"What news?"
"Oh, well...Wolfgang, Barty's dead."
Wolfgang slowly sank into his seat, his mind numb with shock and grief.
"Wolfgang?" The voice was Kiratune's.
He looked up, then folded his arms and leaned back, swearing under his breath. "How did he die?"
"It was his son, I regret to say," Dumbledore said as he walked into the room, startling everyone except Kiratune.
"His son? That traitor's been dead for thirteen years, Headmaster."
"Yes, so it seemed to all of us Wolfgang. Come, all of you, I have much to tell you."
Later That Evening
Wolfgang sipped pensively on his beer as he looked out upon the Quidditch field. There was so much to consider. Barty's traitor son was alive; the bastard who had helped kill his family had been alive, sheltered by his own father no less. He simply couldn't believe it. His chance for revenge had been there all along, and as usual that idiot Fudge had screwed it up again. The Dementor's Kiss. Shit. No less than he deserved, no doubt, but Wolfgang had wanted to hurt that turncoat, to make him plead for his death, the same way Guinevere had been forced to plead for hers. He wanted him to suffer at his hands, not that bungler's.
"Now you're starting to sound like me, Wolfgang." He turned around and saw Luther approaching.
"How did you know what I was thinking?"
"You forget, I was once renowned for my mastery of the archaic arts, especially mind reading. It used to scare the hell out of vampires."
"And quite a few wizards too, if I remember correctly."
"Aye. Too bad about Barty. I can still remember the first time I met you two, during the House of the Dead crisis. What year was that?"
"'68."
"That's right, just before Voldemort came out in the open, when he still had a mask of legitimacy. I remember."
"So do I. You taught us everything we needed to know...and then some."
"Nothing really, just some survival skills, some stuff they didn't teach you in the classroom."
"Still, it saved our rears on many an occasion."
"Well, I know a good deal when I see it. I saw greatness in you, the both of you. You as one of Europe's most feared hunters, Barty as the scourge of the dark forces in England. Damn shame the rest of them didn't feel the same way. We'd have a man to face this crisis, not this bungler who's been masquerading about for thirteen years."
"Aye. Well, we've still got Dumbledore."
Luther laughed haughtily. "Your naiveté never ceases to amaze me, Wolfgang. Dumbledore? Why, if you hadn't listened to him back then, Gwen and the children would still be alive. So would my Freyja."
"I don't like your lack of faith, Luther."
"Oh, quite the contrary; it's not lack of faith I suffer from, it's an overabundance of it. I'll see myself through the crisis this time, and I'll not be bowed down by the insipient demands of an egotistic old man."
"Damn it, Luther, that's not the kind of talk we need to hear right now."
"Really? Allow me to disagree, my dear pupil. It will only be by realizing our own strengths rather then relying on those of others that we will be able to defeat that half-dead son of a bitch."
"And what makes you so bold as to assume that you won't fail, my old master?"
"Simply, I have nothing to lose." He took a long drag on his cigarette. " Not even my life."
Wolfgang turned away, drained his beer stein and excused himself, leaving Luther alone at the Quidditch field. As he hurried down the stairs he brushed a tear away from his eye. He had forgotten, after thirteen years, just how much of a monster his old mentor had become. Voldemort, it was all Voldemort's doing; he had killed Wolfgang's family, Luther's family, destroyed Barty's family, turned his son against him, stolen Patrick's chance at a family, turned Judah into a coward, murdered Lily and James, on and on and on. God, he prayed, forgive us for what we must do. You made us like this; all we can do is follow the path.
As he walked back through the fireplace, Wolfgang hoped that young Harry would be up to the task. It all rested on him now. Everything.