I do not own Harry Potter or his world, JK Rowling has that honor. I own all that you do not know. I also do not own any songs that are printed at the beginning of each chapter, they belonged to their respective artists.

Unholy Purity

Part One: Demon Blood

Chapter One: Shades of Yet to Come

Twilight
Singer
Vanessa Carlton

I was stained with a role

In a day not my own

And as you walked into my life

You showed what needed to be shown

And I always knew what was right

I just didn't know that I might

Peel away and choose to see from such a different sight

And I will never see the sky the same way

And I will learn to say goodbye to yesterday

And I will never cease to fly... if held down

And I will always reach too high

'Cause I've seen 'cause I've seen twilight

I never cared, never wanted, never sought to see what flaunted

So on purpose, so in my face

Couldn't see beyond my own place

And it was so easy to behold

What could hold but you taught me I could change

Whatever came within these shallow days

And I will never see the sky the same way

And I will learn to say goodbye to yesterday

And I will never cease to fly . . . if held down

And I will always reach too high

'Cause I've seen 'cause I've seen

And as the sun shines through and pushes away and pushes ahead

It fills the warmth of blue and leaves a chill instead

And I never knew that I could be so blind to all that is so real

And as illusioned eyes I see there is so much to be revealed

And I will never see the sky the same way

And I will learn to say goodbye to yesterday

And I will never cease to fly . . . if held down

And I will always reach too high 'cause I've seen 'cause I've seen twilight

I was stained with a role in a day not my own

And as you walked into my life you showed what needed to be shown

And I always knew what was right

I just didn't know that I might

Peel away and choose to see from such a different sight

And I will never see the sky the same way

And I will learn to say goodbye to yesterday

And I will never cease to fly . . . if held down

And I will always reach too high 'cause I've seen 'cause I've seen twilight

Dreamscape

Nothing lay ahead of him, like vast plains of grass. Except there was no grass and darkness had conquered everything his eyes could see. Thick strands of shadowy mist swirled through the air, the ground mirroring the inky indigo-onyx sky above, which was seemingly endless in its dept. There was only emptiness; an abyss lay in every direction, though north was where he went. Why, he did not know why. He was compelled to travel directly ahead of him, drawn by an unseen force, it seemed. His footsteps echoed loudly in the staggering nothingness, it appeared he was walking on a sort of glass ground, or was it the mist he walked upon? It felt as though if he made one wrong move he would plummet into darkness below.

A voice broke the darkness, making him cry out in alarm, jumping backwards. It was a woman's voice, smooth and silky, hidden dangers deep within the strange and foreign dialect. Her tone was mysterious, almost . . . riddle-like, as were her words.

'Child of the Magi breed, what is it that dwells within your soul? What are your . . . desires?'

He did not know how to answer to such a question and as a result, remained quite. The shadowy mists around him began to swirl and condensed into a form in front of him, taking the shape of an ancient mirror, positioned on clawed feet, with a frame of deepest black, a strange metal with even stranger carvings into it. At the top of the mirror was a bird, the raven, with its wings spread wide. The female voice spoke again, echoing horribly into the blankness.

'Child, look into the mirror. Look, and see what I offer you.'

Nervously, he approched the mirror. For a moment, all he could see was his pale-faced reflection, staring blankly back at him, but the scene began to ripple, like when fingers were touched into a pool of water, finally changing into a world he would have given anything to be a part of.

There he was, surrounded by smiling, happy faces of those he knew and loved. There was his family, all beaming happily upon him, dressed in the finest of clothing. He was . . . different, taller, and handsomer. His face had a cocky, brave smile on his face and the floor he stood upon was covered up to his ankles in golden coins that spread for miles and miles. The women in the vast crowd around him all cooed his name and swooned when his reflection smiled and waved at them. There was nothing to worry about, no death, and there were his friends, happily waving and shouting his name. They were happy.

'I offer this to you, little boy, on the terms that you would be living in a world of illusion.'

He could not tear his gaze from the mirror and his heart sank when the utopian world in the mirror rippled back into his own meager reflection. 'Would you except my gift? Riches and pleasures beyond your wildest dreams? Only to live with the knowledge it is all illusions made real. Or do you stay in the bitter reality you dwell within currently?'

The mirror then showed him the world as he knew it. There was destruction, his family clad in the barest they could afford. Sadness clung to the air like flies flock to decay, there was no peace and there was fear present, paranoia supreme. There were his friends, pale faced and grim, looking horribly mature for their young ages, and there was a raging inferno that burned the very essence of life, destroying innocence and happiness. It was disgusting to watch and he felt pleasure when the mirror then turned back to his reflection.

'Panic. Disorder. Destruction. This is the world as you know it, is it not child? The world of reality. I offer you a chance to escape this reality, for a falsehood of peace. Think wisely, child, for I leave the choice to you.'

The voice remained silent as he stood and pondered over the two images that had been shown in the mirror. It was a long time while he thought and his voice was firm when he answered. He knew he had made the right choice.

'I chose reality.'

The voice was softer, almost confused, as though he now gave it the puzzle. 'Why do you refuse the illusions that bring happiness to all you care for? Why do you except death?'

His voice sounded brave, though it was the opposite of how he truly felt. He would have given anything for the dream world to be true, but it could never have been. He remembered his friends and he felt braver. 'I-I'd be living a lie. I'd never accept myself. No one wants to be a coward.'

He could almost see the voice's owner smile and it spoke again, still as mysterious as it had been before. 'You chose truth over lies, even when the lies bring you happiness. You are indeed wise beyond your years.' The shimmering surface of the mirror hardened into stone, as black as the metal frame that held the glass in place, a silver knob curling from the shadows at the side. 'Step beyond the door, child, and I shall reward thee for thy's wisdom.'

He walked, his heart bright, his proud smile evident and he grabbed the silver handle. The door opened without a sound, as light as a feather, despite its heavy material. Beyond the door was a room made entirely out of black marble. The walls, the ceiling, the Corinthian columns supporting the ceiling, all were made from the same dark material. Upon the highly polished stone floor was a massive pentacle, delicately and elaborately carved from a strange, silvery paint. There were eight points to the large star inside a circle of arcane ruins, inside each of a points was a symbol for eight of the nine planets, in the very heart of the star was Earth's. At the top of the pentacle was a large sun with nine rays, again for the nine planets it gave warmth to, and at the bottom was a curved crescent moon. It was a beautiful sight, but his gaze did not linger long on it. It moved to the far end of the hall, where there be a dais made of the same material of the hall.

Upon the dais stood a woman, as still as a statue, and as dark and mysterious as the hall itself. Her long hair was midnight black with strange highlights of indigo, falling past her feet and trailing behind her. Her tall, thin body was clad in a black gown with spidery black sleeves and a long black shawl over her shoulders, held in place by a brooch of black diamond and dark ameythest. The shawl trailed behind her as well. It looked as though she had not eaten in many days, for the skin stretched upon her bones, revealing their shape. Her skin was vampiric pale, her face thin and bony, her eyes narrow and slanted, colored a color so dark they seemed black. Her lips were brilliant red, the only color on her lifeless face, and she was smiling.

She spoke in the voice of the female who had offered him the choice, beckoning one long finger towards him. 'Come closer child, I will not harm you,' she whispered, though her voice echoed in the room as though she had screamed those words.

He walked, though it seemed against his will to do so. She had a gentle smile on her face, a smile one did not associate with a being as dark and dreary as her appearance would suggest. Her black, pupiless eyes looked down upon him and she touched his face with a long finger, ending in a nail that could have been a black talon. Her skin was icy cold to the touch, devoid of all warmth that the living should posses.

'Who are you?' he asked dumbly, staring into her eyes, eyes that showed only sad emotions. They were pits, not eyes, and if eyes were truly the windows to a person's soul, then this woman had no soul.

'I am Khalida,' she replied simply, but her next words were anything but simple. 'You are wise, child, refusing the lies and excepting truth, no matter how horrible. Some would say you preferred the sorrow to the happiness.' Her lips parted in a smile, an odd expression for her face. She clasped one of his hands in both of hers and he felt as though he had plunged both into ice. When she withdrew her hands, in his palm lay a silky black feather: a raven's feather.

'They say the raven senses death, for it picks upon the bones of cadavers predators leave behind. Scavengers, yes, but they to are wise. Why kill something when the food can be brought to you?' her smile widened slightly as she took the feather from his palm. 'And thus, humans call them demons, when truly they are sages, wise yet misunderstood.' With the sharp tip of the raven's feather, she made a small cut across both of his hands and one of her own.

He winced in pain, though he had experienced much worse before. He watched as the red blood dribbled across his palms, but his eyes turned to her bleeding hand. Her blood was not red, as was a normal creature's, but jet-black, a demonic mockery of the precious elixir that flowed through the living's veins. He stared in horror at her blood, watching dimly as she smeared it across his palms, mingling his crimson with her black. She closed his hands and his eyes met her black orbs. They were filled with a sort of melancholic happiness, a paradox within itself.

'The crow is said to guide the souls of the departed to their final resting-place, but that is a mistake,' she breathed in his ear, 'The raven does that. One might go far as to call them . . . Grim Reapers.' An odd glimmer had entered her eyes, but it was there for but a moment, leaving back the sad blackness that belonged in her ivory face.

She smiled again and tucked the feather behind his ear, brushing back his hair. 'Travel back through the door, young child, to the Plains of Oblivion. They will always welcome you back, for their queen had blessed you.' The folds of her dress ruffled, strands of her indigo-hued hair falling across her face and eyes as though a breeze had blown by. 'Good-bye child, and may you seek solace in the darkness when all seems lost.'

Her body seemed to melt into the shadows the lingered in the corners of the room, the very blackness that seemed to make up the entire hall dissolving her flesh until she was gone. He was left alone, still hearing her words vibrate inside his mind and pried his hands apart. A mess of blood held them together, both red and black colors mingling to form a pitiless color. His fingers touched the raven feather tucked behind his ear and felt his face gave a smile. He lightly leapt off the dais and walked towards the door leading to the void abyss. The shadows did not bother him, which was a change from how his heart had been pounding before. The door shut on its own accord behind him, the frame of the once-mirror returning to the shadows of its creation.

She had called this place the Plains of Oblivion, the name fitting yet not correct in some aspects. There was oblivion, there was nothing, but there was something that nagged at his insides, telling him to search these 'plains' for a hidden existence. When he found none, he heard Khalida's voice whisper in the frigid, still air.

'Be careful, young child.'

Carpathian Mountains, Transylvania, Romania

There was an unearthly feeling about the old castle the Dark Lord had brought them to. The small man shivered, pulling his black cloak tighter to his body with a large silver hand. Wormtail was not fond of the darkness his master loved, and had little desire to remain in a building that looked as though it had been pulled out of a vampire legend. Yet, Lord Voldemort was waiting, and unless he wished to suffer a horrible punishment, he would wait silently for his orders.

The snake-like man drummed his long fingers on the dark velvet of the armchair he currently sat in, five or six Death Eaters at his side. His merciless red eyes flickered around the dark library, lit only by the crackling fire, and settled upon the golden pocket watch gripped in his right hand. It was a minute till midnight and a cruel smile twisted his lipless mouth when the minute hand moved.

Wormtail jumped when activity stirred in the corners of the room, revealing a man dressed head to foot in black clothing fit for an English gentleman from the eighteenth century. He couldn't have been older then thirty, a man in his prime. His neatly combed blond hair was tied in a ponytail that brushed his shoulder blades, his pale skin flawless, his blue eyes like chips of ice in a frigid face of marble stone. Atop his head sat a top hat, positioned at an angle, his gloved hands gripping the balled end of a cane. He examined Voldemort with mild curiosity and spoke in a crisp, clean voice.

"The Dark Lord, I presume? Yes, I suspected you would be here." Voldemort's red eyes narrowed at the man's arrogant talk and Wormtail could see Bellatrix Lestrange's hand flexing, as though it longed to grip the wand positioned at her hip.

"Aiden Shamshair, correct?" breathed the snake-like wizard, inclining his head very slightly, "The great king of the dragoons." Shamshair took the armchair across from Voldemort, leaning back and examining him closely.

"I see you've done some research. Very well, you contacted me about a bargain. What is it you wish to discuss, milord?" At least the man had some manners, thought Wormtail nervously, eyeing the demon lord.

"I wish to have the dragoons under my command." Shamshair raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow, giving a small snort of laughter. The long fingers of the Dark Lord's hand now flexed, similar to Bellatrix's, though it was barely noticeable.

"What would you, a wizard, though great and powerful, have to offer in exchange for the entire dragoon breed?" said Shamshair very quietly and deadly, "We are not mercenaries to be hired by gold, we are demons." It must have been a trick of the firelight, but Wormtail thought he saw the man's eyes flash a lizard-like yellow.

"I offer free destruction. Entire nations would be under your command, to kill, to destroy with the flick of your wrist." The offer clearly interested Shamshair, but the man leaned back in his chair and shifted his shoulders. Wormtail knew only the barest of information on demons, manipulative and immortal, yes, but with power that rivaled the Dark Lord's in even the youngest of the breed.

"You interest me, Lord Voldemort," spoke Shamshair softly, "You interest me greatly, and not many do. Consider this though: demons are not humans. We do not have the same laws as you, and demon law forbids me from truly acting against humans. We have remained hidden since the fifteenth century, many wish to still remain hidden." Voldemort's cat-like eyes narrowed and several of the Death Eater's hands flew to their wands. Shamshair raised a hand.

"I will observe you a bit longer, and think of your offer. But I have this to ask. Nearly sixteen years ago, you did not ask for demon help. Why now, or did you finally discover our race's secrets and powers?" Voldemort ground his teeth and whispered in a voice that spelled trouble, possible death, for one of his Death Eaters. Wormtail didn't pity the novices.

"Humans are weak, and they have failed again and again to kill Harry Potter," snarled Voldemort, "I would think demonic assassins would do a better job."

"Ah yes, I though it would come to the boy," said Shamshair with a very annoying smile that didn't last long, "You wish to hire us to kill the boy and be done with it, correct?" Voldemort jerked his head in a nod. "Then I must tell you this. There are greater powers then you or me in the world, and they are at work over the boy. Whither evil or good, I cannot tell you. But, I will consider your offer, and we will meet again. My words to you," here he smiled again, "Necromancy would be a very helpful skill for you. When you kill, revive the dead and bring them to your cause. Until later, I bid you adieu and good-bye."

He tilted his hat and his body seemed to melt into the shadows lingering in the corners of the room. Voldemort sat in silence for a moment, when Bellatrix spoke in a soft, yet steady voice. The dark-haired witch was the only one who could speak with Voldemort without true fear of death. She was his favorite, and all knew it.

"Master, what are your orders?" The Dark Lord stood and turned to the small group of Death Eaters who had come with him to the Transylvanian castle. His face looked expressionless, yet his eyes were filled with malicious desire.

"Aiden Shamshair considers us interesting," he said apathetically, "That is good, very good. You are to look up every single tome, grimoire, scroll and book on Necromancy and bring them to me. And what are you waiting for?" he hissed, "I want them NOW!" All the Death Eaters present flinched and disappperated. Voldemort looked into the crackling flames of the fire.

"There are greater powers, he means the Dark Queen," he spat, "She will aide me. After all, I am darkness, and so is she." His laughter echoed throughout the room bringing dust from the rafters above.

Countries away, it was not Harry Potter who awoke, but his best friend.

Ron Weasley had not seen the plans the Dark Lord had worked on, nor heard his plot with the king of the demon dragons. He had seen darkness, and a woman who radiated shadows with eyes of eternal sadness. His hands were covered in blood that had stained his bedsheets, blood that was (to his relief) red, a natural crimson. It was nearly dawn, the gray hue on the horizon signaling such an early hour. His owl, Pigwidgeon, was mercifully asleep in his rusty cage, feathers constantly ruffling. The tall red head stood with the intent of going to the bathroom and scrubbing the blood from his hands before his mother found out and threw a fit. She was under enough stress as was.

Since Voldemort had made himself publicly known last June, there had been many more muggle attacks, all bearing the Dark Mark hovering over head like the swarms of flies that were attracted to the dead bodies below. Thus, the Order of the Phoenix was working its head off. The Ministry was deploying every single worker with combat training to work things out, his father no exception. It was getting harder and harder to remember his father's face, especially a happy one, since Ron rarely saw him anymore. Molly Weasley was a wreck, dwelling mainly in Grimmauld Place to tidy up the horrible home. Ron and Ginny had no wish to return to the house, not with memories fresh in their minds of a certain animagus. Dumbledore had set up at least a thousand different hexes and spells over the Burrow, including the Fidalus Charm (he being the Secret Keeper). Even so, Mrs. Weasley came by very often to check on her two youngest children, fiddling over the state of the house and their health.

When he passed his sister's bedroom, he looked inside the horridly pink room. Ginny was still fast asleep, her face wet with fresh tears. He didn't need to be a mind reader to know what she was dreaming of, as it had been the only thing on her mind for over a month: the battle at the Department of Mysteries. Ron had tried his best to not think of the horrific event, but found his mind wandered to it whenever he let his guard down. Harry was certainly thinking of it, the dark-haired teen had written no letters to either he or Hermione and only sent them to the Order, which Mrs. Weasley had said, contained the same two sentences each time and nothing more. (I'm fine. Don't worry.) And of course, that only made Mrs. Weasley worry more.

Ron felt strangely off balance as he walked along the hall and down the staircase to the third floor bathroom the family all shared. It was usually a mess, what with having to share it between nine different family members at alternate times. Most of his parent's items had been moved from the large room to Grimmauld Place, all of his older brother's possessions gone. Bill had gotten himself a London apartment, Charlie was still in Romania, Fred and George had bought out rooms above their new joke shop and Percy . . . Percy was still being an arrogant git. In his most recent letter, which had been burned furiously by Ginny, he had said many things that made Ron want to blast him off the family tree.

(You-Know-Who only recently come back, certainly hasn't been back for a year . . . Dolores Umbridge had every right to do what she did . . . Minister under a lot of stress, don't blame him for the situation . . . Stay away from Potter . . .)

It was this last part that made his insides burn. In his elder brother's opinion, Harry was even more unstable because of the stress put upon him and Ron should stay away because he may lash out to relieve that stress.

The hot water felt good against his skin as he scrubbed the blood off his palms. He thought it was just his tired brain playing trick on him, but he thought his hands seemed smaller, the fingers longer . . . Some of the blood had dried very fast and after scrapping off a layer of crimson, he found a very unnerving sight. Dried blood, colored ebony, discolored his freckled skin, mingled with the faint traces of red. He had thought the dream was just that, a bizarre dream due to stress and lack of sleep. (Most of his own dreams had been recounting Harry's blank, horrid face when he told Hermione and Ron about Sirius's death and various scenes from the battle at the department.) But to see actual black blood was . . . it just wasn't right.

Ron glanced up into the mirror hanging over the sink and gave a loud scream that certainly woke Ginny up on the floor above. He heard her fall to the floor with a crash and her voice yell out his name. He didn't really hear her though, more concerned about his appearance.

His hair was streaked with black, the very tips black, giving the slight resemblance of burning charcoal. His entire face shape had change, resembling more a thinner and angular shape, though still recognizable as his own. His nose was shorter and tucked behind one ear was a feather, the raven feather that Khalida woman had placed there. He seemed to have lost an inch or two in height, his eyes were a darker shade of blue and his ears unnaturally pointed, like an elf's. The strangest and most frightening feature he now had were the two large wings that protruded from his back. The feathers were black and silky, the wings tightly folded on either side of his spine, fashioned to either shoulder blade. He cursed through clenched teeth, running both hands through his hair and knocking the feather loose. He didn't care though, but certainly did when the bathroom door was knocked open, revealing Ginny holding both her wand and a muggle baseball bat.

There was a moment's silence as Ginny dropped both her items and stared in shock at her older brother. Knowing she was going to scream, he hurriedly clapped a hand over her mouth and hissed, "Ginny, it's me, Ron!"

"Bloody hell!" she yelled, knocking his hand out of the way, "What the hell happened to you!"

"How should I know?" he hissed, "Mum's going to go mad if she sees me."

"I don't blame her," said Ginny, her face milk white under all the freckles, "You have wings." He groaned and hit his head repeatedly against the wall. Ginny pulled him back by his collar. "Do you want to write the letter, or should I?" she asked, trying and failing to keep a calm voice.

"What letter? To Dumbledore?" Ginny rolled her green eyes, crossing her arms.

"Before we involve the whole Order in this, let's ask a certain friend of yours. After all, in your own words," said the witch, jabbing her finger into Ron's chest, "'Hermione must have read the whole library, why does she need to constantly go back into it?'"

Yes, Hermione probably would know the answer, and it would be better then telling the Order of the Phoenix. Mad-Eye Moody would probably go nuts, proclaiming Ron some sort of demon and his mother would shriek and fuss like crazy. Ron sighed and picked up the fallen feather, twirling it in his hands absent-mindedly. "You write the letter," he finally said and Ginny gave a curt nod, dragging him up to her bedroom.

Ron hated Ginny's room with a passion. The walls were sugar-pink and hidden under posters of the Weird Sisters and various good-looking wizards. Her bed was covered in a patchwork quilt with various colors of pink and pale purple, making him gag. Her school trunk was still neatly packed, in fact everything in the room seemed to be meticulously clean and tidy. Ron supposed it was a girl thing, Hermione was the same way. Ginny sat down at her desk and began to scribble on a piece of parchment before stopping midway.

"Ron, should we tell Harry?" He shook his head.

"Probably wouldn't read the stupid thing. He hasn't replied to any of our letters in a month."

Ginny bit her lip, watching Ron sit on her aged bed, still twirling the raven feather. She had to admit, she liked his new look, though her eyes did not stay long on his face and traveled constantly to his black wings. Those scared her, reminding her of some sort of fallen angel. "We should at least try," she offered and he shrugged.

"Don't hope for a reply. He's still probably eating himself up over Sirius." She sighed and returned to Hermione's letter. It wasn't very long, but it got the message across quite well. Pushing it to the side, she dipped her quill back into the inkwell and began to write a letter to Harry. Her handwriting was much neater this time, something that caught Ron's attention at once. He raised an eyebrow.

"Don't tell me you still fancy Harry." Scarlet blush rose in Ginny's cheeks and she snapped her reply a little too quickly. Ron sniggered, whereas she threw the book perched on her bedside table at him. He caught it with reflexes a little too controlled by his usual standards.

"How on Earth . . .?"

"Just write, Ginny."

She sighed deeply and wrote more to the letter. It was more then an explanation of Ron's predicament, it was a blast from reality to Harry.

(Dear Harry,

I know you probably aren't going to read this letter, but on the off chance that you do, here it is. I hope your feeling okay, we've been really worried about you all summer. I know you say the muggles are treating you okay, but I don't believe it with your behavior. Ron and I'd really like it if you came over to the Burrow this summer, it's just the two of us in the house. Mum and Dad are about to have a nervous breakdown, Bill and Charlie are busy with work, like Fred and George, and Percy hasn't changed. Here her handwriting had gotten a little sloppy at the memory of the spectacled Weasley, but she didn't elaborate any further. Speaking of Ron, something really strange is going on with him. He looks different, and not in a good way.

Harry, we just want you to know its not your fault about Sirius. He was a good man, and he died honorably. None of us really know him as well as you, except Professor Lupin, so we can't help you as much as we would like. Harry, please don't blame yourself. No one else blames you. We'd really like it if you asked Mum to come stay with us, Ron and I really miss you. Hermione might come.

With love,

Ginny.)

The letter finished, she stood and Ron looked up at her. "Where are you going?"

"To get something to eat," she said sarcastically, "To get Pig. Letters won't fly off themselves, you know."

"Don't touch anything in my room!" he yelled after her as she climbed up the circular stairwell to her brother's room.

Ron sighed deeply, examing his still blood covered palms and the feather that was now slick with his own blood. He frowned, looking at the thick liquid coming from the cuts on his hand. His blood was turning darker, now a deep, brandy color instead of the usual brownish-red that was natural. He remembered the dark woman, Khalida, and something in his chest burned. He knew, somehow, that the woman was more then just a figment of his imagination, that she was real and that she had done this to him.

Her sorrowful eyes burnt into his head and he heard her voice echo in the deep regions of his mind. 'Be careful.' Be careful of what? He leaned against the wall, only to fell sharp pain run through his body. He had almost crushed his new wings, which ruffled slightly. Ginny returned, holding onto a struggling Pig with both hands. The small gray owl's eyes were wide and they grew wider still when he laid eyes upon his mater. His body went limp, though he was certainly alive.

"What's wrong with him?"

"I don't know. I think it has something to do with you," replied Ginny, setting Pig down on the desk and attempting to tied both parchment shafts to his leg. It wasn't an easy task, and it was a sloppy job when finished.

"Go to Hermione," said Ginny slowly to the bird, "Then Harry. Remember them?" The owl did nothing but turn its eyes to Ron. He gave a fluttering hoot of happiness and when Ginny released him out the window, he flew off as fast as his small wings could take him.

"I have a feeling we aren't going to like the answer Hermione gives us," said Ginny sagely. Ron's stomach twisted into a knot. He agreed with his younger sister completely.

Hogwarts Castle

Albus Dumbledore, esteemed headmaster of Hogwarts School, looked down upon the resume of his new professor. It was impressive, valedictorian of Sakura Mitsukai's Western Academy of Magical Females, auror of the Japanese Ministry of Magic, top class, recently stepped down, daughter of the ambassador of Japan for the International Confederation of Wizards and the Japanese Minister of Magic. The man's brilliant blue eyes turned to the woman seated in front of him, prim and proper like her upbringing.

She was no a normal woman in appearance. She was an albino, her long white hair cut in an arc whose tips touched her thighs but the middle of the arc brushed her low back, even when some of it was bundle into a knot at the top of her head. Her red eyes were slanted and elegant, the white eyebrows perfectly shaped and her pointed face bringing in a sense of mystery. Her lips were red and small, her build unnaturally tall for a woman and slim, muscular to a certain degree. She was dressed in a kimono made of perfectly white silk, the large ribbon dark blue, like the ribbons that were tied to the bun in her hair. Her wand was perched on her lap and there was a smile on her face.

"Well, Miss. Shirogane, you certainly have an impressive list of accomplishments." She smiled serenely and nodded her head in a small bow. Her voice was soft with a Kansai dialect. "Thank you, Headmaster Dumbledore." He smiled gently.

"Minister Fudge certainly picked well for our new professor." There was a faint hint of disgust in the wizard's voice. Fudge had removed Dolores Jane Umbridge from her post but he had not removed any of the decrees, giving the post of High Inquisitor and all its powers to the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor the minister appointed. It took all of Dumbledore's cunning to get Harry Potter back on his house quidditch team and he didn't dare bring up a finger against the already unstable Fudge. Dumbledore did not dislike Fudge's new professor; in fact she seemed perfectly qualified for the job, if not a little mysterious.

The one thing the old wizard did not like was the bodyguard that followed Shirogane. The tall man with the strangest hair color of pale turquoise (which had been explained as a childhood accident with a misfired charm) was cold and distant, though fiercely loyal to his sister and charge. Dumbledore knew Ryu Shirogane was standing right outside the door, prepared to burst in at the slightest noise of trouble.

Shirogane cleared her throat. "Headmaster Dumbledore, may I ask permission to train your students in combat?" His snowy eyebrows rose and the albino continued. "Both dueling in the magical and muggle sense. It would be foolish to leave them unprepared for an attack by Lord Voldemort, and it would certainly surprise his Death Eaters if they come face to face with a second year with sword fighting skills."

The idea was interesting. "Yes, magical weapons haven't been used for over a thousand years. It would surprise Voldemort. You have my permission, Professor Shirogane."

"Then I will ask Headmistress McGonagall to include a short sword and lance on the supplies list. Do I have permission to leave?"

Dumbledore nodded and the Japanese witch stood and strode from the room, rejoining her brother behind the mahogany door of his office. He certainly had mixed feelings for his new professor. Her ideas were unique, her appearance giving her a mysterious aura and no amount of skill would be able to crack through her mind. She was certainly well trained.

And beautiful, he thought to himself with a smile, as he popped a lemon drop into his mouth.

End of Chapter One: Shades of Yet to Come