Harry Potter and the Butcher of Hogsmeade

by Yagr of Nar

Harry's schooling gets derailed. Dumbledore's manipulations cause great dissatisfaction among his allies. Lucius Malfoy goes on trial. And Snape is forced to act as a babysitter.

20. Chapter 20

Harry lay on the hard stone of the Throne Room, too close to sleep to bother transfiguring any part of the rock into a softer bed. Remus sat next to the boy. A deep concern weighed on the werewolf's features. "Harry...?" Remus said softly, trying to gently draw the boy's mind away from approaching sleep, rather than harshly shocking him back to wakefulness. "I know you want to appear tough in the wake of your victory..."

"Not appear," Harry mumbled through a yawn. "Gotta be tough. Too much too dangerous, y'know?"

"I know you still face a lot of challenges, Harry," Remus said kindly, "but after tonight's victory, all of your challenges are really opportunities to be even more successful. Your most deadly peril has been overcome." Harry scowled, silently urging the werewolf to get to the point. Remus nodded in understanding, met the boy's eyes directly and said, "I don't want you to forget who you are due to the pressure of all of this."

Harry sat up, blinking hard to clear his eyes. "You 'n' Snape both," he whined. "S'like you think we're in an old horror story: 'Don't sleep in the Throne Room, Harry!' What? D'you think old Wassis'Name's gonna come and possess me?"

"Worse," Remus said, and the weight of his worry shocked Harry back to almost full wakefulness. "I'm afraid that - like a lot of young people who suddenly develop tremendous strength - you will find it easier to be a bully than to seek cooperation. You'll realize how easy it will be to force others to obey you rather than try to convince them to..."

With an expression of disbelieving, hurt outrage, Harry bawled out a protest that cut off Remus' calm warning with sheer, shrill volume. "I don't know if you've been paying attention, but the situation we're in is going to take a lot more forcing of a lot more people before we're done with it. What's left in the next room is only the beginning! Do you think Fudge has... has just... given up? Do you think he's going to stand next to me and smile for the news photographers and just... quit, or something? I don't. And do you think Albus Dumbledore is going to give himself a break? Do you think he'll go off and do magic research just because Voldemort is gone? I don't think so. I think he's going to convince himself that I'm his next big enemy. And it won't be because I'm mean. It won't be because of anything I did wrong. It'll be because I have power. I can use magic without my wand. I can make up spells without a lot of research. The point, Remus, is that Albus Dumbledore will think I'm the next 'most dangerous wizard in the world' for no other reason than my magic. Because my magic is as incomprehensible to most wizards as wizards' magic is to most muggles. Dumbledore expected me to die, Remus. He had Neville waiting in his office to come fight when Voldemort defeated me. And I think that he was ready to take me out himself when Voldemort mucked up the opportunity."

In as soothing a tone as he could manage, Remus said, "He had Neville - In Case - you lost, which would have meant that the prophesy had pointed to Longbottom all along. And he went with you to the Minister's office. He didn't try to kill you there, did he?"

"In front of a dozen government officials who would be not only willing, but eager to act as witnesses against him in a murder case? What do you think? And when he came here, I used a spell to keep myself safe." Remus was about to make another point, but Harry wouldn't let him get a word in. "Did you hear me? Albus Dumbledore came here, first. Here, to this complex! How wrong is that, Remus? If he knew where this place was, why didn't he attack it himself? Why didn't he get the Order of the Phoenix to help him? Why... this pisses me off, Remus... why did he wait until I had every chance to get killed before he showed up?"

"Harry," Remus lectured sternly. "The prophesy gave him little choice. He wasn't the one who was going to defeat Voldemort, it was either you or Neville."

"He could have given me a hand!" Harry wailed. "If I was supposed to kill the great Dark Lord, don't you think it might have been nice to have the world's most powerful wizard - the only man Voldemort was ever afraid of - backing me up? Even if I had to deliver the death-blow, wouldn't it make some sense to have somebody with centuries more experience than me do some initial damage? Don't you think I would have had a better chance if I hadn't been alone?"

"No, actually, I don't," Remus countered quietly. "Your power is so highly developed..."

"HE DIDN'T KNOW THAT!" Harry bellowed, nearly in tears. "He hasn't seen what I've learned in the past weeks. He didn't know about any of my original spells. He knew where I was, and he knew what had happened the minute I had gotten the best of Voldemort. He left me in the fight, all alone, to take the worst that Voldemort could dish out. He wanted me dead... or so close to it that he could finish the job."

"What I think," Remus continued, apparently unperturbed by Harry's outburst, "is that Professor Dumbledore was able to extrapolate a lot more than any of the rest of us from what little we all knew before you left Hogwarts. I think he knew what you were capable of from the moment those four ridiculous broom riders attacked you out behind the Herbology greenhouses. What you have to remember, Harry, is that Albus Dumbledore has become very manipulative, and unfortunately quite dependent on being in control of everything at all times. And, he has become quite insistent about being regarded as the world's foremost authority on everything magical. But despite his several flaws, I truly believe that Albus Dumbledore is the single most perceptive user of magic in the entire world. And I include you in that assessment. You have great power, and a tremendous natural ability that may lead to any number of advances to benefit all of wizardkind. But Albus has made himself great through learning, through research and through a relentless striving for understanding. If the man would only commit himself to full-time study, even at his advanced age, he could develop such wonders as I cannot imagine."

"I told him," Harry groused. "He didn't act very interested."

Remus smiled gently. "Perhaps it will take a while for Professor Dumbledore to realize that his long war against Voldemort is finally over. He may be more reasonable once the fact of his old enemy's absence has had a chance to sink in."

"Right," Harry snorted sourly. He lay back down, trying to ignore the unyielding stone beneath him. "Sleep now. Got to start early tomorrow. Got a lot to..." Harry's voice trailed off, and he was asleep.

Remus watched the boy for several minutes before trying to find sleep himself. There was a lot to worry about, much of it centered around Harry's plan to use the Death Eaters as his own private army rather than turning them over to the aurors to be imprisoned for their crimes. Lupin worried about Harry's callous attitude toward his captives, especially the way he had joked about the ones still bound by his spell. As psychologically damaging as it may have been, Remus would have preferred Harry to have simply killed them all, rather than trying to bind them to him with oaths. There was far too much to go wrong with such a plan, and too little to be gained from it. But Remus had a great deal of faith in this cub's ability. And he had a great deal of love for the boy himself. As Harry lay on the stone, asleep, he looked so vulnerable that Remus wished he had a blanket to spread over him, a pillow to put beneath his head. But Harry had chosen to lie on the hard stone, possibly to remind himself of how hard his life would be in the next few weeks. Remus lay quietly and tried to relax enough to allow himself to fall asleep.

-

The silent listener tapped the Ear's receiver thoughtfully, stroking his beard with his other hand. When he was reasonably sure there would be no further conversation to be overheard that night, he stood, twisting and stretching to relieve muscles made sore by hunching over the receiver, tense and unmoving for so long. He descended his spiral staircase and made his way to the office of the Assistant Headmistress. The office was, as he had expected, brightly lit. He walked in and sat in one of the hard wooden chairs across the desk from the Headmistress.

"Well?" Minerva McGonagal prompted after he had sat there silently for a long moment.

Albus smiled at her with eyes twinkling. As he contemplated her serious expression, the mischeviousness in his face died away. "Minerva... do you think I have become... power mad?"

McGonagal pursed her lips and tilted her head slightly, studying him. "That's not quite the question you meant to ask, is it?" Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. McGonagal shook her head slowly, once. "You are probably trying to paraphrase something one of the Order said to you." Albus continued to look questioningly at her. Minerva took a deep breath as though preparing to deliver a long lecture, then sighed it all out again. She thought a moment, then said, "Albus... you've just gotten to be so pissy lately." Dumbledore's reaction showed that this was not what he had been expecting at all. Minerva looked at him as sternly as if he were a student brought to her for misbehaving. "Don't pretend innocence," she snapped. "You used to direct - whether you were directing the school or directing the Order - with big ideas, broad instructions and general directives. You gave your people - whether they were your teachers or those fighting against dark wizards - the freedom to improvise, to do as they saw fit. You trusted people more. But in the last few years... especially since Lily and James Potter were killed, now that I think of it... you've become more restrictive in your instructions, and less willing to allow those who answer to you to use their own heads. You've become less trusting of people, and more controlling. And in your position, that is a weakness. As a leader of a broad-based coalition of many different factions, you have to be able to provide the big ideas, the broad directions, the great overview. If you are trying to lead the Wizengamut, the education of our next generation, or a group as volatile and varied as the Order, you can't pretend to be able to manage each participant's every step. In the Wizengamut, you're leading the entire wizarding world, Albus. There is no way for you to dictate every member nation's policies and procedures. But you have tried. And you have been increasingly marginalized for your trouble. When you became the world's strongest opponent to Voldemort, you convinced - not only our own people - but several different species to become your allies. I shouldn't have to remind you that, for example, centaurs are not tolerant of humans in general. But they respected you because you stood opposed to a great evil that they despised as much as you did. Goblins, to cite another case, care little for the welfare of humans, except as it relates to wealth that goblin banks can manipulate. But Gringott's wanted to stand with you, because you stood against the threat of Voldemort's war - which would have had a negative impact on world economy, and which would have presented a threat to the very lives of the goblins themselves, Death Eaters being such racists as they are. I think you have forgotten that these different factions had to come to you... and that you had to convince them to do so... and that you had to continue to appeal to them to keep them on your side. Consequently, their attitudes toward you have changed. When was the last time you talked with a centaur?"

The question surprised Dumbledore. He began to answer, stopped, thought a bit, and finally replied, "I have made sure that the Forbidden Forest has remained for their..."

"Pfft." The derisive sound stopped Dumbledore's defense instantly. "You don't have to defend yourself to me. Though the manner in which you started to do so shows how much you've forgotten about centaur politics." Minerva skewered the Headmaster with a glare. "What did you say? Oh, yes: 'You've' made sure," McGonagal crowed in mockery. "Oh, certainly, 'You' have. In your own mind, that is doubtless true. To the centaurs, the Forbidden Forest is theirs, and it is the centaurs who have made sure that it has stayed that way. They still feel resentful over losing the great woods that once covered all of Britain. And they're more than a bit dissatisfied that they have to stay cooped up in the tiny patch of trees that we call 'Forbidden.' But as far as you claiming that you kept the Forest for them... there's not a half-horse living that wouldn't bat you to the ground for saying that. You used to know that. And I'm afraid that you've forgotten it."

"Why now?" Albus attempted to maintain a neutral expression, but to someone who had known him as long and as well as Minerva, his hurt was easily apparent. "Why, if I have been deteriorating in place for the past seventeen years, do you wait until now to mention anything?"

"One," Minerva responded primly, "We have finally reached a point at which we will be able to catch our breath for the first time in a long time. Why? Because one of two things has happened. Either we have destroyed the threat of the Death Eaters for good, or we will finally be able to fight them out in the open. Two," she added archly, "you're keeping me in suspense, and I won't stand for it any longer. Which is it, Albus? Are we going to war this morning or not?"

"Eh?" Dumbledore was caught completely unaware. He suddenly realized that he had not related any of the night's most important events to his best friend and closest ally. Face flushing with embarrassment, he announced, "The night has gone quite in our favor. Voldemort has been defeated, the Death Eaters have been bound magically and Harry Potter is slaughtering them one by one."

"What?" Minerva demanded, outraged. "You left a boy to kill an entire army one person at a time? Alone? What do you imagine that might do to him?"

"I don't think I had any choice," Albus admitted, shame coloring his expression. "The boy doesn't even bother to use a wand at all, any more. He froze me with a glance, stopped time all around us with a gesture, cast a number of spells that I have never before seen, and instructed me that I was to endorse his candidacy for Minister of Magic. Then he allowed me to leave. I truly do not believe I could have apparated away without his consent."

Minerva appraised the man shrewdly. "But all that's not what's bothering you."

Albus nodded, his smile returned and his eyes resumed twinkling. "The boy suggested something. I heard the same thing from another source. And you have presented supporting evidence for it tonight. Harry... and some others... think I should retire. Find a nice place to live and do magic research... in private."

As gently as she could, Minerva said, "The boy's right, Albus. You've done what you needed to do since the last war. But if, as you say, Voldemort is defeated, then everything is different. Hogwarts no longer has to be the world's great fortress against the Dark Lord. Some of the wards can come down, we can have a decent floo system installed, and staff will - finally - have freedom to apparate on our grounds. The Order can be put back to rest. There will be no reason to have a secret society of warriors ready to take to the field to battle Voldemort. There will be other bad men, and other bad women as well, but until one of them becomes a threat of the magnitude of old Tom Riddle, the standard ways of dealing with them shall suffice. Aurors and concerned citizens working together will keep our world safe enough. And when a crisis does arise, the traditions of the Order will always be there, for someone else to follow. The Wizengamut? You've left your stamp on that body. Let them remember your great ideas, and leave before they ask you to go. I'll need to stay here for a few more years, to oversee the transformation of Hogwarts into a school that serves peacetime as well as it served our long cold war. But then, I believe it might be quite rewarding to spend some time with Albus Dumbledore the magic scholar and the man, and let Albus Dumbledore the Leader of the Free World become the legend he should be."

Dumbledore's smile was still in place, and his eyes still twinkled, but his face looked unmistakably worried as he cautioned, "I haven't yet decided that I am going to retire, Minerva."

"Piffle," she responded dismissively. "You only came in here to break the news to me. You were so intent on explaining the how and why of it that you weren't even going to tell me we had beaten Voldemort!"

-

Harry awakened early on Halloween morning. He groaned as he struggled to stand. As sleepy as he had been last night, the stone floor had not made a relaxing bed. To Harry's surprise, both Snape and Remus were up and waiting for him.

"About time," Snape drawled. "Are you ready to finish last night's work?"

"Ready," Harry said tersely. He removed the magical lock from the revel room's antechamber in which he had confined all of the Death Eaters who had sworn allegiance to him last night. He squared his shoulders, put a determined look on his face, threw the door wide, walked in... and stopped in his tracks. "What the Hell is this?"

There were four half-dissolved bodies scattered around the room. Among those surviving, one was counting backward, near ten thousand when Harry first heard him, one was tunelessly reciting the lyrics to songs Harry had heard while still living with his aunt and uncle, and one was sitting on the ground, rocking back and forth, fingers pressed to his temples, chanting "Calm blue ocean, Calm blue ocean," over and over.

A pretty witch presented herself to Harry. She seemed unsure of what was expected, as she attempted to bow, curtsy and salute all at once. She was young, only about thirty years old, with long, straight dark brown hair and immense, brilliant blue eyes. She had a trim, athletic figure, and wore just enough that her appearance would be legal at a bathing beach. Harry could guess why the ex-Death Eaters had chosen her as their spokesperson. Remembering his lessons with Narcissa, Harry met the witch's eyes, then allowed his focus to center on the bridge of her nose. "Yes?" he prompted.

"We lost four last night," the witch reported. The first just screamed and... uh... dissolved. The second one we reached before he died, but we got no information from him. The next two... uh... a woman and a man, third and fourth, respectively... were able to say something. They told us... um... they told us that they had thought something bad about you. Not a plan to hurt you. Not like they were going to go try to find you as you rested, but... uh... just a bad thought. And that... that... that violated their oath. And they died... that way. We all panicked. We started thinking about anything else just so we wouldn't think of you at all, and... uh... nobody slept. We couldn't chance having a bad dream, and... and... you know... dying. Like that. So we all started doing arithmetic in our heads, or saying poems or... or..." She fell to her knees. "Please, Mister Potter! I'm loyal. I won't hurt you. I'll do what I'm told. But, Please! I don't want to boil into goo and cough up my lungs because I get annoyed... or... or... because I have a stray thought. I watched all those people die last night and I knew... I could be next... we could all be next. Help us, Mister Potter! Please!"

Harry looked over the group gathered in the room. Several were still mumbling to themselves, desperately trying to keep their minds blank. Harry watched for a while, then shouted, "Shut UP! Get over here. I need to speak with you all."

The entire group were on their feet, standing at attention, facing Harry in a second. They fell absolutely silent as soon as the shuffling of their feet had ceased.

"I have just been informed that four of your number died last night."

The ex-Death Eaters didn't know what to do. Stark terror showed on a number of faces. The new Master had not asked a question, but he was clearly waiting for a response. What would be an acceptable response to give? Shouting 'Yes, Sir!' would merely be confirming what he had already told them. Would that be insulting to him? Adding further information might be considered speaking out of turn. Would that result in a horrible death for whoever spoke?

Harry waited, watching the people before him fidget. Once it had become clear that no one had anything to add, he said, "Their deaths were consistent with the Curse of Oath-Breaking."

A general shudder passed through the crowd. No one wanted to say anything about the deaths, or about their feelings regarding the Oath-Breaking Curse.

Harry snarled at the group, "I have been asked to offer some assistance to all of you to help you survive any bad thoughts you might have while sworn to my service."

Looks of wild hope lit faces throughout the room.

"Let's all take a short quiz, shall we?"

The optimistic looks faded quickly.

"HOW MANY OF YOU HELPED THE MAN HUNG ON THAT RACK IN THE REVEL ROOM?"

The ex-Death Eaters looked at one another. Was that a trick question?

"Right. None of you. So: How many of you helped the other prisoners to escape?"

The people closest to Harry stood literally quivering, driven by a deep, visceral urge to be far away from this madman, yet knowing that should they try to flee, they would probably die as Oath-breakers.

"Not a one," Harry ranted on. "Then tell me this: How many of you helped every man, woman and child in the UK by standing up to Voldemort and fighting against the attacks that were to have started today?"

The entire roomful of people stared at the boy dumfounded. Had he forgotten who they were?

"A different subject, then. Did any of you actually think that serving me would be easy? Did you believe that service to me might be as simple as service to Voldemort, who demanded no more than an occasional 'Yes, Master,' while all the time letting you live as you wished, think as you wished, and fight amongst yourselves as you wished? You are all my prisoners. I could have killed the lot of you last night, as you're tempting me to do right now. If you agree to serve me, you will be doing so to make amends for crimes committed, and apologize for crimes you were about to commit. You are all guilty. There's no question about that. And if you are in service to me, you will help to cure some of the hurt you've caused - or you'll die coughing blood with your skin sizzling off of you!"

Harry's raving was too much for one wizard, a vigorous-looking man of about one hundred years. He stepped forward, his long hair and beard streaming behind him, and shouted, "Bollocks, youaaaaauuuuugh!" He fell to the ground.

Harry stood silently as the wizard died, then grimly announced, "I gave you a choice last night. Some of you were not listening. I will repeat that choice for you right now. Listen this time. Either you renounce Voldemort and all his teachings; renounce your own history as a Death Eater and all plans for taking over the wizarding world by force - AND SERVE ME... That's one choice. Or, die. That is your only other choice. If you SERVE ME, you will be working to undo everything that any Death Eater has been able to do since Tom Riddle changed his name to Lord Voldemort. You will be helping the families of your victims. You will be helping magic-using children of muggles to acclimate to our world..."

Another scream signalled the death of one more member of Harry Potter's Army. Harry waited for the hissing of the traitor's dissolving skin to subside.

"You will be helping remove the taint of the pure-blood cult from our wizarding government. You will be helping to teach everyone everywhere that Voldemort was a weak, sick, deluded, pathetic..."

Another scream, another death. But this time, a chain reaction threatened. As the screaming faded, someone shouted "That's Geoff! He's killed Geoff! Geoffreeeeeaaaahg!"

Another voice, "You bastaaaaaaaarrrrrrrr!"

And then, panic.

"We're all going to dieeeeeeeee!"

"Kill him while we caaaaaaaaaa!"

"Run! Apparate! Fleeeeeeeee!"

Harry threw his arms wide. "Stop!" he bellowed. He waited for the hissing from the last six deaths to fade away. Then he angrily addressed the frozen people before him. "You don't have to do that. You don't have to suffer and burn. You could simply say, 'Kill me,' and I could do that for you, quickly and painlessly. Or - if you think you can raise yourself above this disgusting cesspool of hatred you've all been living in - you can choose to serve me. But if you do, you will have to actually serve me. And I am absolutely one hundred eighty degrees opposite to Voldemort and all that he stood for. If you hated Voldemort, if you felt trapped as a Death Eater, if you were being forced to participate... maybe... just maybe... you have a chance to survive your service and earn yourself the right to a life. IF YOU BELIEVE VOLDEMORT'S CRAP, THOUGH... If you think you were right, if you yearn for a return of the Death Eaters... You will probably die the minute you fall asleep and have a pleasant dream of roasting me over an open fire. Please, save yourself the agony. Say the word. I'll kill you now. Ready?"

Harry stepped to within inches of the closest frozen wizard. "You," he said, pointing his index finger and releasing that man from the Stop spell.

The wizard met Harry's eyes evenly. Solemnly, he spoke. "Voldemort knew the truth. You are doomed. Kill me." Harry nodded, and the man crumpled to the ground.

Harry next released the witch who had first spoken to him that morning. She was near tears, and her eyes were wild with fear. "Please Mister Potter, understand that all of us have spent a long time being conditioned to respond in the way Voldemort wished us to. We were trained with torture, we were indoctrinated by our peers, we were..."

"Did you hate him?" Harry demanded.

The witch's reply was barely audible. "No."

"Did you fear him?"

"Yes."

"Did you wish to escape his service?"

"Sometimes."

Harry scowled at the witch, angry with her and annoyed at himself. He knew he had been taken in by the very thing he had promised himself he would not fall for, her undeniable attractiveness. Despite himself, as he looked at the woman, he felt that it would be a waste to kill her. But then, as he fumed over how easily he could be influenced by appearance, he reflected that it would be an even worse waste to kill all of his sworn Army. His plans would be set back, and some of his strategies would not work at all without these extra bodies laboring on his behalf. Still, the fact remained that the witch had taken the Oath, as had all of them in the room. If she betrayed him, she would die. Any one of them who betrayed him would die. And he wasn't about to remove the curses that enforced the power of the Oath from that attractive witch, or from anyone else who had sworn allegiance to him. To do so would be signing his own death warrant. Instead, he would have to insist on absolute loyalty from any of these people he allowed to live. And they would have to be aware that the powerful Curses of the Oath remained within them, enforcing their obedience. Knowing that all of the Stopped ex-Death Eaters could hear him, he lectured the witch. "If you were afraid of Voldemort, and wished to escape from him 'sometimes,' then this is your chance. Choose to serve me. Serve me well and you need have no fear of violating your Oath. But if you hate me, or wish me ill, or yearn for Voldemort's return, choose to die now, instantly and painlessly. Only you can tell me what you really feel. Only you can make your choice."

The witch bowed her head. "I will serve."

"Good. Then go stand against that wall. This may take a while."

By the time Harry had finished going through the process of interviewing each ex-Death Eater, his Army's effective force had been cut precipitously. Some of those he had released from Stop had attacked him. Some had attempted to apparate away. One particularly creative wizard had leapt toward Remus, driving powerful fists toward the werewolf's head, attempting to circumvent the Oath-Curse by attacking Potter indirectly. None of those individuals survived their attempts. Many others assured Harry that his cause was doomed. They all died instantly. After the last choice had been made, there were forty-eight members of Harry Potter's Army left alive, with only two hundred more Death Eaters to release from their bindings in the revel room. Harry removed the magical lock and the entry-proof seal from that room. "Come on, everyone. Let's get this job done."

The following unbinding was a disaster. Several Death Eaters had gone completely mad while in the Bindimus wrappings. They came out of their cocoons shrieking, attacking whatever target presented itself first. After being assaulted upon releasing several Death Eaters in a row, Harry thought that putting his prisoners' former companions close by might help. He reasoned that, when they saw familiar faces, the newly-released witches and wizards would pause before attacking. That hope was in vain. It was not only claustrophobia that had made the Death Eaters so crazy. Many of them recognized Harry and responded with pure hatred. Some, to judge by their ravings before they were cut down, had been assigned to an elite group whose purpose was to kill Harry Potter that very day. Seeing that their intended victim had become their captor enraged these people beyond reason. When the last of the bound Death Eaters had been released and sworn in to Harry's service, one hundred forty seven of the last batch lay dead. Harry surveyed the room, sickened by the carnage. He gathered the living at one end of the revel room and addressed them.

"I need a break and you need a break. None of us is going to be that lucky. There is far too much to do. Remus! Go to Saint Mungo's. See how many of last night's victims can be at the Ministry in about an hour. Professor Snape! Go to the Daily Prophet. Tell them that I will be presenting the defeated Death Eaters at a press conference outside of the Ministry in about an hour. You people! How many of you were personally involved with torturing victims last night. Be honest! I need to know which of you will be identifiable to anyone who comes to see us after getting out of the hospital. How many of you were in on the torture?

About half of the group held up their hands. Harry groaned. He hadn't really expected better results than this, but he had hoped. "All right, just you people. How many of you wore your masks the entire time you were tormenting your captives?"

There were two. "Put your hands down. You're in the safe group. We'll take a chance, and bet you won't be recognized. The rest of you! Who among you tortured only muggles? Be damn sure you're right before you answer! I don't want someone pointing you out at my press conference, understand? Now: How many only tortured muggles?"

A dozen were certain enough to make the claim. "All right. Those of you that are safe to appear in public - here's the story: You were helping me to defeat Voldemort and the Death Eaters. Got that? You were on my side all along. This is important: I recruited you. I organized you. I gave you your orders. I coordinated the attack. Understand? You were on my side, but it was my plan all along, and you were following me. Right?"

Harry looked over the group, and what he saw did not inspire much confidence. Like an elementary school teacher, he put the question to the entire bunch, voice lilting in a sing-song pattern. "How did you happen to be attacking the Death Eaters?"

The group was not particularly coordinated. Each of their answers was different, but they all boiled down to some variation of "Harry Potter recruited us and led the attack." Harry sighed, nodded and said, "That's good. Please, don't forget that. Answer as few questions as possible, but please - if a reporter asks you what happened, you answer just like that. I recruited you, and led the attack. Don't get clever! If they want to know how we knew where to go or when to strike, just say, 'Harry knew.' That's the answer to everything for today."

An old witch with pure white hair croaked out a one-word question. "Why?"

Most of the group drew away from her in horror, waiting for her to suffer the ravages of the Curse. Harry did not want his troops immobilized with fear. He wanted them deathly afraid of betraying him. He immediately praised her. "Good question! Good thinking! We need that. The reason is this: You are all going to be working for me. I need people who can work in public, who don't have to hide their faces. I need people who can be seen as allies of the hero of the day, and I need people everywhere to think that I am that hero. I want to show the skeptics that I can organize, that I can lead. I want to make it look as though I were much better prepared than is actually the case. You people are going to help me do all of that. By saying that I recruited you, you show that I was planning ahead. By saying that you followed my direction, you show that I can organize and lead. This is important, people. We are going to do some very important things within the next week or so, and you are all going to be a part of it. If you all do your parts properly, I will be Minister of Magic after the election to be held four days from now. How's that for taking over the country? Your old group wanted to fight and destroy and ruin whatever authority existed. We're going to take it over and use it for ourselves!"

Harry had doubted whether it would have been possible to get any real response from this bunch out of such an obvious, quiddich-coach style pep talk. But to his astonishment, Harry Potter's Army cheered. Harry wondered whether these people could have been recruited by anyone who had offered them the least amount of encouragement. He wondered if Voldemort might have been left without followers at all if anyone else had made any overtures to those who ended up as the Dark Lord's followers. Then he looked at the pile of dead bodies and remembered how many had chosen death rather than joining with the boy who had killed their Master. Harry decided that Voldemort would have had his followers, even if he had been denied the minority who were gathered here, still living.

"On my way," Snape reported disgustedly. With a loud report, the potions professor was gone. Harry could tell that the spectacle of Harry Potter's Army did not sit well with Severus at all.

"I'd better go, too," Remus said, looking sadly at the gathered Army. Remus disapproved as well, and Harry began to wonder whether he would ever enjoy the full support of his greatest allies again. With a bang, Remus was gone and Harry considered his troops.

"What do you people have to wear?" After the excesses of last night's revel, the group didn't have an unscarred robe amongst them. Some were nude, some wore strips of cloth that may have once been undergarments, and the few scraps that were recognizable as the remnants of robes were shredded to the point that most looked more like a fringed collar than a robe. "Right, then. Line up!" Harry announced, and one by one, he transfigured whatever bits of cloth he had available into presentable robes. Once the group was clothed, he told them, "Those of you that I called the Safe Group - get over by that pile of bodies. How many of you know where the Ministry office is?" Most of them did. "How many can apparate there on your own?" Most claimed they could. "When I signal you, apparate together so we arrive as a group. You people who are in danger of being identified - you stay here. Your job will be to clean these two rooms - the revel room and the antechamber beyond."

"We have no wands," protested one wizard.

"No, you don't," Harry agreed. "But Wormtail had some standard cleaning implements here. You will find them, and you will put them to work."

"While we're working... if we find our wands...?" another wizard called from the back of the group.

"Good question!" Harry called back. "Good thinking! That's the way to keep yourself and your friends alive. Don't claim your wands. Don't try to use them. Put them in a pile, so that those who earn wand privileges may be able to get them at the proper time. No spells. Just scrubbing. Right! Everyone who doesn't know how to apparate to the Ministry, stand by the bodies. Everyone else, apparate on my signal."

"It's not been an hour since you sent for the press," protested a witch.

"And that means we'll be able to set the scene to our liking rather than being surprised by the paparazzi. Besides, I think you'll find the news services will respond quite readily to a potential story such as this one. So we go now, and greet them as they arrive. Ready? Steady. Go!" Harry rolled a glistening sphere around in his hand, squeezed hard, and he, along with the bodies of the executed Death Eaters, the remnants of those who had died from the Oath Curse, and those who had needed help apparating to the Ministry all disappeared. With an uncoordinated series of bangs, the others who were going disappeared.

"Flobberworm vomit!" Exclaimed one of the wizards who had been left behind.

"What, there on the floor?" the white-haired old witch asked with exaggerated sweetness.

"No, not... I hate cleaning!" the same wizard groused. The group looked at one another in surprise. They had complained, but had not been Cursed for it. Perhaps there would be hope for them after all.

-

Harry and his crew appeared in front of the Ministry building and immediately drew attention. The sound of Harry's apparation with all that he carried in tow was tremendous. Some people in the Ministry thought that the building was being attacked with explosive shells. The rapid succession of explosive sounds which followed as the other members of Harry's Army apparated onto the scene only reinforced that impression. A team of aurors was at the Ministry entrance in seconds, and select members of that squad went out to investigate the disturbance immediately thereafter. What they found was astounding.

Standing proudly in the square immediately in front of the Ministry building was Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, surrounded by a worshipful group of witches and wizards. In front of that assemblage was a pile of bodies, and a particularly grisly collection of partially dissolved bones and flesh that appeared to be human remains.

Before the aurors could interrogate the boy or his followers, or even investigate the appearance of so many corpses directly in front of the entrance to the Ministry, other wizards and witches began apparating onto the scene. Some of the aurors recognized some of the newcomers from last night's interviews at Saint Mungo's. These people claimed to have been kidnapped by Voldemort's followers and subjected to a bizarre ritual involving torture and various forms of abuse. Before the aurors could react to the former victims' presence, they began searching the piles of dead, looking for faces they recognized. When one of them identified someone, the finder would call out to his or her companions for confirmation.

The aurors split up and began to question those people with whom they had spoken the previous night. Harry found the leader of the group, and immediately took control of their meeting, introducing himself, asking the auror to send someone to fetch MInister Fudge, and warning the man that there was about to be a press conference on this very spot at any minute.

The lead auror was not at all impressed. "Listen to me, Sunny Jim," he lectured, putting on his toughest demeanor. "You don't come waltzing into the Ministry with this many dead people and expect an unconditional welcome."

"You do if the dead people are Voldemort's Death Eaters who were planning to attack the entire country this morning, have our nation crippled and reeling by this afternoon, and accomplish their violent takeover by this evening. If you doubt me, ask those people. They suffered kidnapping and all kinds of suffering at the hands of those who lie dead here. I saved them. I sent them to the hospital. Go on, ask them. They'll tell you. Last night was the warm up, today was to be the main event. We were all supposed to be dead by now. Instead, they are. I ask you, which would you prefer?"

The auror was, in keeping with his professional traditions, quite skeptical. "Where's Voldemort in all this, then?"

"There's not enough of him to present to you," Harry said apologetically. "I wish there had been. But these people saw the battle - if you could call it that. I beat him pretty conclusively. And more quickly than you might imagine. He's gone. And some of his worst followers wound up..." Harry pointed toward one of the Curse-destroyed corpses. "... Like that. Still, I think you professionals should have no problem identifying them all. So I brought them here for you to have a look at. Oh! Look! Here's the press." Harry smiled and waved, and a gaggle of reporters and their attendant photographers rushed toward him. The auror to whom Harry had been speaking decided to take the boy's advice and interview some of the supposed victims of last night's alleged debauchery. To his surprise, the story the victims told matched the boy's tale precisely. When next he checked on the boy, Harry was smiling for the cameras and boasting shamelessly for the news writers.

"... brought them here so everyone could see. So there would be no doubt," the boy was crowing. "Yes, I believe the Minister will be here shortly. Oh! Here's a man who knows the official side of this investigation." Harry motioned to the auror, and indicated the man to the media representatives. "Can you confirm that these are, in fact, the Death Eaters that held the nation in a grip of fear for so long?" Harry shouted, his mischievous grin showing that he was quite aware of the kind of unfair, leading, Daily-Prophet style question he had just asked.

The auror glared at the boy. "I can't, and you know that. You have only just shown up. We haven't even had the chance to examine these bodies. We've barely begun to interview their alleged victims."

There was something about the word 'alleged,' mused the auror, that made sensational journalists flee the scene and begin looking for a new angle. The reporters had abandoned him and were mobbing last night's victims before the auror could even take another breath.

"Yes, that one beat me," swore one victim. "He's the one who cut me repeatedly. If it hadn't been for the staff at Saint Mungo's," shouted another. "These people. This bunch right here! They're all perverts. And they used me as furniture!" testified a third. Soon the cascade of testimony overwhelmed all attempts to make sense of it, as reporters took a break and left the photographers to capture images of angry faces and fingers pointed accusingly.

At one of the rare moments when all of those talking took a breath at the same time, one reporter - who had positioned himself right behind Harry, waiting for this very opportunity - called out, "Is this the man that saved you?"

A chorus of assent swelled quickly and soon developed into a series of praises for Harry. Though he didn't know it yet, Harry's next great public appellation had just been coined. Which was just as well. 'The Boy Who Lived' may have been widely recognizable, but 'The Man Who Saved You' was a much more appropriate identifier for someone who was about to run for the highest public office in the government of wizarding Britain.

One of the reporters slapped his photographer on the shoulder and barked, "There's the Chief of Staff." Leaving his partner to capture images on his own, the reporter rushed to meet Mister Constantine, and standing directly in the man's path, said, "Hi, Deckard! Is Minister Fudge going to be making a statement?"

Constantine laughed out loud. "Well, hello, Frank," he responded jovially. "Nice to see you too. Just fine, and yours?" He quickly sidestepped the reporter and continued toward Harry.

"Come on, Deck," the reporter pleaded. "The more content of Fudge's statement I can get from you, the more I'll be able to concentrate on the nuances of the Minister's speech when he delivers it. You know what the man is going to say - you probably wrote it for him, so..."

Frank practically ran directly into Deckard as the Chief of Staff halted suddenly, turned to face the gathered journalists, and spoke. "If you have heard any of Minister Fudge's recent speeches... or, if you have read his political advertisements - you do read the ads in your own papers, don't you? Good. Well, you must be aware that the Minister holds Harry Potter in the highest regard. In fact, when Harry was out of public view for a while, apparently cooking up this impressive showing, as it seems, the Minister was so worried about him that he made Harry Potter the main topic... it seemed on several occasions to be the only topic... of his public addresses. The Minister has been very concerned for Harry, and has the greatest respect for him..."

Minister Fudge himself came bustling out of the Ministry building, rushing to arrive before his Chief had said too much. As soon as he was sure that he was within earshot of the gathered reporters, he began speaking, deliberately trying to drown out Deckard's stream of praise for Potter. "Which is only right and proper. And may I say that it is gratifying and a tremendous relief to see Mister Potter alive and well and among us once again. Not that we should take all of this too far, you understand. I don't think I have to remind you that we are holding elections in only four more days, and..."

The reporters turned away from the Minister as though the group of them together shared a like magnetic charge with him... and Harry was charged to attract them. "Are you running for office, Mister Potter?" asked dozens of voices at once.

"Yes, I am," Harry said, relieved that he could finally make the announcement. "I am running for Minister of Magic. And I believe that Minister Fudge has an endorsement he would like to make!"

-

Cornelius Fudge was far too experienced to be taken advantage of merely by being put on the spot. His reaction was schooled by long years of experience: he changed the subject. "This is quite a... mess... you have placed at the entrance to our government's offices, Harry. Which one is Voldemort?"

"Here is his chief lieutenant," Harry said, holding out Rudolfos' head in a pose so obviously modeled on the classical statues of Perseus displaying the head of Medusa that the photographers needed no time to decide how to properly photograph him. Fudge grimaced as he stared at Rudolfos' lifeless face. Not in sympathy, certainly, and no only because of the dead man's grotesque appearance. He was thinking about last night's meeting with Harry and Dumbledore, and he was worried.

Once the shutters had clicked, one of the reporters shouted out, "Chief Lieutenant? What about Malfoy?"

"There's something wrong with the State's case against him," Harry said, and looked over the reporters as though waiting for them to figure it out for themselves. When none of them offered any explanation, Harry provided it for them. "Lucius is a violent criminal. There is plenty of evidence to prove that he has been involved in many assaults as well as a number of premeditated murders. These are capital crimes, and deserve serious punishment. But as for the Malfoy fortune being the main support for the Death Eaters' activities, this assemblage shows two serious problems with that supposition: One, nearly every one of the Death Eaters who died in battle last night were either wealthy or well-off. None of them was poor. This was not a peasants' revolt. This was a revolution of, by and for the aristocracy. Any one of them could have met the modest funding needs of the Death Eaters' organization. And two, the accusations don't fit the personalities involved. For all his wealth, Lucius was infamously pecunious. If a contribution were demanded of him, backed up by the threat of death should he fail to contribute, I'll admit that he would have complied... but only after serious consideration." Harry let some of the tension in the atmosphere dissipate by allowing his audience to laugh at that. Then, immediately becoming serious once again, he continued, "And all of our best intelligence shows that Voldemort was so demanding of his followers that no rich man could have remained in his service without giving 'til it hurt. The allegation that it was the Malfoy fortune which funded Voldemort's operations..." Harry took a long breath and forced himself to remain calm as the crowd of listeners gasped and drew away from the pronunciation of the dreaded name. "... The allegation that all of that was accomplished by Malfoy money is ludicrous. It simply doesn't hold up under serious scrutiny."

Fudge insinuated himself into Harry's space. Condescendingly, he explained, for the reporters' benefit, "Now, lad, you're wandering into subjects with which you are completely unfamiliar. Your ignorance will betray you if you continue in this way."

"On the contrary, Cornelius," Harry countered, quite confident and clearly at ease. "I have had to become quite conversant with the Death Eaters' operations in order to have thwarted their major attacks - which were to have started this very morning. While it was you, Minister, who remained ignorant of the danger which threatened us all, and, consequently, did nothing about it." Harry smiled broadly at the photographers, sparing only a glance for the Minister, as if to say that the man was beneath his notice.

"I caution you, Mister Potter," Cornelius said, clearly stung by the boy's criticism. "There is a very complex legal case being decided even as we speak which deals with Lucius Malfoy's material support for the Death Eater cause. It would be quite inappropriate for you to pontificate on matters which have been thoroughly discussed in a court of law before that court has given us the benefit of their expertise."

"Speaking of anticipating the court," Harry added, unperturbed by the Minister's warning tone, "The proceeds from the liquidation of the Malfoy fortune were allocated to the various governmental Departments via budgetary directions issued by the Minister's office before the case even went to trial. How do you account for that, Minister? Did you simply decide that the accused was guilty enough in your own mind that stripping his family of their worldly goods was acceptable behavior?"

"Hah!" Fudge crowed triumphantly. "Budgetary directions are always speculative and conditional upon acquisition of funds. We're government, Son, not some deep-pocketed business! We have to work more closely to the bone, and manage our people's money with great care!"

"Ah," Harry said, in a broad mockery of realization. "That's why you threw the Malfoy family out of their home, threatened them with a felony charge should they remove any of their own possessions and sent teams of catalogers in to tote up the value of every item."

"What's all this about Malfoys?" Fudge blustered. "You come here claiming to have defeated... eh... You Know Who. You can't produce any evidence that you have even fought with the man, but you pile dead bodies here in the very doorway of the government offices, pose for the photographers with a grisly severed head and then rattle on about Malfoys! What are you playing at, Boy?"

"I'm fighting injustice," Harry announced to the crowd, providing a striking profile for the photographers to capture. "I did fight Voldemort... and the evidence stands all around you - these are people who were kidnapped and tortured by the very people who had planned to attack all of us today. They saw the fight - and they know I won it by the simple fact that they are alive to tell you their stories! These people are my evidence - as are these casualties of the battle. I beat the entire Death Eater army for two reasons. First of all, I knew what I was doing because I had properly prepared. And, more importantly, I was fighting for justice. And if I had to stand against an army of Death Eaters to fight for justice last night, I am compelled to stand against a single, fat, ignorant, unprepared, head-in-the-sand opportunist such as yourself."

Shutters clicked and Dictaquills flew as Harry stood toe to toe with Fudge. But the sound that dominated the wide open plaza in front of the Ministry offices was not scratching or clicking. It was a roar of cheering and applause that started loud and grew progressively louder until Fudge, unnerved, began to back away from the confrontation.

The moment Fudge took his first backward step, Harry turned back to the crowd and began building his own legend. "One thing that really helped me in last night's fight," he related with a broad smile, "was being able to use wandless magic."

"Prove it!" called out one of the reporters.

"All right," Harry agreed. "Is everyone ready to take a little ride?" He spread his arms wide and slowly lifted his hands. Every living person in the crowd rose a full meter from the pavement. There was some laughter, and a few shrieks and cries, but there was no evidence of any real fear. The whoops and screams sounded like what could be heard near a carnival midway as people enjoyed themselves with the amusements to be found in the Fun Zone. "Don't wiggle so much!" Harry shouted, laughing himself as people struggled to keep their balance. It was as though the entire crowd had been lifted on a tray centered on Harry. As people shifted their weight, the entire tray tilted slightly, which made more people lean to keep their balance, which made the tray tilt even more. "You're a squirmy bunch!" Harry hollered. "I'll have to let you down." He lowered his hands and the group settled gently back to Earth.

Amid the general mirth, one voice rang out with anger. "Parlor Tricks!" Spat Fudge. "Of all the empty, meaningless, cheap..."

Harry's Army remained silent in response to this outburst. The reporters listened carefully. But the crowd of those whom Harry had rescued the previous night rumbled with anger. "Shut up, Corny!" Shouted one man. When the Minister continued to glare angrily, someone else bellowed, "Fuck You!" As though the crowd had been waiting for the obscene shout to signal them, the whole group surged toward the Minister, growling with fury.

Harry amplified his voice to be heard above the roar. "Wait!" he commanded, and the crowd obeyed. "You don't have to risk yourselves to hurt this man," Harry lectured. The crowd began to quiet, waiting for a better suggestion, and sure that Harry would provide one. "Go to the polls four days from now, and vote him out of office. That's how we'll do this in a civilized way. Tell your stories to your friends and family. Urge them to read the newspaper accounts. And insist that they go out and vote. Harry Potter for Minister!"

The cheers were deafening. Fudge waited impatiently, not finished with this argument quite yet. "We will investigate the dead you have dumped on us, Mister Potter," he promised coldly. "And should your story prove as weak as it seems to me..." he waited for another round of booing to die down. "... we will have to consider bringing charges against you for multiple murder."

The howls of outrage were fierce. Fudge estimated the distance from himself to the Ministry door, hoping he would not have to run for his life. But instead of offering him violence, the crowd did something even more horrendous, so far as the Minister was concerned. A witch near the center of the crowd got the attention of as many of her companions as possible, and shouted out, "We're your witnesses, Harry!" Those around her followed her lead, tapping their neighbors shoulders to draw them into the group and shouting "We're your witnesses, Harry!" over and over again. Fudge fled, and Harry thanked everyone who had come, reminding them all to be sure to go to the polls and vote in four days.

-

Fudge sat shaking in his Chief of Staff's office. "Malfoy..." he kept muttering to himself. "How could I have gone wrong with Malfoy? I thought everyone would have hated Malfoy... By now, I mean, with the trial and all..."

Deckard Constantine watched this for a while, then asked, "Why didn't you just endorse the boy? You seemed convinced you were going to do so last night."

"Because he's a boy!" Fudge blustered. "He's eighteen years old? Well, that's as may be. He's still just a baby!"

"All the great leaders made their first indelible impressions on the world as babies," Deckard replied with a shrug. "Jesus, Buddha, Alexander the Great..."

"Who?" Fudge shot back.

"A muggle. Conquered the world before he was twenty. No one important, really. The point is, with wandless magic and a pile of dead Death Eaters..."

"And that's another thing!" Fudge fumed. "Littering our front door with corpses. That's an image that ought to repel voters! Boy Who Lived throws dead bodies at the office he thinks he can win. Disgusting. And if we can prove any one of those dead people was innocent... Oh, I think the boy would wish he had thought twice about taking on Cornelius Fudge when that case came to trial. We could make him look... I mean, we could prove that he's nothing more than a murderous thug, as dangerous as those he said he fought against. Deckard, let's write some copy."

"Oh, resign, Cornelius," Deckard advised with a heavy sigh. "I do. As of now. There's nothing more I can do for you. You've lost. Either find some way of getting in with the winning team or go home and work on your memoirs."

The ex-Chief of Staff began to clean out his desk.

-

Harry apparated himself and his Army back to the underground bunker, leaving the bodies of the slain Death Eaters for the government to deal with. He realized there was a certain risk inherent in leaving his defeated enemies behind: specifically, that Fudge or someone working under Fudge's influence would find one or more of the deceased to have been 'innocent.' But Harry was very confident that his presentation of the bodies had been so public that there would be little chance for even the Minister of Magic to find a way to insert a blameless corpse among the guilty, and Harry was supremely confident that he had killed only active followers of Voldemort. He decided that he had done the right thing, and tried to put the matter out of his mind.

When he arrived in the stone complex, Harry made sure to praise his cleaning crew. Not only did he consider that a good morale-building step, the group really had done a good job. He then began debriefing those who had gone with him to the press conference.

His questions for each of his people were simple.

– Did anyone speak with you?

Several had. The conversations had quickly been turned into political advertisements for Harry. That was good.

– Did any reporters or aurors speak with you?

Two reporters had spoken briefly with two different individuals. Each of Harry's people had answered exactly as they had been instructed, crediting Harry with the planning and organization of the entire operation which brought down Voldemort. That was good.

– Were any of you in photographs taken by news photographers?

The answers to that question were much less certain, and not at all as reassuring as the previous ones had been. With the number of photographs being taken, most of those who had gone with Harry felt reasonably sure that their images had been captured.

That brought up the hard question.

– Who else besides me knows that you were a Death Eater?

The answers to that were frankly depressing. If Harry believed that he had averted the British Wizarding Civil War by destroying its most infamous proponent, he was sorely disappointed. The members of Harry's Army all had families. Most were married. They had children, some had grandchildren, and a few had great-grandchildren. The entire group had parents who were still living, some had grandparents who still lived, and the great-grandparents of a few were still alive. The soldiers of Harry Potter's Army all had uncles, aunts, nephews, nieces, cousins and in-laws. And the majority of those relations were aware of their relatives' involvement with Voldemort. Even more surprising, many of the ex-Death Eaters told Harry that their neighbors, friends, and even co-workers knew about their affiliation with the group commonly referred to as the 'Opposition' to avoid public mention of the unpopular names 'Voldemort' or 'Death Eater.'

Harry dreaded asking his last question, but it was the key to formulating his strategy.

– Did those people approve of your activities?

Apparently so, according to every answer Harry received. Sworn to loyalty, honesty and service, with the threat of the Curse hanging over them, the soldiers of Harry's Army were unlikely to lie. Could they be deluded? Were they lying to themselves? Harry pressed for more complete answers. Everyone agreed that there was someone - a nosy neighbor, an indiscreet friend or a foolish cousin - who could not be trusted with the truth. Pressed further, all of those being debriefed admitted that, in actual practice, there was a wider range people who had to be kept ignorant: small children, the very elderly, the very stupid and the mentally unbalanced, for example. But to Harry, who had spent years in fear of the Death Eaters and their ruthless leader, the truly frightening shock in these matter-of-fact descriptions was what a broad support network Voldemort's followers had actually enjoyed.

Dumfounded by this revelation, Harry threw in an extra question spontaneously.

– What about the nationwide anti-Death Eater sentiment in the years since the last war, including public vilification of Voldemort and his followers, imprisonment of convicted Death Eaters and the constant search for Dark Wizards carried out by the aurors?

The most eloquent answer Harry received to that question was a shrug. Over and over again, he heard the same opinion. Some Death Eaters had gone to jail. So what? Most of them had broken out recently. Followers of Voldemort had been subjected to public vilification, but by whom? Mostly by pompous and ineffective public servants, and by the Daily Prophet: a rag, written to distract the masses with unimportant triviality. Ostensibly, there had been pressure from the aurors, but it hadn't bothered anyone very much. The official wizarding law enforcers were Ineffective as police, and hopeless as detectives. Harry's newly sworn servants each showed their contempt with examples from their own experiences, such as: 'Wear a mask and an auror will never be able to figure out your identity;' or, 'Strike and run and an auror will never be able to follow your tracks;' and even, 'Volunteer misleading information and an auror will accept your lies as fact, and thank you for your cooperation.'

The one deterrent to dark wizardry that each individual pronounced effective was the 'private war' between the Death Eaters the Order of the Phoenix. The conflict was perceived to be rather like a gang fight over turf, the 'turf' in this case being the entire United Kingdom, and ultimately the world. Albus Dumbledore had won the Death Eaters' respect by being their toughest opponent by far, and his group of powerful, dedicated fighters had been seen as the single greatest threat to Voldemort's plans.

Harry sat thinking about all of that as many minutes passed. The people in his service would appear in photographs, which would probably be published in newspapers. People who knew those people would recognize them. His followers' former political affiliation would not be a secret. Would that pose a threat? Would there be a public outcry? Would someone, simply trying to be clever, or looking for a reward from some publication like the Daily Prophet, expose the identities and former affiliation of those people who had supposedly helped Harry Potter? He thought about the problem until he was quite certain that he would not find a solution without help. He looked around in annoyance. Neither Remus nor Snape had returned. Neither had been at the press conference, for that matter. What were they thinking? Had they run into trouble? Had they been arrested? Were Harry's own enemies closing in, capturing his closest allies?

Harry shook his head to help banish his increasingly pointless speculations. He stood to address the crowd and felt a rush of lightheadedness. He was tired, he was hungry, he was becoming disoriented, his thoughts were going nowhere, and they were becoming more paranoid by the second. He would have to finish what he had to do here and go on to the next thing, which was... He couldn't think of what the next thing was. He realized that he was trembling all over. He needed rest, and he needed to be out of this depressing stone dungeon. How Voldemort could have chosen to lock himself within it was beyond Harry's comprehension. Harry realized that his mind was wandering again, and forced himself to return to the business at hand.

"Everyone! You need to go back home and resume as normal a routine as possible. I will summon you if necessary, but until I do, remember that you are sworn to my service, and my first major instruction to all of you is to go home and resume your routines."

"What if there's an emergency?" Shouted a wizard from the middle of the crowd. "How do we get in touch with you?"

"If all goes well, you'll be able to reach me at the Minister's office!" Harry crowed, holding his hands above his head like a winning boxer.

"What about the election?" a witch in the front row wanted to know.

Harry stared back blankly, struggling to recall what it was that was so important about that question. When the realization struck, it was nearly enough to knock him off his feet. He had forgotten to send his people on their most important task!

"The election is very important," he announced, then searched for his vanished train of thought. "So important, that we need to get every vote we possibly can," he improvised. That sounded good. It seemed to be in the right vein. But at that moment he couldn't tell if he were making sense or babbling incoherently. "I need all of you to encourage everyone that you possibly can encourage to go and vote and to vote for me," he continued. He could hear how disjointed his own statements were, but he couldn't force his thoughts into any more coherent order. "So, I need you to canvas your neighborhoods, tell your neighbors, floo your families, and spread the word at work. Vote for Harry Potter. If someone needs help getting to the polls, offer to take them. If someone else is interested in campaigning for me, encourage them. Knock on doors, tell everyone you can. Vote for Harry Potter."

"Do we have any literature?" some one called out.

"No!" Harry waved the suggestion away. "No time for that. Tell everyone in your own words. Tell them you're voting for me, and that they should, too!"

"What's your platform?" asked someone, apparently quite serious about getting the information.

"I'm better than Fudge," Harry listed off the top of his head. He was feeling weak, dizzy, and increasingly distracted. It was hard to remember the concepts that had been so clear when he had faced Fudge at the Ministry just a short time ago. "I defeated Voldemort," he added, wishing that this ordeal could somehow be over. "I'm against unjustifiable seizure of property prior to an accused person's conviction," he concluded, hoping that he sounded confident, knowing that he felt disoriented and half asleep. Even in his weakened state, he knew that the short list he had given his election workers would not be enough. "Tell them all I'm a supporter of education, friend of the small businessman and the most awesomely advanced wizard you have ever seen. That should convince them. And if it doesn't, find something else that will. We have to win in four days. Right, then. You lot need to go home!"

"We haven't our wands," protested a young wizard, close enough to the front of the crowd that Harry could see the panic in his eyes as he contemplated returning to his regular life without the ability to cast spells.

"No, you don't," Harry pronounced stentoriously. "You will have to earn the return of your wands. Until you do, you will have to make excuses for not being able to perform magic as best as you are able. You might say that you have lost your wand, or that your wand has been stolen, or that your wand was destroyed in a house fire - whatever you need to say. The point is, you'll get no wands until you have earned the privilege. Now, Home with you all. Go!"

With an arrhythmic series of bangs like the popping of corn, the members of Harry's Army disappeared. Harry collapsed to the floor, not bothering to search for a piece of furniture or even some cloth the soften his resting place on the stone. He took long, deep breaths, yet still felt as though he were suffocating. His trembling was worse. He closed his eyes so that he wouldn't see the room spinning - then opened them again quickly as he found the sensation of vertigo to be much worse with his eyes closed. He needed to go, to get away from there, to find someplace to rest and recover. But when he thought of apparating, the effort seemed too great. So he lay there, sick, shaking and dizzy, wishing that either Remus or Snape would show up to help him. He lay there an indeterminable time, feeling sorry for himself, unable to close his eyes to sleep, unable to find a comfortable place on the rock to rest. He finally rallied enough strength to visualize the house in Godric's Hollow, and concentrate on it well enough to fix it as a target destination. With what felt like his last reserve of energy, he apparated.

-

"It is about time you recalled the location of your home, Mister Potter." The tone was disdainful, but to Harry, the familiarity entirely made up for all of its superciliousness.

"Professor," Harry groaned, laboring to focus on the kitchen into which he had appeared. "I'm sick. I think I used too much magic."

"Just like a child. Show him a treat and he gorges on it until his body rebels."

"Give him the lesson when he's aware enough to absorb it," chided another familiar voice. Remus. Harry nearly cried with relief. The reassuring sound continued. "Let's see if there's anything seriously wrong. We can bawl him out if he's sufficiently strong to stand up to a tongue lashing."

"Whatever his condition, there are some things that must be dealt with," Snape drawled, helping Harry to a sitting position on the floor. "Such as this."

A huge form, hardly more than a bright blur, flew directly at Harry's face. Harry grunted incoherently in his surprise: "Huh?" But a second later, he was laughing. "Hedwig!" He cried gleefully. The bird stared at him in concern for a moment, then apparently decided that he wasn't in serious trouble after all. She hooted dismissively, flapped once, and took a perch on the back of one of the kitchen chairs.

Harry tried to stand in order to care for his owl. "We need to get her some food and water and..."

Snape pushed the boy back down to the floor. Remus reassured him, "We have taken care of all that some time ago. You have been gone quite a while, Harry. It does concern me that you feel ill, but... you must admit... last night and today saw quite an extreme - and sustained - level of exertion."

As annoying as it had been to be pushed back down, now that he was once again on the floor, Harry was quite glad he had not attempted to stand. He felt queasy and very tired. Had he made it to his feet, he would likely have fallen. "Yeah," he murmured. "I was gone a long..." He scowled and managed to focus both eyes well enough to meet Remus' concerned gaze. "I was gone? What about you? Both of you. Where were you? I was at the Ministry, and then back to the stone room and... what happened to you?"

"We've been busy," Snape sniffed. "You should know that the magical protection that has kept this house safe for so long seems to be wearing off. Hedwig found her way here. And there has been traffic of the muggle variety on the roadway which runs past your front yard. One rather large motorcar in particular carried a passenger who quite obviously pointed and gestured toward this house, apparently discussing the merits of the property with the other occupants of the vehicle. Once your owl arrived, I ventured an experiment. I ordered delivery of the Daily Prophet to this house, starting tomorrow. The subscription is in the name of a long-dead great-uncle of mine, but the real test will be whether the paper is actually delivered in the morning. If it is, we must presume the Fidelius Charm has lost its potency. We will have to decide whether this means that we must take further steps to provide for your personal security. For example, I would guess that Albus Dumbledore knows where you are even now."

"I did go to the Ministry, Harry. But you had already left," Remus said with a grin. "I must say you made quite an impression on everyone there. But I had little time to gawk at the circus surrounding the offering you left behind. I obtained the papers that will allow you to officially file for your candidacy for Minister of Magic."

"Ummm... right," Harry said, trying to imagine the scene as Remus must have seen it. "Thank you. Both of you. Uh... why is it so dark?"

"Halloween day is nearly over," Snape reported sharply. "If today's traffic is any indication, you'll have Trick-or-Treaters visiting your door this evening," he added, acid in his voice.

"You know about trick-or treating?" Harry asked, astonished.

"I know about a lot of muggle customs. Especially those which are essentially mockeries of our own culture. Dressing up as 'witches' and 'wizards,' indeed. More disgusting ignorance."

Snape's tone was harsh, but his hands were gentle as he helped Harry to bed. Remus kept Harry talking so that the boy would not fall asleep before both men were convinced that he was not seriously ill. Snape performed some simple physical checks of Harry's pulse rate, temperature and eye dilation, then cast some spells to ascertain that Harry was, indeed, well. Once the spells were completed, Snape nodded to Remus, who bid Harry good night. The boy was asleep within seconds.

Remus sat on the edge of the bed, watching him sleep. "What in Hell were you thinking, lad?" he murmured. "No wonder you're feeling sick. Out of your captured Death Eaters, you may have needed to keep an informant who could have revealed the Opposition's secret plans, or a helper or two for clearing away the last of Voldemort's influence. A small team to dismantle the Throne Room complex might have been useful, or a larger bunch to trace down those people who may have been 'associates' or 'aspirants' and weren't caught on Revel Night because they were not yet full-fledged Death Eaters. That was what the Oaths were for. That is what Severus and I both had in mind as we helped you craft them. That is all I ever thought you would attempt. I really expected you to show up at the Ministry with most of Voldemort's followers bound - and still alive. But I should have guessed that Harry Potter would not have been satisfied with such a simple denouement. Placing one hundred or more of the bastards under Oath must have been a major project. And then dragging all those corpses to the Ministry... that would have made me feel sick. I only hope your 'army' of ex-Death Eaters doesn't turn out to be a mistake."

-

Halloween was, as always, a busy day for the Weasley twins' business, and the proprietors put in a long and profitable day. But first thing the next morning, Fred and George were at Hogwarts, knocking on Professor McGonagal's door.

As soon as they were admitted to the Assistant Headmistress' office, Fred announced, "We'd like an appointment to see the Headmaster, please."

"Again," McGonagal observed. "I see you're availing yourselves of your final chances. You won't be able to ask me that for much longer."

The twins' faces both fell. "Oh, no, professor," George pleaded. "You're not leaving as well?"

"Hardly," the witch stated firmly. "Quite the opposite. I'll be taking over administrative duties for Hogwarts at the end of this school year. So you'll have to ask some other Head of House for an appointment to see the Headmistress after that time."

The twins' faces lit up once again. "You..." Fred thought better of whatever he had been about to call the Professor, and instead finished rather lamely, "... really had us fooled."

"Well," McGonagal said primly. "It's not just the famous boys who can play a joke."

Fred and George laughed out loud at their own expense and congratulated Professor McGonagal repeatedly. When they offered to take her to the Three Broomsticks for a celebratory lunch, she put a stop to the joviality. "There is no possible way I can take even an hour in the middle of the day. I may be able to get a bite of something between classes to keep from passing out due to hunger, but that is the most I can manage with all I have to do every day. However, I do believe I can get you in to see Professor Dumbledore before I have to go to today's first class. I'll take you to his office."

She led the twins to the spiral staircase, and as the stairs were folding out from the marble column, creaking and groaning as always, she very quietly said, "Boys, when you ask for the return of your listening device, I would also ask the Headmaster for the spell which he used to locate the Ear to which your device was attuned. I believe that if you could keep track of the location of the Ear as well as the sounds it picked up, the whole product would be much more valuable once your patents have been issued." The stairs stopped their distracting grinding, and McGonagal climbed them more quickly than the twins could follow. As the Weasleys arrived at the top of the spiral flight, McGonagal assured them, "The Headmaster will see you now." She winked as she passed them by and was gone from sight before the twins could wish her a good day.

Albus Dumbledore stood before his desk, quite relaxed, holding a dish of sweets. "Minerva seems to believe I owe you for the use of your... ah... invention," he said, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "And I suppose I do."

The twins looked at each other in astonishment. This was going to be much easier than either had thought.

-

By the time Harry awoke, the sun was high in the sky and shining brightly. Since it was November first, that meant that it was already very late in the day. He stumbled blearily out to the kitchen, where Remus was seated, reading a newspaper. Something seemed incongruous about the scene, but it took a long moment for Harry to realize what it was. The newspaper! There shouldn't have been... then he recalled what Snape had told him last night... or yesterday afternoon... whenever. The Prophet must have been delivered. The Fidelius was fading, probably due to their own activities. The spell had been made to protect Harry's parents, after all. With new occupants in the house, the residual effects were probably being erased with every passing hour. Remus folded the newspaper and tossed it to the sleepy-eyed boy. "Hey, look at that, Harry," he teased. "You're famous. Who'd have guessed that?"

"Erm, yah, awm," Harry replied, perfectly aware of what he had meant to say, but as yet unable to get his mouth to cooperate with his brain. "Lesse whassisay."

The front page featured a page-wide photograph of the pile of Death Eater bodies in front of the Ministry, Harry standing in front, arms raised, levitating the crowd. In stark contrast to the grim mound behind Harry, the flying people around him were laughing and shrieking in enjoyment. The headline was huge and bold. "Boy Who Lived becomes Man Who Saved Us!"

Remus left the room, looking back to appreciate the scene of his cub reading the front-page story about himself. He nodded contentedly as he passed through the doorway, but was back seconds later as Harry cried out incoherently.

Before Harry's second scream was out of his mouth Remus and Snape were in the kitchen, wands drawn, eyes darting to every corner of the room to find the danger. But Harry's alarm had not been caused by an invader. The horror was staring at him from the bottom of the third page of the Daily Prophet. A small article with a modest headline, illustrated by an old photograph, outlined a strange story about an event of the previous night. "Man Dissolves at Home," the headline read. "Victim had been under investigation for alleged ties to Death Eaters," the sub-head continued. Harry checked the 'file photo' of the victim, who had been, as he had feared, one of his Oath-sworn ex-Death Eaters. He then flipped back to the front page. There, tiny but unmistakable in the background, was the same man. "Oh, no," Harry said, shaking his head repeatedly and gradually straightening his arms so that the newspaper was farther and farther from his face. "Oh, God. Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, no."

"You will most likely be safe," Severus said. "It will be difficult to make a positive connection between that man and you, and should anyone begin to do so..."

"Gotta go," Harry said, throwing the paper aside.

"What do you plan to..." Remus began, but was cut off by the explosive sound of apparation. There was no longer anyone at the kitchen table. "Should we follow him?" Remus asked Snape.

"We would do more harm than good. Should we appear and attempt to advise him, his authority would come into question. Those people under Oath must be allowed to have no question cross their minds that Harry is their ultimate authority. Otherwise, many more of them will wind up..." Severus scowled, dissatisfied with the only descriptive term he could think of. "...Dissolved," he concluded sourly.

-

Harry appeared in the Revel Room at exactly the spot from which he had last left it. He was glad there were no witnesses to his arrival. He had apparated from his seat at the kitchen table, and he arrived in exactly the same position - and, with no chair to receive him, he promptly fell backward, landing hard on his arse and rolling hard until his shoulders hit the stone, saving his head from cracking against the floor only by tucking his chin hard into his chest. He didn't pause to check himself for injuries, but rolled and pushed himself to his feet and rushed to where he had left his trophies. He grabbed the Wormtail-hammer and slapped his palm over the Dark Mark. He had no idea if his attempt at this spell would work. He had never tested it over a short distance as he had planned to do. But he thought that something had happened. He tossed the summoning device aside and waited.

Throughout England, the Dark Marks on ex-Death Eaters' arms ached. As most of them were busy campaigning, they finished their appeals and, as quickly as they reasonably could, apparated back to the stone room to meet with their new master.

Harry counted carefully, unwilling to speak until everyone had arrived. Once all one hundred surviving members of the Army had gathered, Harry stood and asked the group, "Who among you would choose to be free from my service?"

This was an odd request, and it took the group a while to figure out what the boy was talking about. Many among them turned and whispered questions to their neighbors. Most stared back blankly. After an embarrassed silence had fallen over the room, one witch stepped to the front of the group and addressed their new leader. She was plump, a robust middle age of about sixty years, with thick brown hair tied in a bun. She was not in robes, but rather a plain brown dress over sensible leather shoes. "Mister Potter," she said cheerfully, her voice warm despite the cold surroundings, "If you have brought us here to ask once again whether we wish you to kill us, I believe that we are all wasting our time. We could be out gaining votes for your campaign even now." She bowed and stepped back into the group.

"I do not ask whether you want to die," Harry announced ponderously. "I offer you the chance to escape from the Curse-death. The opportunity to be free from my Oath of Service. It will come at a price, however."

"One of us paid the price last night, Mister Potter," shouted a wizard from the center of the gathering. "No one else has the bollocks to say it, but I think we all saw the story in the newspaper, didn't we?"

"And that's why you're here!" Harry shouted back. "The lot of you are so used to double-dealing, betrayal, lies and secrecy that you're completely untrustworthy! Last night's death showed me that I have a choice of keeping you people sworn to me - and losing you all one by one - or of finding something else to do with you. Are you interested in hearing the alternative or not?"

This confused most of the people in the group. Voldemort would have killed them all if he thought they served no useful purpose. More significantly, Voldemort would never have given them the chance to listen to choices, then select one. It was pretty clear that this Potter fellow could not make up his mind, or stick to a single course of action for more than a day at a time. But did that mean that he was insane, stupid, or merely indecisive? The plump witch spoke for the group again. "Let us hear what you have in mind, Mister Potter. I'm sure we're all very interested."

Harry glared at them all. He had imagined that there would be shouts and cheering when he offered this bunch the chance to be free of his Service Oath, and instead they stood looking at him as though he were some sort of freak. "What I offer is a simple trade. You will be free of your obligation to the Oath you took... but in return, you will give up your magic!"

"What, promise to not cast spells?" someone shouted.

"No! Your promises are worthless!" Harry barked back. "Four of you proved that your very first night, right here! Another one underscored the lesson last night! YOU COULDN'T KEEP A PROMISE TO SAVE YOUR OWN LIVES!"

"So... what do you mean, give up magic?" a young witch wanted to know.

"I mean," Harry said with exasperation, "that you give up your ability to cast spells. At all. Lose the talent entirely. For good."

"Give it up where?" an old man asked with a shrug, hands spread wide as though begging Harry to make some sense of all of this. "Give it up into the air? Into some kind of Pensieve, into a Rememberall, into our wands...? Which you still have kept from us, I remind you."

"You won't need wands..." Harry began, and stopped himself from continuing the petty comment he had been about to make. Instead, he explained, "You will give your magical talent up - to ME!" The crowd rumbled with hushed comments. "Come on," Harry chided them. "You have lived a day without your wands..."

"It was Hell!" a young wizard said sincerely.

Harry's face darkened. "Then think of the kind of Hell you were about to bring down onto all of us with your damned Halloween attack. Think of what you had planned for me, and for everyone else who wasn't one of your precious organization, and ask yourself how living a day without your wand compares to that!" There was some serious grumbling in response to Harry's comment, which only made him angrier. "I will not stand for being publicly humiliated by any more deaths such as last night's! That man was under investigation for dark wizardry. Then he shows up at the Ministry, during my debut, then he dies under mysterious circumstances. Do you think that makes me look good? Do you think that helps my plans? Do you think I have any patience at all with that kind of irresponsible behavior?" To his astonishment, the more Harry railed at them, the more the group seemed to relax. Some actually smiled. "What?" Harry demanded.

"When you rant like that," a young wizard said, nostalgia in his eyes, "you're almost like Voldemort himself."

"That's IT!" Harry bellowed. "Any more screwups and you won't have to wait for the Curse! I'll kill you myself! Or, you can be free of it all. It's your choice. Now - no more discussion. Anyone who wants to be free of me, step up and be squibbed. The obligations of your Oath will be lifted from you - and I'll take your magic. Then I'll send you home, and you can make whatever mess you want to make out of your lives. Who's first?"

A ragged line formed, and Harry began to work. "Before I finish," he told the first volunteer, "I want you to concentrate on where you would like to go when I send you home. Just as though you were going to apparate. Got it? Good." A tiny, iridescent ball rolled off of Harry's fingers into the hand of his subject. "When I tell you to go, crush that," Harry instructed. "But first..."

Harry's eyes went wide as he felt a tremendous swelling in his chest. He was suddenly wide awake and he felt incredibly strong. He took a moment to control his breathing and to wait for his heart to slow to a normal pulse rate. The magic! The power! He was bursting with strength, with vitality! He forced himself to settle down, and once he was sure he could control his voice, he told the man whose power he had just absorbed, "Experience magic for the last time. Go!"

The man squeezed, crushed the shining bauble and disappeared...

...And reappeared in his library, laughing out loud. He had done it! He had escaped the bonds of the horrid Potter creature and had kept his magic, as well. He didn't feel any different. Nothing had been taken from him. He was free - and he would have his revenge! He imagined the many different ways he could torture Potter to death. Surely enough, there were no Curse-triggered side effects; no coughing of blood, no dissolving of skin. He was free! He swaggered to the delicately carved end table on which rested his father's magic wand. This had been the first wand he had ever used, when his father taught him his first spell. And when his father had died, he had passed the wand down to his son. And that son, now grown, now an ex-Death Eater, now free from Potter's Curse, had used the wand many times, the last times being the previous evening. He wasn't one to be denied his privileges, and had been unwilling to wait for Potter to allow him wand privileges. So he took this wand of his father's and used it freely. The last thing he had done before answering that day's summons from the Dark Mark was to come into this room, which had been his father's library, magically lock the door, and place the wand on the table. He wasn't worried that the wand would be stolen. This room had been especially constructed to hold ancient texts and rare antique books. It was completely sealed against contamination from the outside atmosphere, and when locked, was as impregnable as a bank vault.

The proud wizard lifted his father's wand and directed it toward the doorway. "Alohamora," he spoke commandingly. Nothing happened. No glow appeared on the door. It didn't give the telltale click that should have signalled the release of the lock. It didn't swing open. The man looked at the wand in his hand. It was exactly as it should have been. It was definitely his father's wand. He pointed it at the door again. "Alohamora." Once again, nothing. He rushed toward the door, tried to twist the knob. It was held fast by magic. He pulled to no avail. "Alohamora!" he tried again, uselessly. He threw down the wand, grabbed a heavy reading chair and swung it against the library door. He repeated his attack again and again, until the door had been dented all over, and splintered in many places. But the splinters would not be moved from where they were, held fast by the magical lock which bound them. The man grabbed a heavy table and tried to use it as a battering ram. There was no way that the door was going to yield to such a clumsy attack. He sank to his knees, pounding at the splinters with his fists, screaming "No!" over and over again.

-

Harry stood bouncing on the balls of his feet, weaving as he did so, barely able to contain all of the energy he had absorbed over the past few hours. Ninety seven people had been stripped of their magical ability and sent away. Now there were just three left, and Harry was impatient to be done with the job. "Which of you is next," he said, motioning to the remaining trio to come to him.

"I'm afraid you're stuck with us," said the plump, middle-aged witch who had spoken from the crowd earlier, before he had begun the process of divesting himself of his Army, and of absorbing their power into himself.

"What?" Harry asked, genuinely unable to believe that there could be three who did not wish to have their Oaths rescinded. He blinked as he recognized the other two. The old woman who had been one of those unsafe to take into public, and the young witch who had acted as the group's spokesperson after that first terrible night. "You... want to stay... with me?"

The plump witch laughed easily. With an ironic smile, she suggested, "Just call us the furies, Mister Potter. I, personally, see nothing wrong with following the young man who is about to become the most powerful figure in wizarding Britain."

The old woman grinned viciously. "I can see the value in remaining with the wizard who has just absorbed the magical power of nearly one hundred magic-users into himself. Especially when he can make up his spells on the spot, and doesn't even require a wand to cast them!"

The young witch looked at the ground as she said, "I... like... power. Voldemort failed. You won. You're... my leader, now."

Harry gaped at them, his mind racing. Their ages progressed geometrically, he noticed at once, the youngest being about thirty, the middle-aged one about sixty and the oldest about one hundred twenty years old. They were varied in body type, the youngest athletic, the middle one plump and the oldest very thin. Their hair was uniformly worn long, most likely indicating an oldest-daughter status, if they were following tradition. And, if they were the typical pure-blood chauvanists that Death Eaters tended to be, then they probably were. "What about... the Oath... Curse... all that... uh... stuff," Harry stammered.

"What would I be without magic?" the plump witch asked with a smile. "I really believe that magic has made such a real difference in our basic makeup that we are the real humans and muggles are the new neanderthals. I don't hate squibs - they have a genetic disease. They're more to be pitied than censured. And I don't hate mudbloods. I never thought Voldemort had that right at all. In fact, you could say that mudbloods have pulled themselves up out of the morass of common, obsolete humanity. But we are the superior creatures, without a doubt - and you, Mister Potter, by virtue of your immense power, are the most superior of the lot of us."

"You'll need someone like me, Mister Potter," the oldest witch cackled gleefully. "In the old days, when the Knights of Walpurgis were much more active, whenever we had a mission, I was the last to don my mask and the first to cast it off. I always thought the whole idea of secrecy was cowardly. We should have declared ourselves! And now, you are declaring yourself to the point of taking the highest office in the land. I applaud that. But there will come a time, Mister Potter, when your popularity will not suffice. You will see the need for swift, merciless violence. I am supremely qualified, Mister Potter. Supremely qualified."

"I hope you want me," the youngest witch said plaintively. "I work well within an organization. I'm reliable and discreet. And powerful men..." she met his eyes, and the intensity in her gaze shocked him. "...are what I want."

"Um... Right," Harry said uncertainly. "I guess you all have homes to return to..."

"Is this where you keep your treasures?" the oldest witch inquired, nodding toward the small pile made by the Voldemort action figure, the Bellatrix pincushion and the Wormtail hammer.

"For now," Harry admitted with a shrug.

"Put stronger wards on this room. And set some traps. Anyone who manages to break in through your first line of protection should not be given a free pass to the valuables."

"Right. Good idea," Harry acknowledged. "Now, I think there..."

"Yes, it would be a good idea for you to know us by name, as there are only three of us now," the white-haired witch interrupted again. Euryale is my formal name, though most call me Hettie."

"Victoria," smiled the plump one.

"Cassandra," the youngest offered shyly. "Cass, usually."

"Good," Harry nodded encouragingly. "Great. Now, this whole run for Minister is not going to be easy. Can all of you return to campaigning? Right then. I'll seal this place up. You people get out and get some votes!"

When the three witches had disapparated, Harry set some wards and a magical lock on the Revel Room. He would have to remember to apparate into some other place in the complex. It would be quite dangerous to attempt to enter the Revel Room without removing his protective spells. He stood wondering exactly what to do next. He had the magic of nearly one hundred Death Eaters stored within him as though he were a battery. There had to be something useful to do with that power. When he realized what he had to do, it seemed so obvious that he didn't congratulate himself on having a good idea, but rather slapped himself in the forehead for not having thought of it before.

He visualized Saint Mungo's and was gone.