I own nothing. Least of all this.

5) I USED MY OWN SPECIAL TECHNIQUE

Augustus Rookwood took orders from exactly one person: himself.

That he never failed to follow his master's rather forceful "suggestions" was more of a health issue than anything else. After all, telling a Dark Lord "no" just wasn't the sort of thing one did unless your life insurance was up to snuff.

That being said, his master was quite aware of Rookwood's philosophy, and did his best to allow his only spy in the Department of Mysteries at least some leeway when it came to making…suggestions. So it was that when Rookwood arrived on the scene of Zarathos' latest massacre of the Knights, his only standing order from the Dark Lord was to "appraise the site, do your best to reconstruct the chain of events, and if you manage to discover how and why Yaxley was tortured, you will be well rewarded."

And so far, it was looking like that reward was gonna be a big one.

Rookwood knelt before his Lord's throne, and waited for permission to…

"Rise, my friend. Tell me; what information were you able to unearth?"

"Unearth is a very good description, my Lord. The site is now completely buried, and all traces of the battle have been destroyed."

Voldemort's eyes narrowed. "By whom, Rookwood?"

"By Dumbledore, my Lord, accompanied by the Auror Alastor Moody. I was able to eavesdrop on their conversation while they worked, and even more fortunately, witness the old fool's reconstruction of the fight."

Voldemort hissed in pleasure. "Well done, my friend. Please; tell all you have seen."

One recap later…

Voldemort was shaking in rage, Rookwood was shaking in pain, and both of them were starting to believe they hadn't been nearly as fortunate as each had originally thought.

Finally, Voldemort released his Crucio and began pacing the room. "As far as I can see, there is only one acceptable explanation for what has occurred, Rookwood. Yaxley was a traitor, or at least considering the idea. He provided Zarathos with knowledge of my Mark, and in exchange, Zarathos agreed to a peaceful meeting, allowing him to bring as many of my followers along as he wished. It seems that they were unable to come to an arrangement, and Yaxley decided that he would be better off continuing to serve me. Foolish man; from the moment he removed his mask, his fate was sealed. That Zarathos took it upon himself to give a new meaning to the word pain is quite ironic, don't you think?"

"I…agree…my Lord." Rookwood gasped.

"We shall spread the knowledge far and wide of Yaxley's fate; only we shall attribute his gruesome ending to my own hands. As a warning for any who dare to oppose me. As of this moment, each and every witch or wizard that accompanied him on his mission is to be declared a betrayer, with their ultimate fate being much the same as their leader's. Zarathos' first attack on our forces was an inside job; an audition, if you will, with Yaxley looking to determine if Zarathos truly stood a chance of facing the might of the Knights of Walpurgis. Those twenty lost to us that day are to be remembered as martyrs for our cause, and their failure to stand against Zarathos was due only to his preparation of the battlefield before-hand. Yaxley was the true threat, and with his treason now exposed to all, Zarathos no longer has the upper hand. Just one man, a minor obstacle in our ultimate path to domination."

Rookwood had by this time managed to return to his previous position. "If you will forgive me, my Lord, one man he may be, but a man that apparently cannot be killed. Have you a possible explanation for his survival, sir?"

Voldemort stroked his chin. "Hmm. At first, I thought this Zarathos a mere mudblood or half-blood, one with a few original tricks and not much besides. The possibility still exists, but with a caveat: I believe he has managed to tie his soul to his body in a manner not easily bypassed. A side-effect of his attempt may have left him unable to properly wield a wand, thus resulting in his familiarity with more…elemental styles of magic. I do not recall ever seeing him take direct damage from a spell beyond the Killing Curse, which leaves me quite hopeful that if we were to destroy his body, his soul would be forcefully ejected from it. The worst we would have to prepare for would be an attempted possession afterwards; something easily taken care of. There is, of course, a second possibility: he has re-discovered ancient magics left behind by Grindelwald, and has become quite adept in their usage. Did you by chance happen to notice the symbol that flashed in his eyes immediately upon his…resurrection?"

"I did, my Lord. I must confess to seeing it within the files of my fellow Unspeakables, but I find myself unable to recall its exact meaning."

"Understandable, my friend; I suspect that even if you were to go looking, you would not be able to find it again, much less determine its origin. It was a symbol used by Grindelwald quite extensively during the War; and we both know that the odds of unearthing any remaining records from Germany are almost as low as obtaining them from Grindelwald himself. No matter; our course of action is the same. For now, we regroup, sway more to our side, and above all, keep Dumbledore busy with the Ministry and the Wizengamot. Zarathos has no more sources within our organization, of this I am fairly certain. He will turn to others, outsiders, for information and backing. And with an absent Dumbledore, he will find his list of allies quite thin."

"My Lord, what of the Department of Mysteries? Dumbledore stated his intentions to speak with Croaker; I will have to report to him first if I wish to avoid questions as to my presence at the site of the battle. What exactly should I relay?"

"Hmm…I think it best if you remain obtuse as to the exact nature of events. For now, we want a good relationship between Dumbledore and the DOM; do not add anything to your story that would reveal secrets Dumbledore has kept to himself. If the DOM becomes fixated on reconstructing exactly what happened, volunteer to reconstruct the battle yourself, and then delay the process as long as you can without revealing the site has been wiped clean. If they ignore the problem and concentrate solely on Zarathos instead, give them all possible assistance. Perhaps the DOM possesses information about him that we do not; and it would be a shame to let that information slip through our fingers, wouldn't it?"

"I quite agree, my Lord."

"You have done well, Rookwood; I must apologize for taking a small portion of my wrath out on you. As a reward…"

Voldemort flicked his wand, and the last remaining pain from the Cruciatus vanished.

"There. Your performance should be fully restored. And if you continue to succeed in your tasks, I may even gift you with an object that is…precious…to me. To guard it would be one of the highest honors I can bestow. Do you understand, Rookwood?"

Rookwood straightened to attention. "Sir, yes sir."

"Good man. Now, I believe you have an appointment with Unspeakable Croaker. It would be a shame to miss it."

Rookwood took the dismissal for the "suggestion" it was, and left the room with no small amount of haste.

Voldemort sat back on his throne, and continued to contemplate the existence of the only wizard besides Dumbledore able to invoke a sliver of fear in his heart…


Moonlit night or not, there was absolutely nothing romantic about the situation that Harry could find.

Then again, he wasn't a teenage girl with an unhealthy obsession with werewolves and/or vampires, so who was he to judge? (That was one book series that Harry desperately wished hadn't survived the Collapse).

Still, he couldn't deny that there was a certain…something…the night inspired. It had been hundreds of years since Harry had been able to see the stars twinkle, considering most of the places he tended to frequent all had damaged atmospheres in one way or another. And for the moon to show absolutely no signs of what would one day come to rest beneath its surface…it gave Harry a brief feeling of hope.

A hope Harry immediately crushed. Hope had always been Eli's area of expertise; Harry had seen far too much to allow himself the same luxury. If Eli was "hope for the best", than Harry was most definitely "prepare for the worst". It was an attitude that had saved his life, and the lives of his friends, more times than he could count.

True, saving your friend's life definitely lost some of its impact when said friend happened to be perfectly capable of coming back to life, but it was the thought that mattered.

At the very least, it prepared him for situations like this one.

The word "sneaky" appeared to have been deleted from Fenrir's vocabulary; he was making more noise than a rutting moose in winter. Harry sighed. Was it too much to expect at least some level of professionalism from what was supposedly the most competent and dangerous werewolf in all of England? Then again, it was pretty early on into the war. Perhaps Greyback hadn't yet gained the experience that would back up his reputation in the days to come.

Experience Harry very much wanted to deny him.

The family Greyback had followed from the pub must've really done something to piss him off; nobody followed a Muggle car for twenty miles down winding roads on foot unless they had a very good reason. Harry had, of course, chosen a somewhat more comfortable method of pursuit: a prototype broom he had found while poking around Durmstrang's many, many dungeons and tunnels.

When planning his return to the past, he had been tempted to take along his customized sparrow and ship, but seeing as how the fuel for his ship hadn't yet been invented, and a sparrow with Basilisk bones strapped to it tended to stick out like a sore thumb even to other wizards (he was still ticked-off at Samuel Vos for what he'd tried to pull), he'd opted for his Brumeswept Night instead. Harry had absolutely no idea what sort of company "Brumeswept" had been, beyond the fact that they had somehow managed to find a way to incorporate Muggle methods of travel into a magical broomstick, and that was fine with him. Muggle mode had been useful to avoid questions about exactly how a broomstick managed to fly in the first place, and the magical part had granted height and speed capabilities that Muggles would never have dreamed of. And considering they had managed space travel before the magicals, that was saying something.

The way Harry had actually managed to get into Durmstrang to do his poking around, and thus gotten lucky enough to find his current broom, had been quite the experience. Eli's friend that just so happened to own an entire mountain had turned out to be a rather serious fellow by the name of Felwinter. He had reminded Harry of a mechanical, introverted, Mad-Eye Moody; paranoia, x-ray vision, and all. It was only after some rather lengthy negotiations, and Harry beating Felwinter in a duel to the death, that he even considered introducing Harry to the then resident of Durmstrang Castle: a Warlord by the name of Shaxx, whom Felwinter had been trying to court to join him and his fellow "Iron Lords" in a search for something or other named SIVA. The deal seemed simple on the surface: Harry would fight Shaxx, in the same way Felwinter had twice before. If Harry won, Shaxx would be forced to join the Iron Lords, and he could then be coerced into letting Harry, and by extension Felwinter, explore his mysterious abode.

In the end, Harry agreed to Felwinter's terms, but only because they'd given him an idea. And an opportunity.

Shaxx had been the exact opposite of Felwinter; brash, loud, and full of life. If they ever ended up working together, Harry got the vibe that they'd end up in a similar relationship as Gryffindor and Slytherin had. When Shaxx had learned Harry might be able to find things hidden in the depths of Durmstrang that all others would miss, and that he could possibly teach some of what he knew or learned to others, Shaxx had countered Felwinter's offer with one of his own: he would remain unattached, but if Harry were to beat him in a duel, he would allow both Harry and Felwinter exclusive access to Durmstrang, with the understanding that whatever knowledge or artifacts they found would only be shared between the three of them.

Felwinter hadn't liked that.

In the end, Harry was able to propose what he had truly been aiming at: Shaxx would support the Iron Lords, and they would be able to call upon his services when needed, but none would enter Durmstrang beyond Harry himself. In exchange, all Harry found would be split between himself and Shaxx, with only certain knowledge passed on to both Felwinter, and one other unbiased party for insurance….Eli. The old codger already had at least a passing acquaintance with the magical world, even if was only their whiskey, and the less people that knew about things like the Killing Curse the better.

When both Felwinter and Shaxx had protested, Harry had sprung his final trap on them: if Harry could beat both of them in an all-out fight, at the exact same time, then his terms would stand. If one of them managed to fell him, that person's proposal would be accepted instead. No resurrections.

After assurances that he did indeed have his own ways of surviving fatal wounds, the two Risen Warlords had agreed. And so it was, in the frozen ruins of Vostok Observatory, that Lord Felwinter, Lord Shaxx, and Harry Potter had fought to the death.

In the end, Harry stood victorious, and Felwinter Peak stood about a meter taller than it had at the start of the match. A by-product of Shaxx being slammed into it at approximately the speed of sound. Repeatedly.

When at last his Ghost was able to reassemble him, Shaxx had laughed loud enough to cause an avalanche, slapped Harry on the back, and said he had fought like a demon. A true Warlord, worthy of choosing a name to match. Felwinter, having been bisected by a flaming whip from Harry, and possessing more than a passing acquaintance with characters from Muggle legend, had ended up being the one to suggest what would eventually become Harry's official title.

And so it was that Lord Shaxx and Lord Zarathos officially joined the Iron Lords.

Harry jerked himself from his ruminations. They had arrived.

Even from where he sat, Harry could tell the family's car had been sitting idle for some time. Apparently Greyback had underestimated his own speed. Either that, or he wanted to lure his prey into a false sense of security. One could never tell with Fenrir.

As the last clouds in the sky cleared away, exposing the full moon in all of its glory, Harry decided that no, one could definitely tell with Greyback. Whatever choice would produce the most dramatic effect, that was the one he would go with. Rather like a Skywalker, if you asked him (when Harry had found out he'd missed the release of the Phantom Menace by less than a year, Felwinter Peak had gone up yet another half-a-meter).

Right, enough was enough.

As Fenrir's howl echoed throughout the glen, it was cut off by a rather large rock smashing into his jaw.

"Oi! Keep it down, will you! There's people trying to sleep around here, don't you know!"

Greyback turned to face his attacker, eyes blazing in fury.

They met nothing but the darkest surface the wolf had ever seen.

A snarl sprung from his throat…and then he himself sprung to follow it.

CLANG!

The burning hammer caught Greyback directly between the eyes, stopping him dead in his tracks. In the orange-tinted light, he could now see more of his opponent than even his enhanced senses had been able to provide. What he saw was a demon, a creature of the night, and an unmistakably more powerful wolf than even he.

"Bad dog! Down! Stay!"

More powerful or not, no one spoke to Fenrir Greyback like that and lived. He leapt once more, this time aiming for the arm still holding the hammer. His teeth closed down on what felt like iron plating; or, to be more specific, iron plating with silver inlay. The burning sensation in his mouth was proof enough of that.

"Huh. Whaddya know. Guess it was worth it to hijack that shipment back to Fenchurch."

Before Greyback could let go, the demon's other arm cam up and caught the top of his snout. Ever so slowly, he forced the jaws of the wolf apart, and then held them there.

"Now, I don't know about you, but where I'm from, there's a very famous saying: don't ever take a bull by the horns. Cause holding on can sometimes be just as bad for you as letting go. And in the case of a rabid dog like you, I feel its my duty to show you exactly what I mean."

Harry's hands began to move once more, forcing Greyback's jaws apart even further.

And further…

And further…

And further…

CRACK!

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIP!

SNAP!

Harry let the body drop to the ground; conjured a sack; vanished the blood; and for a finale, tossed the two halves of the werewolf into the bag and tied it shut. Whistling, he strode up to the front door of Greyback's former targets, and knocked four times. It wasn't long before a light came on in the house, followed by the door swinging open to reveal a rather bleary looking man.

"Do you have any idea at all what time it is?"

"Nope, can't say that I do. But if you'd like to tell me, as well as answer a few other questions, I believe I can make it well worth your while."

The man blinked. "Police?"

Harry reached up and scratched his head. "Something like that."

"Ah. One of you lot then. I'll fetch my wife then; she's the witch of the family."

The door slammed shut, only to open once more shortly after. This time, a rather short but cute blonde stood in the entrance, with a questioning look in her eyes. "Yes, Auror? How can I help you?"

"First of all, you might want to invest in some better wards. Even from here, I can see they wouldn't exactly be a challenge to a determined individual, and seeing as how you're likely to have trouble around here soon, you're going to need something more."

"Trouble? What sort of trouble?"

"That leads into my second question: do you happen to know what the current reward is for one Fenrir Greyback, dead?"

The witch stiffened. "Greyback? Is he…?"

"He was, ma'am. But not anymore."

"What happened?"

"…I guess you could say he lost his head. Either that, or he opened his mouth when he really shouldn't have. Same result either way; I was just wondering whether or not it would be worth it to turn in his body on my own, and give your family half of the proceeds for the trouble, or just leave him here and let you and your own take care of it."

"…A thousand galleons dead, fifteen hundred alive."

"Hmm. I got no idea how much that's worth nowadays; will a thousand be enough to split, or do you want all of it?"

"…You're not an Auror, are you."

"No ma'am, just an expert passing through. Now; whole thousand, yea or nay?"

The witch seemed to sway on her feet. "There's…now way…we can use a thousand. Just…leave us enough for the wards, I guess. If…if that monster's truly dead…then his friends are going to want revenge."

"So it would seem. Alright; thank you for your trouble, Miss…"

"…Willis. Missus Willis."

"Willis, then. I'll get someone on your wards first thing in the morning; but in the meantime, I'd really like to stick around and make nothing else happens. Do you mind if I sleep on your porch?"

The very thought seemed to horrify the woman, and Harry immediately started backtracking. "If not, that's fine. I've got a roll and blanket; I can sleep out in the woods if that's more convenient…"

The woman barely let him finish his sentence before telling him exactly what she thought of that particular idea. "You will do no such thing! You are going to come inside; I am going to make you a nice cup of tea; and then and only then are you allowed to fall asleep, inside our guest bedroom. Porch and woods, indeed…"

Harry could only shake his head and follow the irate hostess inside. A couple hundred years of existence, and he was still no better at understanding people than he had been at eleven.


Algernon Croaker, Head of the Department of Mysteries, Unspeakable Number One, and General All-Round Spook, looked into the eyes of Albus Dumbledore and Alastor Moody, down at the mountain of paperwork that he had just been handed, and then back up once more. "Tell me, Albus. Exactly how does a rise in the number of cases of Muggle-baiting relate to the destruction of a Muggle playground through unknown magical means, why should I care, and what do you wish for me to do about either problem?"

"Read the files, Algernon. It is necessary for you to draw some of your own conclusions about this matter, otherwise you will not believe even half of what we have to say."

Moody snorted. "Half? Try one-tenth. I should know; I'm the one that discovered the whole blasted affair."

Croaker flipped through the first reams of paper. "Blasted is a very good description of what our Department found yesterday. The only reason I don't have either of you dosed up to the gills in Veritaserum, even you Albus, is because you came to me willingly."

"An attitude we both understand and appreciate, my dear fellow. In the end, the truth will out."

Croaker snorted. "I certainly hope not; if it did, I'd be out of a job. The truth is such a precious thing that it must always be surrounded by a bodyguard of lies. Yet another reason to let you speak freely; if you're lying, it'll at least point me in the right direction."

Dumbledore sighed. "Trust me, Algernon, by the time we are done, you will be wishing that every word we have said was as far from the truth as you could get."

"That remains to be seen."

The room settled into an uneasy silence as Croaker continued to flip through the case files. Once the last paper left his hands, only then did the Unspeakable lean back in his seat and place his hands under his chin. "So; you've got a rising group of purebloods all pushing for either Muggle extermination or domination; they've been hiding quite effectively up until now, so I'm going to say that they've made a slip-up and come to your attention rather sooner than they would have liked. Considering the presence of Auror Moody, I will further guess that they managed to do it in such a way that resulted in at least one other confrontation with competent individuals besides the one that obviously occurred yesterday. One that Mr. Moody was either present for, or received a firsthand account of from one of the survivors. He then brought the matter to your attention, and since then you've both done your level best to keep the situation quiet while you figured out exactly what you were dealing with. How close am I?"

Dumbledore stroked his beard. "Closer than you would think, Algernon…and yet still farther than I would have liked. You stated that there had been at least one other confrontation; that part was correct. However, I am afraid that there were no 'competent individuals', as you put it, to handle the situation. Nor were than any survivors; and Auror Moody was not present for the incident."

Croaker frowned. "Then how the blazes did you find out what happened?"

"Simple," Moody drawled. "I got it firsthand from the tough little bastard that leveled an entire group of the blighters to the ground, with nary a scratch on him to show for it. I think the only reason he stuck around to tell me exactly what he'd done and why was cause he recognized me from somewhere; only way I can figure he knew enough to call me 'Mad-Eye'. Competent? Calling him competent is like calling Albus here 'mediocre'. Fellow left behind only five positively-identifiable bodies, and each one had been put down like the rabid dogs they were. Five out of twenty, with the rest utterly vaporized. And the only reason your little club of spooks anonymous didn't find out about it is that the stupid blighters had put SEP fields up before the fight."

Croaker blinked. "So the only difference between then and yesterday was…what, exactly?"

Dumbledore held up his hand and began to count off. "First, no SEP fields. While the same competent individual was involved, I believe that since his attackers learned he was the one responsible for the passing of their brothers and sisters, they sought to make an example of him, at the earliest convenience. The only wards I was able to find at the location were all related to magical travel, nothing more. Second, I believe that the individual himself did not await an official response, as he did the first time. Perhaps he wished to make an example of his own; perhaps not. If he had waited, and Alastor here was not the first to arrive, the end result would have been the same, I think. So far he has shown no signs of antagonism towards the Ministry, only towards the unfortunate families of the Wizengamot that have decided to sponsor this…movement."

Croaker held up a hand of his own. "We'll come back to the differences later; right now, there's only two things that concern me. What can you tell me about the movement, and what can you tell me about your…individual?"

Dumbledore began slowly. "…As far as we have been able to determine, the movement appears to have become deeply entrenched, even taking on militaristic tendencies to achieve their goals. While we have yet to ascertain the actual name they have christened themselves, there is a distinct possibility that the name itself is known only to the highest levels of their organization. That being said, there is one outsider who I believe knows a great deal more about them than he has so far relayed: that is to say, the individual who fought them off on both occasions has almost undoubtedly had dealings with them before…and I am of the firm belief that they ended poorly."

"How poorly are we talking?"

Moody snorted. "Poor enough that he would rather execute their members in cold blood than see them keep on doing what they were doing. Fellow showed absolutely no remorse for what he'd done; can't blame him, considering they were about to slaughter an entire pub full of Muggles. There's a very old saying, Croaky: speak softly, and carry a big stick. Apparently, our friend's had enough of the speaking; now, he's sticking it to 'em."

A grumble from Croaker. "And if he's done speaking, I suppose that just makes it that much harder to actually talk to the bloke?"

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair. "Considering that thus far the only civil exchange that we know of was initiated by him, I think was can safely say he's just very particular exactly who he talks to."

"…All of which put together implies that you don't want me talking to him; or any of my people, for that matter. You don't want to scare him off."

"For the moment." acknowledged Dumbledore. "Until I myself have a chance to converse with him, I do not think it prudent to give such a dangerous…stick…another target for his ire. And rest assured, his ire is exactly what you would earn should you go searching for his secrets. One of his opponents in the incident yesterday accidentally revealed something that he did not wish discovered. His response was the stuff of nightmares."

Croaker gave the Headmaster a shrewd look. "And just exactly how did you come by that piece of information? Considering I know for a fact not even you are capable of reconstructing conversations magically."

Dumbledore merely looked down at his feet. "That is, alas, not my secret to tell, Algernon. Perhaps after I have met with the…individual, or at least he with Alastor once more, then I may possibly obtain permission to tell you. But for now, I beg you: stay away from him. For your own sake, if nothing else."

For a long time, no one spoke.

Then, Croaker gave a sigh and leaned forward once more. "Speak softly, and carry a big stick. I know the phrase, Auror Moody. And I know what it usually leads to. In this instance, I hope you're a better speaker than he is a stick, Albus. For all our sakes."

"I as well, Algernon."

"Just two more things: if I were to ask you to divulge precisely which spells our 'stick' employed in the incident yesterday, would you?"

"I would indeed, Algernon. If I knew them. As far as I can tell, our 'stick' was casting both silently and wandlessly, with a distinctively elemental flair to his attacks. One of his flame strikes appeared to be the Light counterpart to Fiendfyre, if such a thing even exists. He possesses an enchanted blade I suspect is able to absorb various curses, and while expressing his…displeasure with the revealer, he used several distinctively Dark objects, projectiles, I believe, that had the appearance of…great, twisted, thorns."

"Which leads me to my last question: if one of our operatives were to run into him in the field, how would they be able to recognize him, if for the sake of avoiding him if nothing else?"

Moody answered. "Dark robes; almost like a Muggle trench coat from the War. Bandoliers, one for ammo, one to carry his sword and sheath. Blood-stained knee-high boots, with silver inlays and bones strapped to the sides. Hood to cover his face, and a perfectly smooth, black helmet under that. If you happen to catch him with that off, he's got spectacularly bad hair with Killing Curse green eyes; pale face, I'd guess from being constantly covered. Muggle firearm on his right leg; and other than that, I can't say."

"I don't suppose you have a name for this supposedly end-all be-all badass, do you?"

"…Zarathos. He called himself Zarathos."

"A foreigner?"

"English accent, so I'd say no. More than likely a fake name. Understandable, if he's trying to distance himself from his past…associations."

"And on a power scale?"

Moody glanced at Dumbledore.

The Headmaster barely raised his voice in reply. "…On a power scale, if what I've seen of him was on his good days…he could easily beat me on one of my bad ones. If those massacres were on his bad days…I'd hate to see what his enemies look like at the end of a good one."

"…So, another up-and-coming Dark Lord, then."

"Lord, yes. Dark, no. He was planning to show mercy, Algernon, at least once that we know of. It was only when his…secret…was outed, that he changed his mind. He also seems to respond well to reason; something Dark Lords are not characteristically known for."

"True. Well gentlemen, if you'll excuse me, its now half-an-hour after we started this little tete-a-tete, and I'm overdue for my morning coffee."

As the occupants of the room rose, Dumbledore couldn't resist asking one more question. "Will you hunt him, Algernon?"

"…For now? No. Will we do our damnedest to find out exactly how to beat him? Absolutely. He's dangerous, Albus. The only difference between him and our mutual opponents is that he's dangerous in a way that will most definitely not be popular. And that is the only reason that, once again, for now, I won't hunt him. We've got bigger fish to fry."

Dumbledore made only one comment by way of response as he and his companion left the room. "That's the thing with fish, Algernon: there's always a bigger one."