Ultimately, we weren't officially saying that Voldemort was back, but there was no way the Ministry could ignore that Death Eaters were running around doing rituals and kidnapping people, somehow involved with noted Azkaban escapee Sirius Black. Abraham Grimblehawk was a respected official, multiple aurors had seen things they could testify to independent of whatever I'd seen or Dumbledore claimed, and the only reproachable thing Mathilda had ever done was fall in love with me.
Which is probably why the Death Eaters didn't try to stay quiet for longer.
About two weeks after the ritual, the Chunnel opened between Britain and France. It was a pretty significant milestone for transportation, and doubtlessly pulled off a fair amount of wizarding attention to make sure undesirables weren't crossing onto the continent through the new tunnel. After all, the Ministry understood how to monitor boats, and planes were pretty risky for dark wizards, all things considered, but a disillusioned wizard could just walk down the Chunnel in a worst case. Making sure their protections were working took attention.
Evidently, it took attention that should have been on Azkaban.
The Death Eaters hit the prison during the first guard shift change, bold as brass, first thing in the morning on the Friday. They managed to delay the boat with the morning staff and just float across as if they were the replacement for the weary guards that had just gotten off the graveyard shift. It turned out Crouch had always had a flair for impersonation, according to Dumbledore, and used it more often than not. Most of the dementors that had been in Hogsmeade were still on the long way back. Those that were still at the prison reportedly just let Voldemort right past. Well, that was at least the operative theory, since none of the guards had survived.
While the worst of the Death Eaters that survived the war had never even gone to Azkaban, he managed to add a stout handful of likely-insane prisoners. Names like Rookword, Travers, and Dolohov were back on the "at large" list, as well as a bunch of other hardcases that hadn't fought in the previous war but were likely going to fight in the next.
It made for a tense run up to finals in the castle. Especially among those taking OWLs and NEWTs, the stress of studying plus the fear or magical terrorists meant everyone was constantly on edge, ready to snap. It didn't hit too close to home, since I wasn't that concerned about my finals and already expected to be a target, while Mathilda didn't have a major test and figured her family was only in a modicum of danger compared to everyone else's.
Perhaps the biggest blowup was Hermione, who was always tense around finals and one night had to be tackled by her friends and forcibly invited to spend the summer with her friends, behind their wards, with an emergency portkey for her parents. I didn't think she was really even on the Death Eaters' lists, honestly, unless Voldemort still remembered that she was vaguely involved in the Philosopher's Stone incident.
I managed to corral Draco and Theodore Nott when I subbed for defense class late in the month, to find out what they knew. "It's tense in Slytherin too," Draco admitted. "But Maeve is pretty cool about the whole situation, so the people we'd expect to be making noise mostly aren't."
Interesting. If my godmother was to be believed—which wasn't a given—the Winter Court wasn't in any way allied with Voldemort. Other than Maeve siccing Mavra on Mathilda—a deadly triangle of M-names—I couldn't point to anything that even connected them other than Bellatrix and Lucius' former allegiance. "So no special house guests this summer?" I asked the boys.
"Just Theo," Draco nodded at his friend.
"Apparently my house is under heavy surveillance," the taller, dark-haired boy allowed. "My father indicated that he didn't expect to be there at all over the summer and that I should find alternate accommodations."
I nodded. The Order had been watching the Nott estate for a while, and the aurors in the group might have even gotten official dispensation after the breakout. That still left a ton of potential houses for Voldemort to set up court in. If he thought to cast the fidelius, he might even be holed up somewhere that none of us could even remember we should be surveilling. "Glad you've got someplace safe then," I told him. "Fun summer plans?"
"The quidditch World Cup," Draco nodded. "Assuming nothing goes wrong to cancel it."
I sent them on to their next class, but had been reminded of Maeve by the discussion. I'd been talking to Bob, and getting a crash course on sidhe legal issues. I dismissed my last period early and caught her before she could get back into the building after her herbology class. "Harry," she acknowledged, waving her posse ahead so we could speak privately in the middle of the yard. "It's rare that you seek me out to talk. What do you wish to speak about?"
"Attacks," I said.
"The Death Eaters?" she raised a perfectly-thin white eyebrow.
"No, yours." That got her attention, and I continued, "The way I figure it, you've attacked Mathilda Grimblehawk three times."
"An interesting tally. Enumerate them?" she suggested.
"First, last year, in the library, when you used your aura against us and your feud with her began. I called it an attack and you didn't disagree at the time. Second, at this year's New Year's ball, in front of half the Ministry and your allies. Third, when you set Mavra the Black Court vampire to try to kill her, by Mavra's own admission. Do you deny any of these attacks?"
She seemed to have forgotten that the first one had been labeled an attack, and was surprised I knew about Mavra. "And if your count is accurate?" she allowed.
"Three attacks, all bested. By the Unseelie Accords, you must put aside the grudge or declare war." I'd triple-checked. "And, if I understand it correctly, now that we're doing this all officially, if you think that Mathilda has done something to earn your ire and reset the counter in the future, you have to tell her and offer terms for recompense before it becomes another feud."
She stood there like an ice statue on the sunny, fairly warm spring day, considering. It was uncanny the way she could just fail to move when she wanted to. Finally, she tried, "And how would you prove any of this, or pursue it as more than a schoolyard rivalry?"
I shrugged, "Pretty sure if I made the accusation, under the Unseelie Accords, and you indicated that your actions weren't covered, or that you aren't a member of the Winter Court, that would set off a whole chain of broken oaths, right? At the very least, there would be questions about why a sidhe was at Hogwarts. Do I have to prove anything?"
Another few moments of that frozen statue, before her eyes narrowed and she admitted, "Very well. Consider Mathilda Grimblehawk safe from my displeasure until such time as hostilities are renewed, with due warning as stipulated by the Unseelie Accords." She tried to marshal her face back into smug nonchalance and offered, "Keep her. You'll need her to console you, with what's coming for you, Harry Dresden."
I figured my own smug nonchalance was better as I grinned at her, gave her a saucy wink, and said, "Thanks, Maeve. You're a real sweetheart, when you want to be."
If I died right then, I'd at least have her shocked gasp at my audacity to keep me company in the afterlife. I strode off, half hoping she'd curse me in the back.
She didn't, and that evening, after dinner, when McGonagall was giving out some last-minute transfiguration tutoring, she asked, "What has you smiling like that, Hoss? It can't be your toads to toadstools, which still remains slow and incomplete."
I poked the still-breathing mushroom, and couldn't disagree. Transforming an animal into a fungus was surprisingly more difficult than turning it into an inanimate object, or changing it within the same kingdom. Part of the problem was that part of my brain was always trying to get a perfect Smurfs mushroom house out of the thing, rather than a toadstool that actually existed. "Just got at least one opponent off my back," I told her.
"That leaves what? Twenty-thousand an' three?" Oliver joked from over by his own, subtly croaking toadstool.
"And four," I corrected, joking. "You have to count Umbridge, even though she's not mean to my face."
"That woman," my grandmother sighed. "Suffice it to say, those of you going into the Ministry… well… try to steer clear of becoming entangled with her."
"I believe she has little involvement with the Department of Mysteries," Percy allowed. His toadstool was perfect, and he was just trying to figure out how to make it more perfect. "Though I likely would have been heavily exposed to her on my original career path. My father has… said some things I shall not repeat."
"Is she involved in International Magical Cooperation?" Alexis asked. Unless she biffed her NEWTs, that's the department she was going into, since she already spoke fluent French and her potion perfume had never really worked to catapult her into becoming the wizarding world's Coco Chanel. It seemed unlikely she'd do badly, since her toadstool was also great. She and Oliver weren't exactly getting back together, but the tension was gone since the quidditch party.
"On normal years, no," the professor suggested, but shrugged, "This year… perhaps. Between the World Cup and… other things… the Minister is likely to be more focused on our international relationships."
I assumed this was whatever she'd mentioned that might cancel quidditch the next year. Fortunately, it wasn't my problem.
And why did I get a sense of foreboding as soon as I had that thought?
On the way back to the common room that night, Filch spotted me across the stairs and motioned for me to follow him. I caught up with him outside his office. "What's up?" I asked.
He showed me in, and I realized his office floor was covered in boxes full of bedding. Mrs. Norris slumped tiredly in one of them, with a gray ball of fluff curled up next to her. "One left," Filch explained. "Got Mrs. Figg, a friend of the headmaster's, to take the rest. But this one's too much trouble. Already got loose from my office and got in a fight with something. Got his tail torn off, he did, and came sauntering back bleeding. And he's going to be big. Reminds me of you."
He unceremoniously scooped up the kitten, already almost as big as his mother, and handed him to me. The fuzzy little beast sniffed my hands, apparently decided that I was alright, and went back to sleep.
"And tell that Granger girl to get that menace of hers fixed. Don't think I don't know who the father is! Happy graduation, Dresden!"
Completely wrong-footed by the unexpected pet, I nonetheless couldn't help but be impressed by the little guy, who might not be little for very long. I smiled and pet his head, thinking aloud, "Well, I call your mom 'Missus,' so I guess your name can be Mister…"