DISCLAIMER: JK Rowling is the gem responsible for Harry Potter and his world. I only remixed her work (with a dash of some other people's) a few times.

Transient

Outside of the Well of Lost Plots, 18 March 1965, 1:05 am

The safe house where Lyall had brought Hope belonged to a couple in their 60s who'd lived in Dorset. The lady of the house had taken it upon herself to act as a guard just outside, in the event that Greyback had human compatriots coming after Hope and the children. The man of the house seemed rather quiet, giving Hope and her boys some space to settle down. Hope had been grateful for that, at first. But once the twins fell asleep, the waiting for Lyall to come back and the accompanying worry had quickly had worn on her. She ended up turning to a few sheets of parchment she'd stashed away in her pocket, reading and rereading the words scrawled therein.

Before she knew it, there was a knock at the door. "Everything alright?"

Hope looked up at the aging wizard and nodded. "Yes, I suppose. Just reading."

"Oh," he said, not quite meeting her gaze. "Anything interesting?"

She held up the pages for him to view. "R.J. left this on my porch by accident. He's got some opinions about werewolves that are rather novel, if I understand correctly."

The wizard's interest sparked at that. "Does he? Do tell."

"Mostly it has to do with werewolf legal rights and place in society. Are you familiar with the Muggle state of affairs in America right now? With civil rights, I mean."

"My wife is an American and we've spent a fair amount of time over there," the wizard explained. "So yes, you could say I've heard about it."

The Civil Rights Movement hadn't been a subject Hope had known much about until a couple years ago, when she'd been reading the Western Mail, the newspaper from her native Cardiff. The paper's editor detailed a proposal of one John Petts, a glass window maker who had been horrified upon hearing that members of the Ku Klux Klan had bombed a certain church in Birmingham, killing four girls. Petts wanted to replace the church's stained glass window that had been destroyed and he made it an opportunity for the people of Wales to unite in funding this symbol of comfort and support. He asked for small donations only—none more than half a crown—and Hope instantly knew she wanted to contribute. Ever since sending in her meager amount of Muggle coins, she'd made it a point to be more active in learning about the suffering in the world and do what was in her power to alleviate it. To her shame, she hadn't even realized that she'd been neglectful of the wizard-side of discrimination until she'd started reading R.J.'s articles.

"The way R.J. writes about life as a werewolf reminds me of what I know of what American colored folk have experienced," Hope said. "Werewolves may claim citizenship in Magical Britain, but they don't have an actual voice in the government. They are disproportionately convicted of crimes, denied economic opportunities, and flat out banned from many public places. The fact that a werewolf can be killed without hardly anyone blinking an eye sounds a more than a little like what the KKK has spent too long getting away with."

The wizard rubbed the bridge of his nose, grimacing. "You do realize that werewolves are one of the most deadly creatures known to wizard-kind, right? With most magical creatures there's a measure of restraint you can pull out of them if you just listen to them and give them the proper respect. Werewolves, when transformed, are physically incapable of that kind of rational behavior. I'm not saying I approve of killing them—I don't approve of ending any life—but I can...understand why that level of self-defence is still sanctioned against creatures who will, with absolute certainty, attack any person in the vicinity with the intent and capacity to kill."

"Is it still self-defence when the werewolf is still in human form?" Hope asked. "Because that's how three out of four werewolves are killed, according to R.J."

The wizard frowned. "I'll admit I've been less diligent than I'd like to be in staying up to date on the specifics of the werewolf population—almost all of my scholastic focus has been swamped in the regulating experimental breeding as of late. I'll concede that R.J.'s statistics sound plausible, at least."

Hope let out a breath. "I'm honestly surprised you've yet to accuse me of being a complete hypocrite for wanting to stand up for werewolves in the first place. Here I am, in the very act of hiding my family from being found by a vengeful werewolf, talking about helping their kind."

The wizard gave her a fatherly smile. "I think you standing up for them is noble. Wizards have this...tendency to think everything is out to kill us. Ironic given that humans—and wizards in particular—are the ones with all the best advantages. But when something looks even the slightest bit scary, we make ourselves even scarier so they'll leave us alone. It's a coping mechanism found in quite a lot of creatures, I've found."

"Just not in transformed werewolves," Hope concluded.

"But it is in untransformed ones," the wizard continued, smiling. He gestured to R.J.'s papers. "Do you think R.J. would mind if I took the opportunity to read his thoughts on the matter?"

"I don't see why not," Hope said. "Though R.J. didn't exactly finish writing them—I think my husband distracted him and then there was the whole thing with the full moon. But after R.J. transforms back, I'm sure he wouldn't mind talking to you."

"I'd probably like that. First-hand werewolf accounts are rather hard to come by—insular community and whatnot. Though I did hear something about such a book being published around a month ago. R.J.'s handiwork?"

"I'm not sure," Hope replied. "I know R.J. brought a book to read while waiting for the moon to go down last month, but I didn't get a good look at it then. All I know for sure is that he didn't leave it on the porch earlier tonight. But it wouldn't surprise me if he wrote the book you're thinking of, or at least owned it."

"Regardless, I think I'll have to track down a copy," he said, then frowned. "Wait, you mean he read the book during his time in werewolf form?"

"Yes?" Hope asked, unsure of what the wizard was getting at.

"Meaning that he was in full control of his faculties?"

"As far as I know," Hope replied. "Lyall was confused by that too."

"That's more than confusing, it's potentially revolutionary!" the wizard exclaimed. "If werewolves had a means to make themselves safe, then the laws will have to change to accommodate them."

"Just because the law changes, it won't mean that the prejudice will just go away," Hope noted.

"I wouldn't expect it to—we wizards are notorious for getting stuck in our ways—but when we get hit by something hard enough, it'll get through our thick skulls. More or less."

"Do you suppose I could assist in 'getting it through your skulls' somehow?" Hope asked. "I know my being a Muggle won't exactly lend me a lot of credibility, but I can't help but think that my outsider perspective on the situation will see something you've blinded yourselves to."

"Speaking as a wizard who's worked alongside Muggles in the past, I have little doubt you'll prove your worth in no time. But first things first," he said, taking R.J.'s papers into his hands. "I seriously need to get back up to speed on current werewolf events."

Outside of the Well of Lost Plots, 18 March 1965, 8:18 am

Alastor Moody had been at work for far too long. His original shift had been a very long one already, then the werewolf Greyback had showed up and Alastor had fought to contain the beast for somewhere in the neighborhood of 12 hours, then there was the whole mess with memories being lost. A very strong part of him wanted to simply go to sleep or to at least find someone other than himself to take care of the last few details of the night. But there was one detail he wanted to check up on before turning over The Case of Lyall Lupin and the Werewolves to some two-sickle auror who didn't know what he was doing. He needed to see the crime scene Lupin last remembered being at.

Enough time had passed that any werewolves who had been at the Lupin residence would most likely be long gone, but Alastor remained on his guard as he and the homeowner took the floo there.

Alastor noted some paw prints on the floorboards and rug that lead up to the fireplace and cast Homenum Revelio. The spell found no one in the building so Alastor signaled to Lupin that it was tentatively safe to proceed. Alastor gave the room a brief examination for clues, finding that the furniture was somewhat disheveled and that there were teeth marks on the doorknob of the back door. On the inside of the back door.

Alastor was about to turn the knob to see if teeth marks would be found on the outside as well when Lupin stopped him. "Wait. I may not remember everything from last night, but I remember that R.J. left some sort of blood wards on all the entrances to the house."

The auror groaned. "And you didn't think to mention this earlier because...?"

"It's been a busy night," Lupin defended (as if the man had more right to that excuse than Alastor himself and you didn't see him complaining), then reached to turn the knob himself. As Alastor opened his mouth to protest, Lupin held a hand up. "I'll be fine, R.J. keyed me into the wards and I remember passing through them without injury."

Alastor didn't think that Lupin should trust that these blood wards would still operate as they had before, but the wizard was already touching the knob and opening the door without ill effect. Alastor wasn't about to go through the door himself, though, so he pulled a live spider from his pocket (handy things, live spiders) and floated it through the doorway. The spider contorted in agony.

"Are you positive you want to exit through that door?" Alastor asked.

"I...erm...maybe we can go over the rest of the house first to see how Greyback got in?" Lupin suggested sheepishly, closing the door.

Alastor grunted his agreement and returned to the mess by the fireplace. He cast a spell to make the werewolf footprints easier to see, then backtracked the trail until it reached a broken window in the children's bedroom.

"R.J. warded the doors but not the windows," Alastor surmised. "Rookie mistake."

Lupin poked his head through the void in the window pane to look at the state of his home's exterior. "I think I see R.J.'s clothes," he told the auror. "Why didn't he come back for them?"

"It hasn't been that long since the moon went down," Alastor pointed out as he approached the window. "He might not be in a state to apparate right now."

"I'm pretty sure he's apparated while in the middle of transforming into a werewolf," Lupin said, "I doubt he considers post-lunar apparation a problem. And didn't Dumbledore think that R.J. 'fell off the face of the earth'? We need to figure out what exactly happened to him."

The creature expert proceeded to jump through the window and approach the folded pile of clothes. Alastor moved to follow after him, but as he touched the broken edge of the glass, a shooting pain shot up his arm and the world fell sideways.

Apparently there was a blood ward on the windows. Curse his sleep deprivation, he should have been more thorough than this! But one thing was still clear to his fogging mind.

"R.J. betrayed you," Alastor choked out as Lupin sprinted back to help him.

"You can't know that," Lupin insisted as he tried a freezing charm on Alastor's arm, which was sprouting a twisted growth all along it. "R.J. could have been captured or killed and that's why he's not here."

"Then why did th'ward on this window let Greyback through?"

Lupin paled—he didn't have an answer for that. Instead he said, "I'm going to floo us both to St. Mungo's."

Alastor nodded his approval as he felt himself go weightless as Lupin dragged him back to the fireplace. He was so lightheaded, but he needed to stay awake. Talk. "Who's treating me? Get Strout. She's busy with Bode but I don't trust anybody else, 'specially with memories being wiped out every which way. Th'witch might need help wit' the diagamanosis but I want 'er there."

Lupin grabbed some floo powder, crammed him and Alastor into the fireplace, then spoke the address of the hospital. Before the green flames could die down and the sensation of uncontrollable spinning cease, Alastor could do nothing but black out entirely.

Outside of the Well of Lost Plots, 18 March 1965, 8:33 am

Antonin Dolohov had known he'd had a contract last night with Fenrir Greyback. He remembered going to meet the werewolf. He remembered being at headquarters of the Knights of Walpurgis (an absolutely terrible name, the Dark Lord should change it to something more fearsome) later that night. He just didn't remember the events in between. Somehow Antonin hadn't even noticed that there was a blank spot until Augustus Rookwood's disembodied head appeared in the headquarters fireplace and announced it for all to hear.

Antonin had studied the mind arts, learning to protect his mind enough that anyone who'd try to tamper with it would at the least have a good struggle first. And Antonin had been crafty about it, devising ways of ensuring that, even if his mind was compromised, he'd still have enough time to alert his future self that something was wrong. And yet, none of those ways had been triggered last night.

He was far from alone in being affected. Even the Dark Lord himself had forgotten, or so Antonin figured since Voldemort immediately started shooting the Cruciatus Curse at everyone in the room. Antonin threw up an Occlumency shield—it could help with pain, but not very much, particularly when the Dark Lord was doing it.

Too many minutes to count later, Lord Voldemort regained his composure and started giving orders. The order Antonin received was to retrieve Broderick Bode from St. Mungo's, before he could give a report to the Unspeakables that was contrary to the innocuous one Rookwood had already popped back to give. Antonin was still itching to kill someone, but he humbly accepted his assignment without argument. The Crucio still shook his insides and he had no desire to be on the receiving end of one again anytime soon—the only good thing about the experience was that Antonin had a renewed appreciation for exactly how much pain his victims would be able to feel when he used it on them.

Antonin apparated to the hospital's entrance and made his way to the fourth floor, where he had to dodge healers rushing through the hall that were too preoccupied with sputtering to each other about some poor wretch who'd been cursed with 'abnormal skin growth' or 'unshakable unconsciousness' or 'contorting spider pain' to notice him. Antonin didn't really care what the emergency actually was, his main concern was that the healers seemed to have come from an observation room that Bode would be most likely to be residing in. Antonin had had several opportunities (mostly in the name of 'visiting' his victims) over the years to get a feel for St. Mungo's procedures, and if his judgment was right, Bode would now be quite alone. A quick peek through the door showed that he was right.

Perfect.

Bode turned his head toward the sound of the creaking door and Antonin quickly shot a stunner at him. Against all odds, the wizard managed to dodge.

"Dolohov," Bode spat as he grabbed his wand (it was strange that it was within reach—shouldn't the healer have deprived him of it? Or had the Unspeakable managed to hide it without her knowing?) and ducked for cover. "What does your dark lord want now?"

That shocked Antonin. The fact that Voldemort was an up-and-coming dark lord was not a well known one—there were the friends of Tom Riddle before he shed that name and a handful of newer followers (like that Rookwood) but no one else. And even if a follower had accidentally let on the existence of the Dark Lord before he made himself public, that didn't account for Bode recognizing Antonin instantly. If anyone knew the name 'Antonin Dolohov' it was usually as a hired wand who seldom showed his face to anyone but his employers and victims. Perhaps whatever had made Bode a person of interest had bequeathed him with knowledge of the Knights of Walpurgis as well.

But now was not the time for securing answers, just securing the ill-fated wizard.

Bode put up a solid defense, Antonin had to admit. But a solid defense can only go on so long without an exit strategy and St. Mungo's had anti-Apparation wards in the patient areas. Eventually, one of Antonin's Crucios hit and Bode doubled down in pain strong enough to make him drop his wand. A moment to relish the screams, then another stunner and it was over.

Antonin wished—oh how he wished—that he could have drawn this out, to bring Bode right to the brink of death and then make the agony even worse, but he had his orders: get Bode to the Dark Lord for interrogation as soon as possible. Perhaps when that was over, his master would allow Antonin to dispose of him. Or, at least, allow Antonin to watch Lord Voldemort dispose of him. The Dark Lord was the only wizard Antonin had ever known whose expertise in inflicting pain rivaled his own, so it was bound to be entertaining either way.

Outside of the Well of Lost Plots, 18 March 1965, 8:41 am

Once Lyall was assured that Alastor Moody was in good hands, he went to where he was truly needed: to his family. He didn't remember evacuating the house, but he did remember planning on taking Hope and the kids to Newt Scamander's home. In many ways, Newt had been a mentor to Lyall in the study of magical creatures but the man was also one of the very few wizards who had gone up against a dark lord and won (or so the rumors went). There were few individuals who Lyall trusted more.

Lyall greeted Newt's wife, Tina, who waited on her doorstep with wand at the ready. Hopefully that meant that his family really was there.

"It's me, it's Lyall," he said, raising his empty hands over his head. "Is everything alright?"

"Thus far," Tina replied, not moving her wand an inch. "Can you verify that you are who I think you are?"

He thought identity verification was a tad overkill, but Tina had been an Auror during Grindelwald's prime so Lyall decided to go along with it. "I don't remember if I set up any passwords with you, but I doubt you'd remember if I did that either. Nobody remembers the first hour of the full moon last night except Dumbledore."

Tina grimaced. "What is the old coot up to now?"

Lyall shrugged. "Whatever it is, he's being tight-lipped about it. Anyway. Would me casting a Patronus Charm be sufficient proof of who I am?"

"I'll have to check with Newt to see if he knows what yours is," Tina said, then quickly cast a Patronus herself. The silvery white creature she created scampered into the house. A moment later, Newt arrived.

"I got your message, Tina," the wizard said.

"'Message'?" Lyall asked. He recalled Moody casting a Patronus Charm before they'd headed to the Department of Mysteries—was using a Patronus as a messenger something that those more closely associated with Dumbledore than he had learned to do?

"Don't worry about it," Newt said, "just cast your Patronus for me and we'll get you back to Hope and the boys."

Lyall nodded—maybe he'd figure it out on his own time. Ensuring that his family was safe with his own eyes took priority. He focused on the day that Hope had given birth to two amazing sons and cast, "Expecto Patronum."

A silvery wolf emerged from the tip of his wand. Looking at it, Lyall couldn't help but feel a bit uneasy—yes, it was a true wolf instead of a werewolf, and the form had been the same for many years, but now it seemed an ominous portent instead of comforting protector.

Newt examined the Patronus in detail and nodded approvingly. "It looks like it's you. Come inside."

Lyall followed Newt (Tina insisted on staying on guard duty) to the guest room, where Hope was looking through some papers. She caught a glimpse of Lyall from the corner of her eye and all but jumped into her husband's arms. "Is everything alright? Did anyone get hurt? Are you alright? You look terrible. What took you so long?"

Lyall stroked his wife's hair and managed a smile. "Everything's fine, love. The werewolf who attacked us has been taken into Ministry custody. I needed to stay and help sort something out. We might have a larger problem on our hands than just a killer werewolf, but it's in the Department of Mysteries' hands now. I'll explain later. But first, you. Have you gotten any rest at all?"

Hope shook her head. "As if I could, knowing you were out there. Remus and Romulus at least managed to drift off sometime around midnight, I think."

Lyall looked at the bed that was closest to the door, where Remus and Romulus were under the covers next to each other, breathing peacefully. He, too, breathed easier.

Everyone was safe.

Lyall turned to his old mentor. "Thank you for keeping them out of danger."

"It wasn't due to much on my part," Newt replied.

Lyall shook his head. "If they had stayed home, they would be injured or worse. R.J.'s safeguards didn't work. Or rather, they don't work against werewolves."

"That's not too surprising, I suppose," Newt said. "Werewolves are notoriously difficult to ward against. Very strong physical barriers would be your best bet, I think."

"But why would R.J. specifically put blood wards up if they wouldn't work?"

"Blood wards?" Newt asked. "I guess he might have just been trying the strongest thing he knew about. Regardless, I think you should probably get a curse breaker or two to look at your house to see what the actual intent was behind the wards. In the meantime, you and your family are free to stay here as long as you need. You both could use some rest, I think."

Lyall and Hope shared a look of agreement and Newt departed. Hope began to clean up the pieces of parchment that she had been looking through.

"What are these?" Lyall asked.

"R.J. left some editorials he was working on on the porch after he finished talking to you and I've been looking through them with your wizard friend," Hope explained, handing over the top piece of parchment to skim over. "Do you remember how I told you about what happened with the black Muggles in Birmingham, when Western Mail asked for everyone to contribute to the stained glass window?"

Lyall nodded. He hadn't really understood why a window would help, but he'd agreed that he and Hope would donate to the cause. It was the decent thing to do, whether you were a Muggle or a wizard. Simple as that.

"The prejudice that faces those people is very similar to the kinds of things werewolves have to put up with."

"Except werewolves are dangerous," Lyall noted.

"So are every other kind of people," Hope said. "Wizards especially. You could point your wand in my face and snuff out my life."

Lyall reached a hand out toward his wife's. "Hope, you know I'd never—"

"You never would," she agreed, taking his hand and giving it a quick squeeze. "But you could. And so could a Muggle with a weapon or a werewolf with his claws. Yet how often is it that if the majority decides that they don't like a minority group, that minority is made out to be demons who are certain to kill you? This article makes it pretty clear that most werewolves wouldn't hurt anyone were it not for the extreme circumstances."

"You do realize that this article was written by a werewolf?" Lyall asked.

"Have you forgotten that he saved our sons? Or that you put your trust in him last night?" Then her face fell. "Is that why you've had a change of heart? Did he betray you?"

"I really hope not, but..." Lyall said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Well, he could very likely be the source of a much bigger problem."

"Which is?" Hope prodded.

"It seems that almost everyone in the world lost a portion of their memories early last night. And R.J. hasn't been seen since." He took out the bundle of clothing that he'd retrieved from outside his house. "This is the only tangible proof I have that R.J. existed at all."

"And what do you call the papers I've sprawled over for every forsaken hour of the night?" his wife retorted.

"Alright, point conceded. But instead of looking for insight into werewolves, perhaps we should be looking for insight into R.J. the man instead?" Lyall opened up R.J.'s robe and a quick search through its pockets yielded a book he'd seen once before.

"'Hairy Snout, Human Heart'?" Hope read. "It certainly sounds like the name of something R.J. would write."

"Maybe," Lyall conceded. "How about you take the book and I'll go through the articles with a fresh set of eyes?" he suggested.

"Sure," Hope said, then opened the thin volume. A moment later, she said, "Question: if R.J. left a note in this book asking us to tell Albus Dumbledore to do something, should we pass the message on?"

Lyall looked over Hope's shoulder to see a handwritten note on the book's title page.

I apologize for being unable to give this message in person—I got stuck in a Well and haven't been able to claw myself out. I am working under the assumption that Dumbledore opened his mind to the possibilities of the universe and I'd appreciate it if he did so again. I will write more after he has done so—just don't let him fiddle with anything beyond creating that initial connection so he doesn't make matters worse.

R.J.

"I...I honestly have no idea what to do about this," Lyall admitted. "I mean, Dumbledore is usually the type of person whose judgment I'd trust. It's just that this very morning I saw him accidentally inflict some sort of extreme mental trauma on someone using some technique he'd gotten second-hand from R.J.—quite possibly whatever he seems to be asking Dumbledore to do here."

"Accidents can happen to anybody," Hope reminded him. "Now that Dumbledore is aware of the delicate nature of things, I doubt he'd be careless going forward."

"Dumbledore thought he was being careful," Lyall said. "Honestly, I think he's in the dark as much as any of us but he won't let himself admit it since if people see him of all people at a total loss, the Wizarding World will completely fall apart not long after."

"Then we do our due diligence first," Hope said. "And I already see one glaring issue: this note reads as if R.J. wrote it today, after whatever happened with Dumbledore. He disappeared yesterday. Ergo, he knew what was going to happen."

Lyall frowned. "Not necessarily. I only recovered the book after all that. He very well could have snuck back to our house and left it, acting as if he's 'stuck in a Well.' Which means even that though he's in hiding, he is still working very hard to influence us, for good or ill."

Before Hope could comment, the door opened slightly to reveal a woman's face—Tina Scamander. "I'm sure whatever it is you're talking about is fascinating, but so long as all immediate dangers have passed, go to sleep. If you can't do it on your own, I'll be more than happy to get you some tea laced with a strong sleeping draught."

"We should be fine," Hope said before Lyall could accept the offered gift.

"I sure hope so since, by my reckoning, your two boys are due to be waking up soon. Newt and I know our way around boys of that age. We'll take good care of them, but we'd like to have some conscious parents to hand them off to when we reach our limits of awakeness. So: sleep."

There was little arguing with that so Lyall and Hope retired to the guest bed. It was still some time before Lyall could fall asleep, however, so he began to scribble with a pencil his various thoughts on the nearest paper surface, which happened to be Hairy Snout, Human Heart. He planned on erasing the ramblings in the morning, but the process of getting his thoughts out of his mind eventually worked to calm himself enough into falling into blessed unconsciousness.

Outside of the Well of Lost Plots, 19 March 1965, 3:40 am

For LORD VOLDEMORT, infiltrating a mind was an art. He doesn't merely snap the mind in two by sheer force—that defeated the purpose. No, He had long since come to the conclusion that it was far better to break the mind slowly, breaking the inconsequential bits like snapping twigs, all the while circling around the one bit of information He actually wanted to know before striking to get it.

And if the victim knew Occlumency? By all means let the poor fool expend all his willpower on protecting things that didn't really matter. The Dark Lord had more than enough mental stamina to keep a steady push throughout the process and still be able to hammer down hard on the Occlumency barriers on the most precious of secrets.

That final hammering down—that was where LORD VOLDEMORT had to be most careful. Too hard and He only got fragments of what He needed. Too soft and the poor fool might actually get enough hope to strengthen the barriers and resume the fight harder than ever. At that point, it was hardly worth continuing if the victim put all his focus on what truly needed protection. Maybe LORD VOLDEMORT could keep trying, but He'd rather take a break doing more important things and return to the task later once He was refreshed and the victim's fierce determination subdued on its own.

Broderick Bode's mental shields were stronger than your average wizard. Not many 18-year-olds could boast enough Occlumency ability to go through multiple rounds of mental infiltration with the Dark Lord without breaking. This would be attempt number 4.

The fact that the young man in question was an Unspeakable could account for that. At least, it would were it not for Rookwood's prior warnings. Bode had something impossible guiding his actions, that much was certain. LORD VOLDEMORT would have suspected that Bode was being possessed by a horcrux were it not for the fact that He knew He'd recognize that kind of dark magic instantaneously.

The Dark Lord strode into the small dark room. Bode sat there disheveled and unwilling to acknowledge His presence with so much as a glance. All the Unspeakable did was mouth words to himself over and over, as he had for every moment that he'd been in His presence.

LORD VOLDEMORT didn't bother with preamble, he merely stretched His mental muscles and prepared Himself for another onslaught.

I'M A LITTLE TEAPOT SHORT AND STOUT! Bode's mind screamed the instant the mental connection was reestablished. THIS IS MY HANDLE, THIS IS MY SPOUT!

Repeating a pathetic Muggle novelty song over and over. It was an odd tactic, yet it was surprisingly effective in reinforcing Bode's Occulmency shields. The wizard had mentally sung about being a teapot hundreds of times, each iteration being out of tune in a different unpredictable way. It required the Legilimens that much more focus to ignore it—and though the Dark Lord was most certainly capable of that focus, it was more draining than what he was used to.

LORD VOLDEMORT would try things a little differently this time. He went straight for the secret that Bode was protecting at all costs. Bode gasped in surprise, but the shields went up before the Dark Lord could access the secret. LORD VOLDEMORT hammered at that thought again and again, pushing His drive to know further and further, proving to Himself that He could one day be impossible to thwart in the mental realm. And just when that onslaught felt like it couldn't go on any longer, the Dark Lord summoned all of His strength and prepared to hammer once more.

WHEN I GET ALL STEAMED UP HEAR ME SHOUT: TIP ME OVER AND POUR ME OUT! I'M A LITTLE TEAPOT SHORT AND STOUT!

But when LORD VOLDEMORT brought the hammer down, it wasn't on Bode's most precious secret. It was on a secret that the Dark Lord had noticed in His prior attempts, one that was almost as protected as the most precious one but that He hadn't focused on at all—at least, not until now. Bode hadn't been ready. The young Unspeakable's mind coughed up the knowledge before he could stop himself.

It was the feeling of a spell, one with no incantation, and yet it was strong enough to feel connected to the very cosmos. Was this what Bode had experienced with Dumbledore? And if it was, what could possibly be more worthy of keeping secreted away?

The connection snapped, but not before one final word leaked out: Reintegrate. It was spoken not with Bode's own voice, but with Dumbledore's.

The Dark Lord probed back in once more to see if there was anything else He could grab while Bode was vulnerable, but it seemed like Bode's last move to protect his secrets had also snapped his psyche in the process. A pity, but it was unavoidable, the Dark Lord supposed. Hopefully the secret He did learn would prove to be profitable.

Rookwood had reported everything Bode had said while he'd been eavesdropping on him and one statement now stood out to the Dark Lord. You're lucky that I was your guinea pig or that never would have worked. If by 'that' Bode meant the spell He'd just gleaned from the Unspeakable's mind...

LORD VOLDEMORT cast His newfound spell upon Bode. The Dark Lord wasn't exactly the type of wizard to call something beautiful, but that undercurrent of possibility, that whiff of power that engulfed His senses...it was certainly worthy of the term. Unfortunately, harnessing the spell would not work merely because the Dark Lord wanted that power firmly within His grasp. He was certain that that wouldn't be a problem, however—Voldemort only had to mentally speak the word Dumbledore had.

"Reintegrate."

Bode convulsed. The Dark Lord smiled in satisfaction—naturally, the spell would take effect on His first try.

But when Voldemort probed Bode's mind, He once again found unusable mush. It was a different quality of mush than before, to be certain, but still mush. Useless—completely useless. And since He'd wrangled everything He could out of Bode, the Unspeakable was no longer needed.

"Avada Kedavra."

He came to the conclusion that "reintegrate" wasn't something that was supposed to be performed twice on the same person. But, perhaps, it would work on someone who was similar to Bode in a fundamental way. Perhaps it was something that worked only on Unspeakables?

And, as luck would have it, LORD VOLDEMORT had an Unspeakable who would be willing to do whatever He asked of him. Maybe it would be wasteful to potentially turn Rookwood's mind to mush, but it wasn't like He would never have the chance to recruit another Unspeakable to His Knights again. Might as well find out before Rookwood became an indispensable asset rather than a merely useful one.

But Rookwood was currently back at the Ministry, performing his job, and it wouldn't do to call him away immediately. But after the sun rose and Rookwood was free to return, however, the young man would become the key to some invaluable insight. One way or another...

Author's Note

This chapter has been an absolute pain in the butt to write. I'd assumed when I'd started posting chapters that I was close to wrangling this one, only to realize that every single scene needed a major overhaul (and some of those overhauls, in turn, had to be completely rewritten yet again or spun off into completely different scenes), so apologies for making you wait these past few months.

Fun fact: That thing about Welsh people raising money to replace the stained glass window after a bombing in Birmingham, Alabama in 1963? 100-percent true. We Muggles can be awesome sometimes. If you want to know more, go do a little digging on the artist John Petts.

All my love,

pisoprano