The Less Dramatic Solution – A Surgical Strike

A/N: I know I had said that this would be last, but I personally don't like the idea of a fifteen thousand word mammoth, so I split it into two and an epilogue. Those two will be up by tomorrow morning, India time.


The group consisting of Madam Longbottom, Professor Dumbledore and Filius Flitwick (all three were dab hands at understanding and creating rituals – Augusta was brought up as a follower of the old ways) were seated at the table in the former's office, working over the solution to Harry's problem. Harry had provided them with all the material, in books and in memories, regarding the exorcism and time travel ritual. They had started with the latter first.

"I had no idea that this ever existed," Filius commented excitedly. "Just look at this ritual! They sacrificed twenty two Death Eaters, one for each of the years they wished to travel back! Just think of the sheer magic it must have taken, the sheer power consumed!"

Dumbledore, lately the one of the lighter moods, had to suppress a snigger at the Charms Master's zeal and enthusiasm. "The question, my dear Filius, is not about the ritual itself, but about dealing with its effects. We know by now, that Bartemius Crouch Junior has become the unwitting, but not unwilling receptacle of Snape's memories. The problem we are dealing with is to catch him and his master in whatever body he is, and to eliminate them, while at the same time, helping the older Harry on to the Next Great Adventure."

"And that's what I am not sure of."

"What?"

"The older Harry is nothing more than a bunch of memories, isn't it?"

"Not really, no," answered Dumbledore thoughtfully. I have had the chance to observe both. The younger Harry is very much as you'd expect a teenager to be – a little naive, rebellious, curious. But the older one is a different animal altogether. He made the decisions that led to the 'Hogwarts Hysteria'," he added with a snigger. The alliterated name amused him a lot. "What I am trying to say is that the older Harry is a consciousness that can fight and win against Voldemort, had this happened a decade later. The younger Harry is the innocence tempering the older warrior. If we have to survive beyond Voldemort, we need both."

"What do you mean?"

"The older one is wise, and effective, like a well-forged blade. But a blade still has an edge, and therefore must be sheathed and should be used drawn only when necessary. A sword, on its own, can either become dull and rusted, or can cut."

"You are worried that he will go Dark?"

"Who is bereft of Darkness, Filius? I am not, you are not, and Harry isn't. We are humans. There always is a primal desire to hurt those who hurt us, to annihilate the enemy. For Harry with Voldemort, the enemy is very real. The older Harry embraced the Darkness, if only out of desperation. It gave him a different perspective. I want that preserved, for the Harry of the current time to learn it."

Filius nodded. "Experience is the best teacher," he sagely agreed. Here Harry had the chance to learn from his own experiences of a future that would never come. "So why let him go?"

Dumbledore sighed and then steepled his fingers, before resting his wrinkled forehead on them. "If the older Harry is kept in this place where he has nothing and nobody left, he will go insane, with or without those memories. There will always be a sense of something missing. This Ms. Granger is not the wife he had children with, nor are Misters Weasley and Longbottom his friends from the future, as Sirius and Remus were for James. He shall forever remain a welcome guest, but still an outsider. And that will make him see enemies where there aren't any. No. I will not let that young man become a paranoid old codger."

Filius frowned at the grim but real picture that Albus was painting. It was true. And he owed it to Lily, but more importantly the boy himself, to help him.

Augusta then had something to suggest. "Let us work towards preserving a part of the older Mr. Potter's presence. I would suggest that you get him to write a diary or memoir of some sort. What? Why? When? How? The younger Harry will have his questions answered by himself."

Dumbledore suppressed a shudder. Augusta was suggesting a very well-known bit of magic, actually. It was called the ghost book, and was similar to the magical paintings of dead people in that it replicated the memories or nature and consciousness of the subject. Unfortunately, it was too close for comfort to Tom Riddle's Diary.

"It is worth considering," he offered, a bit patronisingly and very noncommittally. And it was. Only, the idea would have to be reworked into something similar, yet different. It would be a long forever till Albus, and Albus was certain about Harry as well, would ever feel comfortable around Diaries that communicated back with the writer.

It was at that precise moment that Remus Lupin, the last member of the research quartet stumbled into the room set aside for the research, and collapsed into a chair. He looked absolutely woebegone. In fact, he rather looked like a man who was waiting for the impending surety of the death of a loved one.

"Remus?" ventured Filius. Ever since the werewolf had been reunited with that scamp of a best friend of his, Sirius Black, and his nephew in all ways that mattered, Filius had seen the man transform and live his true age of thirty three. Well, with more maturity, but then that was a trait developed in his schooldays when he roamed with Sirius Black and James Potter – and the traitor, out of necessity.

Remus only let out a stuttering breath in response.

"You were not successful in your search." Augusta had sussed out the truth of the matter immediately.

"Yes." Remus' voice was small and it was breaking. "I searched every exorcism ritual I could get my hands on – some even requiring human sacrifice. It's for the cub, so..." he cleared his throat a bit. "Anyway, I found the one the older Albus used. I found several more that have since bled over into the muggle world. They are all useless." He then dropped his head into his hands and his knees became elbow-rests.

"But..." Albus started to protest. They couldn't have it. Harry had to be cleansed and protected at any cost. "Why?" he finally asked.

"Exorcism as an act refers to freeing a soul's true body from an encroachment, a trespassing. The rituals were designed because the trespasser was murderous. It is almost universally true. Similarly, all accounts of successful exorcisms have worked on only those subjects that were innocent. Harry isn't – he willingly killed Pettigrew, Snape and McNair, not to mention Umbridge."

"That makes no sense, Remus. In both timelines, Harry killed Quirunus Quirrel. I have seen the memory, as have you. Harry mightn't have wanted to kill, but he knew he was hurting Quirrel and kept at it. Yet he was exorcised the last time around of the shard."

"That was what stumped me as well. I had a hunch. But I discarded it."

"Let's hear it, at least."

"Voldemort was corporeal when Harry was exorcised of his bit. The soul had somewhere to go, if you hadn't banished it. In the available accounts of successful exorcisms, the possessing entity had no body. In this case, it did. That was the only difference. The way I saw it, Harry's actions, taken purely in self-defence and Voldemort having a corporeal body introduced magical singularities of some sort."

The other three wore constricted expressions. Finally Filius tried to say what they all wanted to. "That...er...seems to be a bit too far-fetched, Remus."

"I know. It was why I discarded it. There is one more theory – Voldemort took Harry's blood and was just a magical construct. It is probable that when the shard was exorcised, it joined up with the main piece. And I also had another far–fetched one regarding Harry surviving because of a potent mix of basilisk tears and..." he yawned widely, "phoenix venom."

His audience blinked.

"Have you taken notes, Remus?"

"Yes. I have been doing that for the past three days."

"I assume you haven't slept even a bit."

"Not sure," the werewolf mumbled in response.

"Go sleep!" Augusta commanded. Remus shuffled out without protest.

"Do you think he is taking this a bit too seriously? He is so jumbled up without rest that he is hardly retaining any coherence, not to mention talking about Phoenix Venom."

"Of course he is. Everyone knows the alternative. I can hardly imagine Remus being willing to lose the child of his best friends."

"Speak to Sirius, then!"

"I do want to have the school still standing on the first of September."

The three shared a hearty chuckle, before they calmed down. "You did dismiss Remus' ideas as being far-fetched, Filius..."

"You don't honestly believe that, do you?"

"...but I fear that he may have been onto something with the second."

"Blood magic?" asked Augusta.

"It is a dichotomy, Augusta. Blood is a highly magical substance, yet it is equally so irrespective of the being and whether or not said being is magical. It's not only dragon blood that has uses, you know."

"So you mean to say that Voldemort, magically, became a warped kind of clone of Harry?" asked Filius sceptically.

"These are uncharted waters. When Albus told me about the matter, I felt so completely out of my depth, and still do, as a matter of fact. Split souls, time travel, arcane magic and all that; it seems surreal to me. What Remus was probably trying to say was that the ritual had no precedent when it was performed then, and probably still doesn't. Will it fail because of the killings? We do not and cannot know for sure. We need to decipher the notes to get some direction."

"Now that I think of it, Remus' explanation would make sense if it takes into account the missing information," Filius mused aloud. "When Harry had only killed Quirrel, the same entity possessed both the combatants. How was it murder of or by anyone then? With the others in this timeline, Harry has destroyed that particular singularity."

That made sense. And it aged Dumbledore momentarily. He couldn't coast along on his temporal counterpart's work. On the other hand, this meant that he would have to and would get to learn new magic. That cheered him a bit.

Remus' notes proved to be a treasure trove of information. There were just so many, many, rituals that the man had researched. After a point, it was quite obvious that it was not directed research as it was desperation. He had only now gotten to meet his nephew, only to have to face the prospect of the boy being snatched away. Neither seemed able to catch a break.

A scribble in the margin was a 'what if' as well. What if all the shards except Harry's scar, were eliminated along with the consciousness of Voldemort? Harry could happily live a life, and the shard would die once Harry died naturally. Remus' colleagues could hardly constrain their grimace – it was looking like a very enticing option.

There was though, a glimmer of hope. Remus had found a reference about soulscapes. Soulscapes were, as the name suggested, the very landscapes of the human souls. It was only a theory, that, Souls could exist on a plane adjacent to the physical one when the body was in a state of stasis of some sort. A layman would call it limbo. If it were true, it would also be theoretically be possible for people to willingly enter this plane, and selectively coax a part of a person, or, as in Harry's case, his soul without the parasitic attachment.

The man had found a lot, and in his desperation had gone about hunting down every reference he could get his hands on. It was neatly written, but there were more cold leads and dead ends than anything they could work with. Several possible hints or solutions needed further development and work to make them elegant solutions. It was going to be really hard work.

There still remained the matter of Ravenclaw's Shield. They were without any clue regarding where it was, or where it would be. It was a matter of great worry, coupled with the matters of the absconding Barty Crouch Junior and a partially resurrected Voldemort, and Harry's scar.


The school term had ended early owing to the various deaths and the Hogwarts Hysteria. It was not much, just one week more than the last time around. But what a difference a week made. Allowing for two weeks of holidays, and starting from the final quarter of June, the quartet worked on the exorcism, to little effect, while Moody started the training for the younger group. By this time Hogwarts had been completely cleaned, so the parents of the participants were present as well at the school.


Moody was rather pleased with Harry's skills and decision making ability. This wasn't meant to reflect poorly upon the others, but rather to be used as a training exercise of sorts. He had quickly sussed out that if he underpowered his spells quite a bit, he could use Potter to explain the non-spell aspects of the fights. He had tested the boy. Apart from the fact that his power was not up to his standard – he was just fourteen compared to the middle-aged, seventy three –year-old Moody – it was obvious that not only had he taught Potter, but more importantly, Potter had learnt from him. He could truly say that for very few of his protégés.

The first day, he had not allowed even one of greenhorns to touch their wands. As the lone voice of reason in the department supporting physical fitness in his academy days, Alastor had been the butt of jokes – till he became the most accomplished dueller of his batch, and also of many before or after him. That was what he expected of the idiots.

The moment he had ordered them to leave their wands, Potter had stripped off to a t-shirt and a pair of shorts, had lugged two stones of roughly equal mass to the old Auror and waited patiently for him to transfigure them into ankle-weights before strapping them on and taking off for four laps around the lake. Alastor had not passed the order, but the way the boy had reacted as if it were ingrained in him to obey the command told what Alastor wanted to know. It did not matter that Potter had collapsed halfway through the first round itself. By the memories, the last time he had done this was as a thirty-five year-old. At fourteen he did not have the strength in his still developing body.

The fact that Potter crawled back up and started again meant that Alastor cast any doubts and aspersions about their dedication that he had to the four winds. It was always nice to work with dedicated and enthusiastic students.

For all their declarations of solidarity and such, the other six – Luna, Hermione, Susan, Ginny, Ron and Neville – had huddled together and dropped off into deep sleep after roundly cussing at Mad-Eye and Harry, just before tea. Harry had paced the Great Hall till dinner and then some more, all the while talking to Sirius, who himself was building his strength. Both were dancing a weird jig with waving hands to keep the appendages working. Had either of them fallen asleep, so would have their muscles. Preserving their biological cycles otherwise was of great importance. It was going to be a challenge to keep spirits and the determination up for two weeks. Most people managed to get things into stride by then.

At dinner the first night, Ron so very wanted to eat everything he could touch. Unfortunately, the pull-ups and push-ups he had been forced into (only two sets of fifteen twice that day – he was a pureblood, which was a codeword for lazy) meant that he could barely move his arms. He had ended up inhaling porridge by the gallons. The others were not in any better shape. Hermione had spent the first two days casting filthy glares at Harry. Those glares had their potency marred by the pained grimaces.

By the end of the week, the grumbling group had successfully managed one whole lap around the lake. Harry himself had soldiered on to three. He was not going to mollify the others. The way he saw it, if the Shield was obtained soon enough, there would not be any war on the horizon. He was preparing for war, not participating in a summer camp. He was slightly disappointed, but then he realised that he was a grown-up man when working, while the others really were kids all the time.

It was only by the end of the second week that anyone was allowed to touch their wand at all. That was a big achievement with Mad-Eye.

And thereafter, it was disappointment again for Hermione, who wanted to learn new spells and for the others who mostly were excited at the prospect of getting to do magic more than their peers could. They were working with the disarming spell. After ten minutes of uncooperative behaviour, Harry had stomped over to Luna, who was the second most vocal protestor after Ron, and disarmed her thrice. The first time, she was merely disarmed. The second time, her hand and wand were so forcibly ripped apart that she wailed in pain. The third time, she was thrown away five metres. Not a single word was spoken, as Harry had cast non-verbally.

Nobody protested after that. After thirty hours of training with that one spell, which would make disarming an opponent and causing more damage if required with acute control an automatic response, Mad-Eye progressed to the basic cutting spell.

The training was brutal, but none of the 'victims' could complain about its efficacy. They had each grown quite a lot and had developed well. More importantly, their reflexes were truly top-notch for their age – and that was quite a thing, given that a majority of the lower rung Death Eaters were considerably less skilled and could easily be compared to street rowdies.

Hermione's parents had been most vocal in that regard.

"You look...great, kitten," Agatha had remarked. In her memory, this was more physical exercise than Hermione had engaged in through all her previous years. Unfortunately, she was standing behind her daughter, who immediately crouched and pointed her wand at the speaker. Agatha gasped and then said in awe, "What stupendous reflexes!"

Hermione regained her breath as well, and replied, "Necessity, mum, drives us all."

Gone was the baby fat from the bodies of the teens. They were now looking exactly like young trainees. They weren't yet warriors, not by a long shot. Yet their chances of survival had jumped up exponentially. It was easily the best decision they and their parents had made.

Once he was sure of the training he had till then imparted Mad-Eye started teaching stealth and tracking, information collection, concealment and disguise, emergency evacuation procedures (they were not to engage under any condition. Their job was to help during an attack and shore things up behind cover till back-up arrived) and tactical training, including guerrilla methods. Ron soon learnt just how much chess was useful in that – it wasn't, at all. Things were not toned down to accommodate their ages. Death Eaters didn't work that way.

Even Harry knew that at the moment he was no match for any concerted effort by the enemy. Whatever he had done till then, while dealing with Death Eaters, had been based off the element of surprise. He was humble enough to acknowledge that, and that helped the others accept things easily as well.


For the exorcists, the known, reliable sources had been exhausted. Emissaries (Dumbledore and a few Aurors) had been sent to Knockturn Alley to raid the Dark Arts bookstores and known dabblers who nonetheless weren't public enemies, for more information. It had also given a valid excuse to raid and apprehend on suspicion, several of the sort that were enemies of the public. That hadn't yielded anything significant whatsoever. This had caused Sirius to have a massive, long-overdue meltdown. And Sirius' serious meltdown obviously included remarkable rudeness and crassness as a wrapping for his fear, worry and care for his godson.

"I don't understand what is going on!" Sirius was in his rant mode. That meant that there was equal probability of him either making a statement most asinine, or throwing up a gem of an idea. The day was different. Sirius was going to do both in one go. After spending thirty minutes berating everyone he could find to apportion the blame to (he was rather deep in his cups that night) in their absence, he stomped out of his room and stood unsteadily in the Great Hall, facing the ritual committee.

"Oh dear," muttered Remus. "He's been drinking again."

"You!" screamed Sirius, pointing at the four. "You are sitting he-here on your ar-arshes and getting nothing done. Why are you washting time after a ritual? What are you going to do to ensure that Voldemort never hash a body again?"

There were no volunteers. That particular elephant in the room had been ignored in favour of keeping the timeline intact.

"I th-thought sho. You know what? Ph-Fuck you all. I am not leshing my puff become dzagon food or whatever elshe equally shtupid thaz thaz Twir-Tridwi-Triwizard competition will thdow up. I have had enough of being locked up here. I am going to take down Bartshy and hish mashter."

The next moment, though, Sirius was out cold on the ground. Remus had stunned him. "I am sorry Pads," the werewolf muttered. "But you seemed to be intent on taking yet another foolish decision that could've had you end up with unsavoury and probably permanent results."

"He is right, Remus."

Remus spun in his seat to look in surprise at the diminutive Charms Master who had spoken. "WHAT?"

"Yes. We sit here, deliberating on a solution, waiting in anticipation of whatever changes Barty Crouch and You-Know-Who put up and trying to find the Shield. The truth of the matter is that this puts too many people at risk. Bertha Jorkins should be embedded with a trace, if she hasn't already left. We don't know if any more of those pieces can be made..."

"They can't. He reached the limit. He is one greedy bugger. Any more attempts and his existing conscious soul disintegrates – provided of course that the Shield was already made in this timeline and the last," interjected Remus. That was something they hadn't even considered.

"Well thank Merlin for small mercies," Filius replied in slight relief. "As Sirius says, what's the point of letting You-Know-Who run amok, exactly? All things considered, as we know for a fact that Crouch has some of the traitor's memories, we have to move to make them redundant. Tell me Albus, we saw Harry tell you about the dreams regarding the homunculus. Would you have discussed those matters with Severus?"

Albus sat in pensive contemplation. "I can now categorically say that I wouldn't. But I do not know how much of that stance would be influenced by hindsight and the knowledge that Harry has brought from the future." He received frowns in response, so he had to further defend himself. "I thought him to be truly remorseful of his actions, and he was the one who had told me that Tom had found out about the prophecy and was targeting the Potters and the Longbottoms. He was Lily's friend. At the time, I honestly believed that the information was to help protect them."

"Why them?" asked Remus. "I mean, even the Bones girl was born on the 30th of July, so that is as the seventh month dies, isn't it?"

"I admit I did not think of that at the time. My first instinct was to mobilise the two families towards protection – as much as I could provide, and for what it was worth."

"Your intentions were good, but your informant was compromised to start with. Before he killed you, Snape gloated how he himself was the hobbling, disguised wretch who had heard the prophecy outside the door," informed Harry.

"Oh." He felt horrible, really. Mistake upon dreadful mistake had been made – and in supporting the traitor, he had made the criminal mistake of letting Sirius rot in prison. The two actions might not be related, but regret isn't always rational. It was something the people around him ensured he would be reminded of all the time. As anyone with half a brain knew, being reminded of one's mistakes – especially the ones that the person has accepted – every waking moment was the worst punishment. "All the same, Filius, what were you proposing?"

"We make a list of his potential hideouts. Between the people present at the moment, and given his precarious state as a homunculus, he will not be able to put up much of a fight. We can of course subdue him with a petrifaction or the Draught of Living Death or something else similar till we can find a permanent solution. Crouch has no reason to believe that we will take the offensive – or to even believe that he is not the only one with the gift from the future. That's exactly what Sirius was proposing."

It had been put forth to Moody who had growled and grunted in approval. It was absolutely necessary for Harry to be included in that mission, and for once, the scar was going to be used as Dumbledore had envisioned it.


"How long has it been since you last went camping, Dumbledore?" Sirius ribbed the Headmaster. With a completely trimmed beard and hair that was cut short to neck-length, Albus Dumbledore looked like an amiable old grandfather out camping with his grandson, sons and friends. Dressed in a tweed blazer, a simple shirt, cargo trousers and dragonhide boots, he actually looked every bit the part.

"Too long, young man!" exclaimed Albus. "I think it must have been at least a hundred years. I and my Melanie had gone off to the forest of Dean with our children and grandchildren. We had such a grand time!" The old man was grinning as he held his stick of fat-layered sausages over the campfire and roasted them to perfection and reminisced about those times.

Extensive grilling of every apprehended Death Eater had given them a set of probable hideouts with rather detailed descriptions. With Harry reversing the scar-trick on Voldemort, they had been able to narrow down to one of three places. The first had been barren. This was the second they were scouting, a small town twenty miles south of Dover. Mad-Eye, Remus and Harry were the other members of this party. Filius and Kingsley Shacklebolt were filling in for Mad-Eye as trainers.

Those three members were going around to shops and checking for a sudden increase in deliveries or one person buying a lot of grocery items, or anyone acting oddly. Just because there was a hideout in the vicinity did not mean that the fugitives would not use a proxy.

"You know, Sirius, I have really missed these simple pleasures. It's just been one war to the next for me. I'd been feeling tired, you know."

"Is there any particular reason why you are talking like someone nearing the end?" Sirius' tone was bored, but Dumbledore had over a hundred and thirty years of experience to discern the note of panic.

"My time is ending, Sirius. It is going to be the time for you all to step up. In fact it has been so for about three decades. You are all powerful magicals. This is the last battle. I can feel it in my bones. Soon I will be counsel at best, but not the leader. That is a position that your godson will take up. And you have to manage the politic well enough to ensure that he gets a good enough launch pad when his time comes."

"Headmaster?" gasped Sirius.

"Yes, m'boy. You are a Black. So you have inherited much information that Dorea and her sister Cassiopeia have collected on people. Your savviness was evident through your days as the Auror/Prankster in the first war. You have the power of public opinion and a very legal handle to manipulate the ministry with. Use it. Eventually, it will come handy. You all are the future, though you are not, personally, going to be the long-term leader. You will handle the transition."

Sirius was stuck dumb by those words.

"Think about it, Sirius. There is still a lot of time. I am going to be active for another five years at least, provided I am not taken out of the picture as Snape did last time."

Sirius had several grudges with Dumbledore, several things to be angry about. But in every situation, Dumbledore seemed to be the person he could shout at, he could be angry at or something like that and get away with it. It had never truly struck him that even he was about as old as Dumbledore's great-great grandson at best, had the Headmaster had a family left. That the man was old, and that there would be magical Britain beyond him, or one that would not have him involved in some way, was unthinkable. That he was the one required to handle the transition for when Britain switched from idolising Dumbledore to idolising Harry, made him feel very inadequate.

"I see that I have made you think a bit too far. It seems to have shaken you a bit. Never mind it, m'boy. Let me tell you a story about the time Aberforth and I had gone to the forest near our home when we were young..."

By the time the hunting party returned from a fairly successful hunt, Dumbledore was still going on, telling stories from his long life, while Sirius was doing his level-best to stay awake. On spying Harry and Remus, the man bounded up to them, just like his animagus form, with a truly despairing expression on his face. "You have to help me! He is insane! He is telling me story after story and won't stop! And he told me how he wooed his wife! That's just wrong! I don't want to know about ancient, prehistoric love stories!"

The grim expressions on their faces stopped the tirade.

"You have found them, haven't you?"

"Let's get to the camp."

Once the camp was secured to the satisfaction of everybody, Harry reported, "They are here. Barty raped a virgin whom he kidnapped last month and gave her a potion to ensure the birth of a male child, and another to accelerate the growth of the foetus. Voldemort has possessed the foetus. The poor girl is going to die. Sirlparl's ritual it is, for the homunculus, just like last time."

"Do you know the ritual?" Alastor asked Albus.

"I do. And it explains a lot. Should it be successful, we are doomed. This is the worst of all possible situations."

"Why?"

"Voldemort is going to be reborn, in every sense of the word. That is to say, the baby will be magical. And it will have a whole new soul which will be just the same as him..."

Sirius understood where the morbidity was leading to. "So he gets a whole soul to split. In theory he could create an infinite number of Horcruxes, and truly never die. He could just choose to be disembodied again and again." Remus blanched at the thought. In all his searches, never had it so occurred to him that Voldemort could simply take over a new soul and split it further.

"Bloody Merlin's loose hanging gardens and balls!" swore Harry. "We have to take him out before he can actually exercise any magic, don't we?"

"Yes. That's precisely the thing we have to do. Is the woman well as a mother? Her current state of health, I mean. At least as far as the eye can discern?" The man had dropped his grandfatherly persona and had assumed the one of the planner/general.

"They need the girl alive and well, till Baby-mort is born, I think."

"Can she be saved, Headmaster?" Remus asked. "She is only fifteen."

"Unfortunately, we can't say for sure, my boy," Dumbledore answered heavily. "We do not know the stage at which the foetus is. If it is well-formed, there is nothing that can save her if she remains in their clutches. Even otherwise, I would guess that Voldemort will want to take away her life-energy for himself. If I know it correctly, the baby will be ripped out of her alive. It is much like drinking unicorn blood. The creation of new life is sacred. They have perverted it. Even if she somehow survives her ordeal in their 'care', it will be kinder if she dies." Turning to the hunters, he asked, are there any active defences?"

"None that we could find," answered Remus. "We believe they haven't put any up apart from standard anti-pest and the like so as to not draw attention. Dover is a large thoroughfare for magicals wishing to go to the continent without long-distance portkeys, so there are quite a few of us here. But not many live in the area, so it would attract attention."

Albus nodded. "We will have to deal with Barty Crouch. Sirius, Remus, you are tasked with capturing him. They must need supplies, and obviously, Barty must either go out into the open to fetch them himself or Imperius someone to do it for him. Only capture him. We need to dose him up with Der Schmerzhafte Trank der Wahrheit and find out every single detail of their diabolical plan."

"The Painful Potion of Truth?" translated Sirius. "It works?" When everyone looked at him in surprise, he bit out, "What? My folks wanted to put me into Durmstrang. I was taught Russian and the Scandinavian languages as well!"

"Any false answer or half-truth or concealment or prevarication of any sort will render him into such a state as the Longbottoms for fifteen minutes. They don't feel pain. He shall feel nothing but that," Albus cut in and explained.

Mad-Eye grunted in agreement. "And what do we do about the lass?"

"We three shall secure her and take her to the Hospital Wing. I shall have Poppy to contact Wilma Goth. She will be dangerous as the possession of the baby is active. "

"She is a world renowned expert in Dark Rituals and Curses and combating them, isn't she?"

"Yes. She is also my youngest son's sister-in-law, but that is beside the matter. She will be able to assess the situation most accurately."

"Will do."

And with that they moved out.


Sirius was not a prankster for nothing. With time being a massive issue, waiting for the quarry to come out of the House was never going to be the option. Since Dumbledore had not given them any instructions regarding Barty's capture, he and Remus had come up with a plan that any Marauder of pedigree would have, just as easily. Paying a bunch of street kids five pounds each to throw stones and pebbles and do whatever else that such troublemakers usually did, was an inspired trick.

Barty came rushing and snarling out of the house, his wand raised. With way too much practice at reacting to that sort of a reaction, the kids scampered away, teasing the stupid man that small sticks didn't scare them. Barty didn't even have the time to turn around as he mouthed profanities. Two stunning spells got him in the back. A moment later, his captors trussed him up and whisked him away to the makeshift gaol set in the centre of the Great Hall.


"She is going to die." It was a grim pronouncement, but it was also the simple truth of the matter. "She was alive on potions and food. At least they were not cruel enough to starve her, but then again they needed her healthy." Lately, Dumbledore was feeling the effects of the years catching up with him quite a lot.

They had not bothered to stun the girl. She was an innocent after all. They had had to hear out all her unbridled, unrestrained and misplaced but not unwarranted angst, horror and profanities. Once she had exhausted herself, Dumbledore had put her under stasis and conjured a stretcher. Conjured objects couldn't be turned into Portkeys because it wasn't possible to cast high-level magic like portkey-making on them. So a stone was shaped into four rings which were hung onto each hold. Those were turned into portkeys.

It was grim, horrible and less dramatic an end to the escape saga than any of them had foreseen. The unfortunate side-effect was that Sirius got to gloat over it forever.

It was now time to end the war for once and for all.