Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all other characters belong to J.K. Rowling, and this version of the Mask belongs to New Line Cinemas; I'm just using them for this story.

Feedback: I'd appreciate it, believe me

Harry Potter and the Mask of Loki

A couple of nights later, as Mark stood outside the phone box that concealed the secret entrance to the Ministry of Magic, clad in his favoured outfit of jeans and the leather coat, he chuckled slightly as he tucked his wand up his sleeve and walked into the box.

He knew that this whole expedition was a bit self-centred- after all, it wouldn't really change anything for him, and there were still two horcruxes out there- but he felt like he owed himself a little payback for what his three targets had done to him (Even if one had been relatively minor, his insults to Ron and Hermione shouldn't go unnoticed), so why shouldn't he be entitled to a little bit of time getting even?

Stepping into the phone box, Mark casually picked up the receiver, tapped the required digits- six two four four two- and then smiled as the woman spoke.

"Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business."

"Mark Tiller," Mark said casually, as he grinned around the box. "I have… business, shall we say?… that must be discussed with Cornelius Fudge and Dolores Umbridge; just put me down as being here for a business meeting."

"Thank you," the woman responded. "Visitor, please take the badge and attach it to the front of your robes." A silver badge dropped into the coin collection area, with Mark Tiller, Business Meeting written on it, but Mark just picked up the badge and stuffed it into his pocket; he wouldn't need to concern himself with basic formalities.

"Visitor to the Ministry, you are required to submit to a search and present your wand for registration at the security desk, which is located at the far end of the Atrium," the voice said, but Mark was only partly paying attention; he'd already pulled his father's cloak out of his pocket and shrugged it over his head, while simultaneously slipping on a pair of magic-based 'infra-red' glasses that would allow him to spot any defences that might be triggered by the cloak.

As soon as the door had opened, Mark had nipped out of it into the Atrium (Now with the fountain centrepiece reconstructed, although the fireplaces seemed just as busy as they had been on his first visit) and ran down the long corridor towards the golden gates that led to the lifts. Diving into the nearest one, using a quick Shield Charm to prevent anyone joining him, Mark quickly shut the door and began to scan the buttons for floors. He finally settled on Level One, the office of the Minister of Magic, as his destination- after all, Fudge had been retained as an advisor for the duration of the war, so why shouldn't Umbridge be up there as well?

As the lift reached the level in question- other calls for the lift being negated by Mark- he stepped out of the lift, and was relieved to see Umbridge's name on one of the doors in front of him; there were around six relatively plain doors on either side of the elaborate wooden corridor he now found himself in, with a more elaborately-carved door at the end of the room that had to be Scrimgeour's office.

Chuckling, Mark spun around once and headed for the door, his fingers twitching as he reached into his pocket.

Oh, I'm going to enjoy this…

If anyone had asked Dolores Umbridge what had happened that night in the future, she would have been unable to give an effective reply. One minute she was simply consulting paperwork, trying to get through business as fast as possible, and suddenly the lights in her office had all gone out, the door had been kicked open, and a tall figure dressed in a massive coat and wide-brimmed hat was standing at the door, a brilliant white light behind him that made his features next to impossible to make out. She vaguely noticed something smoking in his raised right hand that appeared to be a cigarette, but other than that this man was just a silhouette.

"Wh-who are you?" she asked, staring at this figure in confusion, before shaking her head and regaining her composure. "I mean, who are you and how did you get in here?"

"Who I am is not important, Miss Umbridge," the figure replied, its voice a deep, rumbling sound that resembled a minor earthquake that was dying down. "All that is important is the reason for my visit."

"And that is?" Umbridge asked, regaining some of her composure as she stood up to glare at this intruder.

"Why, Miss Umbridge," the man replied, chuckling slightly as he tossed his cigarette aside and walked towards her. "I am here to collect on a debt that you owe to my master."

"What 'debt' would this be?" Umbridge asked, snorting disdainfully. "I have no outstanding debts with anyone!"

"Incorrect," the man chuckled, as he raised his hands to grasp his coat collars. "You owe my master…"

And here he yanked the coat open, revealing a mass of flames that seemed to erupt from the coat pockets, screams coming from all around as large red claws reached from the coat to snatch randomly at Umbridge.

"YOUR SOUL!" the man yelled, the blood rapidly fleeing from Umbridge's face, leaving her perfectly white as she stared at him in horror…

Then the man closed his coat, the light behind him vanished, and suddenly he was dressed in a three-quarter-length black leather coat, dark blue jeans and a blue-and-cream checked shirt, grinning at her in a manner that might have been charming if it weren't for his bizarre green head and the fact that Umbridge was still shaken from his earlier trick.

"Nah, I'm just kidding ya; I'm not an agent of Satan," he said, grinning at her.

Then he lunged forward, grabbed her by the neck, and had her pinned to the wall in a moment; despite his apparently slight build, he was easily able to hold her off the ground. She opened her mouth to protest, but before anything could even pass her lips, the man had waved his hand and suddenly a metal mask was covering the entire lower half of her face, preventing her jaw from moving enough to get any sound out.

"Actually, I'm here on behalf of Hogwarts as a whole," the man said, glaring at her as she coughed slightly, her fat hands scratching at his own to try and make him loosen his grip. "You tormented that school a great deal, Miss Umbridge; consider me…"

He pulled a thin scalpel out of his pocket with his left hand, grinning wickedly as her eyes focused on it.

"Payback," he said simply, as Umbridge's eyes widened in horror.

Looking over at the scalpel in his hand, the man tapped it slightly with his forefinger as he stared back at Umbridge, one eyebrow raised as he contemplated his next action.

"Now, the question right now is, am I skilled enough to use this without leaving any permanent damage, or would I cut a vein or two while I'm making my mark?" he asked, as easily as though he was discussing the weather rather than something that could mean life-or-death for someone. "And the answer is… I just don't know."

For a moment, as he held the scalpel over the back of her hand, Umbridge looked like she wanted to scream even before he'd begun to cut into her skin…

And then, with no apparent transition between the two, she was suddenly held to the wall by various assorted straps, the man was standing in front of her holding two red cans of spray-paint, and every single visible piece of skin and hair, along with all her clothes, was covered in the words I AM A TWAT.

"Fortunately," the man said, grinning at her, "I'm not like you, and see no need to inflict actual physical punishment on you; just don't push me by trying to get back into Hogwarts so you can try something like that again.

"Oh, nor did I feel the need to risk psychological trauma by covering the parts of you that I couldn't see," he added, shuddering slightly. "God, I don't even like to joke about it…"

Then he sighed, tossed the cans aside, and smiled up at her. "Must dash; got some other business to attend to."

Then he nodded politely at her, raised his left hand, clicked his fingers, and vanished, leaving Umbridge pinned to the wall and staring around her in shock, as though unable to believe that something like this could happen to her…

If Fudge was honest with himself, he had to admit that, in some ways, he actually preferred his new job as an advisor to the current Minister than actually being Minister himself. Say what you liked about being Minister for Magic, the paperwork involved in the job could be tedious after a while. He may not have the same status as he did before, but at least the workload was lighter…

"Having fun?" a voice said from behind him as something thin and wooden pointed at the back of his head.

His eyes widening in surprise, Fudge automatically sat up straighter in his chair, at the same time trying to think of how someone could have arrived behind him without him noticing it.

"W-who is this?" he asked, briefly trying to turn his head to look around, but being stopped by a sharp jab in the back of the head from the object.

"Who am I?" the voice said, chuckling as he looked at Fudge. "Let us merely say that I… am retribution."

As Fudge tensed slightly, the man chuckled. "Oh, I'm not going to kill you, Minister; where'd the fun be in that?" he said, sounding as though he was genuinely enjoying this meeting. "Besides, I see no need to kill you; you may have messed up during war-time, but you at least kept us stable in the intervening years."

Fudge nearly relaxed at that, but the object behind him poked him sharply in the back of the head and he winced once again.

"However," the voice said, sounding like it wanted to growl, "there are one or two things that you need to make up for…"

Sighing as he checked over the forms in front of him, Kingsley Shacklebolt couldn't stop himself from wishing that the situation from a year ago had remained the same for longer and Sirius hadn't been killed and subsequently cleared of all charges.

True, he was grateful for his friend being declared innocent, but without the somewhat humorous distraction of misdirecting the hunt for Sirius to focus on random areas in the world, there wasn't really much else to do, particularly since protection of the Prime Minister had recently been temporarily transferred to another auror while he took a break under orders.

What with Voldemort's traditional attack strategy involving hit-and-run missions rather than actual open warfare, there was rarely call for aurors to be in certain locations unless they had a prior warning about the attack, and without Snape as a spy…

Shacklebolt growled in his throat as he clenched his fist.

Even after nearly a month, he still hated thinking about that bastard. All that time he'd been helping them, he'd been passing information over to the other side without anyone being any the wiser, and they'd practically opened the door and handed him the keys to all the information he needed…

Shacklebolt's train of thought was suddenly broken by a loud scream of terror that seemed to resound through the entire Ministry, and then he, along with several others (Mainly members of the Order of the Phoenix, he noted, recognising Tonks and Arthur Weasley among the gathering) were standing around a large stage that had been erected in the middle of the main entrance, where a green-headed figure dressed in leather and denim was standing, illuminated by a spotlight as he smiled around at everyone.

"Good evening, everyone!" the man said, apparently paying close attention to Shacklebolt and Arthur in particular before he turned back to address the others. "You won't know me, but I've been keeping an eye on things taking place in this Ministry recently, and I felt as though… certain individuals should have one last little experience before they could truly be called 'forgiven'."

Raising one hand, he grinned around at the confused audience.

"Enjoy the show," he said, as he clicked his fingers, vanished (Much to Shacklebolt's confusion; it wasn't possible to apparate inside the Ministry to his knowledge) and then, much to Shacklebolt's surprise, Minister Fudge appeared on the stage, dressed in some kind of bizarre outfit in terribly clashing colours, a microphone in front of him and a terrified expression on his face as he stared around at the people in front of him, before his mouth opened and he began to sing.

"(Hey, Pachuco)
(Hey) Summer '43
(Hey) The man's gunnin' for me
(Hey) Blue and white mean war tonight

"(Hey) They say damn my pride
(Hey) And all the other cats livin' down the east side
(Hey) And that there's no place to hide"

The song went on after that, but, like the rest of the people around him, Shacklebolt wasn't really paying attention; he was too busy breaking down with laughter at the sight of the horrified minister in front of him, prancing around in a ridiculous costume with an expression that resembled someone looking down into the pits of Hell itself.

And I was complaining about being bored earlier? Shacklebolt asked himself, noticing Arthur slapping the floor as tears of hilarity streamed down his face.

Staring at the door in front of him, Mark chuckled slightly.

In many ways, this was the one he'd been looking forward to the most. True, the other two had done more to him, but it was the principle of the thing, really. Quidditch was the first thing he'd ever been really good at, and this berk had gone and nearly ruined it for him…

And, of course, his treatment of Hermione, coupled with his arrogant behaviour, had done little to endear him to Harry.

Knocking on the door of the rather elaborate house (Evidently this guy's parents were also fairly well-off, although his uncle had been the main earner in the family), Mark smiled casually as the door opened and a woman stood at the door who was most likely his target's mother.

"Yes?" she said, looking at Mark in confusion.

"Mrs McLaggen?" he asked, smiling casually. "Mark Tiller- sorry about my face; I had an unfortunate potions accident recently- I'm here to see your son, Cormac; it concerns a Quidditch matter."

"Oh, really?" Mrs McLaggen said, smiling at him gratefully. "Which team are you from, anyway; Puddlemere United or the Wimbourne Wasps?"

"Wasps," Mark replied casually, inwardly fuming at McLaggen's arrogance in applying for a spot on the Puddlemere team. He knew that team was excellent; there was no way he could believe he'd be better in the team than any of the current players…?

"Just get him out here and I'll have a quick word with him," he said casually, leaning against a pillar near the door. "Trust me; he'll be back before you know it."

Nodding, Mrs McLaggen shut the door, and a few moments later, her son was at the door, looking at Mark with a slightly eager gleam in his eyes that was tempered by a more casual appearance overall; evidently he thought he'd been a definite to be accepted.

"My application made it then, I see," he said, looking at Mark casually.

"Actually, Mr McLaggen," Mark replied, looking back at the one-time Gryffindor Keeper critically, "I have a confession to make; I am not here from the Wimbourne Wasps. As a matter of fact, I doubt you'll be getting accepted whatever position you applied for; you'd probably just get there, start going on about how you're a one-man team, and get booted for being the arrogant berk that you are."

Chuckling at the shocked expression on McLaggen's face, Mark pulled a coin out of his pocket and began to roll it around the fingers of his left hand, enjoying McLaggen's suddenly shaken expression.

"In reality," Mark said, as he casually studied the coin in his hand, "I am simply here to extract payback for your idiotic behaviour during your brief session on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, where your pig-headedness nearly cost my friend Harry his life and also nearly cost the team the cup."

"Hey; that wasn't my fault!" McLaggen yelled back at Mark, apparently coming out of his earlier stupor. "If Harry had just made me Keeper in the first place-"

"You'd what; have mucked up all three games and have the team end up in last place?" Mark retaliated, glaring at McLaggen in rage; he couldn't believe the sheer arrogance of this prick! "Face facts, Cormac; you suck at Quidditch, OK? You can be as good a Keeper as you like, but unless you can learn how to work in a team, you'll never get anywhere!"

Then, as though a thought had just occurred to him, he glanced at the coin in his left hand, flipped it onto his thumb, and glanced at McLaggen.

"Heads or tails?" he asked nonchalantly.

"Uh… tails?" McLaggen said in confusion.

Flipping the coin up into the air, Mark caught it, slapped it onto his right palm, examined it, and smiled.

"Nope; heads," he said, looking back at McLaggen with a teasing grin on his face. "Not that it makes a blind bit of difference, really; I've just always wanted to try that. Now then, let's see…"

Raising his right hand, he clicked his fingers once…

And suddenly McLaggen found himself floating in the middle of the Quidditch pitch at Hogwarts, a Beater's bat in one hand as he suddenly found himself facing Mark Tiller, hovering leisurely on a Firebolt as six other brooms flew around him, moving so fast that McLaggen couldn't make out any of the figures on them.

"Wh-what the?" McLaggen said, looking around in confusion.

Mark smiled casually at the other man.

"You think you can play a game of Quidditch on your own?" he asked in a relaxed manner as he looked at McLaggen. "Prove it."

And then, all of a sudden, all six of the other 'players' were flying around McLaggen at top speed, tearing around him as he tried desperately to come up with some way of holding them off. He managed to hold off a few bludgers at first, but he quickly realised that this left the hoops undefended and the opposition had scored a few shots without him even realising. His subsequent attempts to score goals only resulted in the quaffle being knocked out of his hands by well-aimed bludgers as his attention was occupied, and his own attempts to defend goals were abysmal without any beaters to keep the other chasers occupied. He was so taken up with trying to evade the bludgers that he never even realised Mark had caught the snitch already until he saw his green-headed adversary smiling over at him and waving the golden ball in his face.

McLaggen opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by a bludger suddenly striking him in the arm with such force that the bone broke in half, sending him flying off his broom. He vaguely felt, rather than saw, the other six plays fly around him to stop his fall, but they didn't appear too concerned about his safety; he sustained several cuts and bruises before he was finally standing on the ground, although the broken arm was still his most serious injury.

As Mark landed on the ground beside McLaggen, the former Keeper turned to look at Mark in rage.

"What the hell was that all about?" he asked, staring at Mark angrily. "You could have killed me!"

"You needed a lesson, Mr McLaggen," Mark retorted, his face as impassive as though it was made of stone. "I knew what I was doing; you'll need a check-over, but you'll be fine with a bit of rest."

Grabbing McLaggen's arm, Mark clicked his fingers once again, and they were both standing outside McLaggen's house once again, McLaggen looking around him in confusion.

"But… but…" he began.

Sighing, Mark pointed at the door behind him.

"Get in there, get healed, get a life, and find something to do that doesn't involve Quidditch," he said simply. "Trust me, you'll be doing yourself a favour; you suck. And remember; if you ever act like such an arrogant prick again, I will find you, and what happened tonight will seem like a relaxing bath."

Clicking his fingers, he turned himself invisible while simultaneously appearing to vanish, leaving McLaggen to stare blankly ahead with a mix of terror and confusion, before clutching his arm and turning back to the house; evidently the man was at least willing to take some advice from others.

As McLaggen staggered back through the door, to screams of horror as his mother saw his various injuries, Mark chuckled under his breath.

God, that was great! he thought to himself as he glanced up at the sky in thanks to any Norse gods of mischief who might be watching him at the moment for creating the Mask that had made all that possible.

Now that the fun's out of the way, Mark thought to himself as he glanced down at a watch, time to get down to more important things.

Namely, of course, arranging his and Ginny's plan to set Ron and Hermione up with each other, and then track down and destroy the last unidentified horcrux.

And after that…

Mark shrugged.

What will be, will be.