Well, here you are people. A brand new chapter, hot from the presses, all for you.

Now I've got a bone to pick with you people. I pride myself on being more dedicated to sheer innovation, on inventing new, fun facts, ideas and situations, than any other author I see, and more to the point, than I am to anything.

You people like that, I hope. I don't particularly care about your opinion if you don't, but still…

The point is, I spend hours thinking, considering one clever thing after the other, and how to work it. I shamelessly rip off anime, comics, movies, other fanfics, what have you. For all that, I DEMAND APPRECIATION. I know it is a childish thing to do, but I don't care!

Go back and read the chapter where the Marauders were reconvened. I included a single extremely clever bit in there, about a certain dos game. And not one person said anything (pouts). That's not fair! Bwaah!

And, and hardly anyone other than Joe bloodsucking bug (Joe Lawyer, I mean. Please don't mind, mate), the Sith lord with the awesome name and His Majesty bothers to say anything about the other stuff either! It's not fair! I'm going to sulk.

Ahem. With the sugar rush now out of my system, let me commence some serious things. Firstly, a reiteration of the warning. This is amoral, political Harry, being written by a seventeen year old with very little patience, tact, delicacy, or indeed any desirable traits. In other words, wish fulfillment as there's never been before. If you've got a problem, by all means go ahead and flame away. I'm hoping to cross 300 reviews before Chapter 21 (and 200k words, but that's none of your business, really).

There will be plot holes, inconsistencies, problems, delays, and you know, stuff. I'll minimize all that, but I'm not perfect and I don't intend to become so. This story is for the sake of the entertainment of myself, and those members of the fandom who appreciate such things. Sure, one day I'll have different priorities, and I'll write a thoughtful, detailed story, but not today.

That said, any attempts at helping me better myself are very much welcome.

Now before angry people start skipping ahead, I give to you, Chapter Nineteen.

As a matter of fact, there was quite a bit in a name, that much Harry had discovered long ago.

Names were a very powerful thing in magic, second only to blood, in the sheer power they gave to someone who possessed another's. They could do just about anything, speaking frankly. It was powerful magic that dealt with names, old, old magic, but there were those who excelled in it. Harry himself was one. Abstractual magic, as its name was, was one of the most powerful branches of magic there was, and its power depended a great deal on names.

Every magical individual in the world had three names in the eyes of magic. At least technically, that was. One was their birth name, the name that had been given to them at birth by their parents, via means ranging from simply speaking it aloud to ritualistically anointing the baby with it, or both. Another was the True Name, the name granted to the individual by Magic. This one wasn't possessed by everyone, to be honest, just those powerful enough to draw the attention of the sub-sentient entity.

And then there was the third, the one that was arguably the most powerful. The Self-name, the name someone viewed themselves by.

Once again, this tied in very niftily to the three essential components of every magical being, as the Birth name was tied strongly to the blood, the True Name to the magic, and the Self-name to the soul. Those names held power over a person, a great deal of it, and had been known to make or break lives.

Of course, being magic, it was hardly that neat. At times, there was also a fourth name, one given to an individual simply by those around them. It was mostly in the cases of the famous people, those who had left their mark on the world. This one was the most susceptible to the raw power of pure belief, the one about which no magical methods could really do anything about.

Arthur Pendragon, in today's time, wasn't Arthur Pendragon at all. He was just King Arthur. Similarly, no one really remembered or cared about the name Myrrdin Emrys today, no. Not even his descendants, the House of Dumbledore. No, he was, and always would be, Merlin.

The examples were many, echoing across history.

How that all mattered to Harry was that he himself had to control his image, his names, if he didn't want to end up being controlled by them. Now at his age and stage, it was a relatively simple thing.

A pureblood noble of his standing had three names granted to them, in a sort of homage to the actual tri-name phenomenon. One was the public name, which would be revealed to all and sundry. Another was called the 'home' name, but, as a matter of fact, was the decoy birth name. If anyone started making efforts to discover his birth name, or if he had to enter any contracts more binding than usual, it would suffice. The final was his real birth name, the one that would never, under any circumstances whatsoever, be revealed to anyone living or dead, was the one he had been anointed with at birth.

It was a fairly simple ritual, using a quill that would have been an heirloom of the Potters, ink which was a mixture of his parents' blood and some amniotic fluid. The name had to be scribed onto a strip cut out of his umbilical cord, which was then burnt using a long preserved spell in the confines of a place that was to be his abode. The ritual was a common one, with the only change being in the final element. Wealthy families designated entire estates as those for the newborn heir's, while a refrigerator carton would also suffice.

Of course, even the names themselves were strongly linked to tradition. To be exact, the first two had to be from the currently dominant culture, one common, the other formal. In his case, he was Harry James to the world at large, and Henry Jameson to his closest confidantes.

And his actual birth name had to be a formal, public name from the last culture where the family in question was prominent. For the most ancient and Noble House of Potter, their last position of prominence, just like so many of their peers, had been in the Roman Empire. In his case, Harry's true birth name was Hadrian Iacomus, burnt in the main fireplace of Wilmington Keep.

The building had been recently bottled from its position in the undetected, and forever undetectable island in the Cardigan Bay, and landed on a piece of land where till recently, headquarters for the group called 'The Heirs of Ivan' had existed. Over a primary and two secondary leylines, it was one of the most valuable pieces of real estate in the world, and one of the cornerstones of the Ward-Enchantment web that spanned his (now) extensive Russian holdings.

And it was in this building, in the Master Bedroom, that he was sitting, looking over the latest reports, while his mind emerged from the lethargy of sleep. It was two days after the taking of the fortresses, and the last of the details of their protections were being worked out. Soon the temporary wards, the ones that were serving them now, operating from an array of vehicles parked inside and around the building would be taken down, and Sovereign wards would go up, turning a landmass about 40% of all Russia into a country of its own, for all magical intents and purposes.

Harry threw a last look at the girl on the bed, a stunning blonde that he neither knew the name of nor cared to. She was the daughter of one of the Nobles that had till recently been one of the vassals of a member of the League of Novgorod, and now wanted to serve under him.

Not that he or his colleagues had a choice. It was fealty or extermination for everyone of his enemies' subordinates, without any exception.

The man had been scared for his life, having been a significant contributor to the Novgorods, and had sent his daughter as a peace offering.

And he was far from being the only one to do that. Harry currently had offers from just about every man or woman who had a daughter, niece or sister bred for the job. (And yes, a breeding where one had no useful skills at all in a war-torn country was a breeding meant to create concubines, no matter what anyone said).

Initially, he'd been all for announcing that no such offers would ever be accepted, but then the same question rose that was behind over seventy percent of his decisions.

Why the hell not? Women empowerment? If he'd ever given a damn for such a concept, he certainly didn't now.

And there was a rather apt saying about what 'all work and no play' tended to do to people.

So… here he was.

Harry walked out half an hour later, dressed in a formal set of dress robes (Silky black, with silver-ish embroidery).

He apparated to the building that was the primary headquarters of the Ouroboros Army. It was Castle Gryffindor #12 if he remembered correctly, a particularly vast pile of concentrated ugliness, even more so than the other ones. Still, it served the image it was meant to serve. Vast, dark and brooding, with twisting turrets and scores of hulking gargoyles, curving arches and other twiddly bits, the attached lands (some hundred acres or thereabout) being full of statues of his 'illustrious' ancestors, fountains, and the usual things, apart from certain additions like a few greenhouses, some buildings to house the 'guards' (Mastiff-Cerberuses, Basilisks, Redcaps, et al) and entire 'green rings' full of Whomping Willows, Venomous Tentacula, Snargaluff pods, Mandrake Mines, and other assorted leafy nastiness.

Of course, as for the building itself, the exterior was just about all that remained of the original.

Harry'd had the entire thing gutted from top to bottom, whitewashing every wall, turning the original Men-at-arms quarters (rather unsightly, to be honest) into Spartan barracks, fitting the towers with top-notch comm. systems, turning the dungeons into a single gigantic hall that was then turned into the home for a brand new computer (he called it SRP-01, standing not for some fancy terms that no one could pronounce but for 'Selene's Russian Palace'), and turning the already formidable defenses into, well, something rather ridiculous in its power, what with hundreds of tanks coming out of random locations in the grounds, poisoned air (yes you read that right), sniper perches at every window, pestilences in every corridor (only activated during lockdowns), unending legions of the undead, draining curses, and what looked at first sight like every ward ever known to the Egyptians, the Mayans, the Trojans and the Chinese put together.

Just about the only thing missing was a bona fide Tilism, and Harry was negotiating for scrolls in that particular art with the Patils and the Bashirs.

Bringing his mind off of the matter, Harry focused on the upcoming meeting. Well, meeting was something of a stretch, as it was basically an hour or so of discussion before a long, and (hopefully) wild, wild party. Unadvisable, really, but really good for the morale.

And in any case, the whole thing, even with the needed sleep-it-off period, would all be dealt with in a matter of hours anyway.

He entered the building and made his way in rapidly, settling himself on the head of the table in the conference hall. With a snap of his fingers, a sheaf of papers materialized in front of him, which he picked up, scanning through the 180-odd pages in twenty seconds.

'Well, that certainly is better news that I expected.' Harry thought, reflecting over the contents of what he'd just read. It was the final report from the salvage teams, detailing everything of value that had been successfully recovered.

The destroyed factions had possessed a wealth of useful things, ranging from artillery tech. to spiritual spells, not to mention a depth of knowledge on their enemies (who were his enemies too, obviously), with projected troop movements, preparedness levels, and known international connections.

Harry had just finished with the report, when it was time to begin.

As the members streamed in, Harry shook hands endlessly, smiling and greeting everyone as if they were lifelong friends.

It wasn't long, before the last of them was in the room, and then the discussions began.

First up was Stormson. Asked about the current status of his command, the man stood, proudly displaying the brand-new scar at his brow, the work of one of the enemy dragons that he'd personally taken down.

The portrait of him perched atop his Griffin, killing the dragon with a purple spell that froze its blood to minus 120 degree Celsius was still being worked upon.

He spoke as he'd been trained to, clearly and concisely. "The overall status of Wild Fury is a good one. We lost some, totaling up to nearly a dozen or so minor units, and one elite is injured pretty severely, but the gains overshadow that nicely." Pausing for a few seconds, he met Harry's eyes, a questioning look in his own.

Harry nodded. The people here were cleared for everything that the man himself was, and therefore knew.

He continued. "To be more exact, we gained several Dragons, a hundred or so regular units, and around two dozen-odd elite units, in Nundus, Dire Wolves, and Cerberuses."

Harry nodded, it was just as he expected. He motioned to the man to sit back down.

"Any human soldiers that have turned?" Harry asked, turning to the man he'd assigned to be in charge of the POW camps.

"A few here and there, my lord. Not enough to be worthwhile."

"Okay, give them two days, then start with the public Cruciatus Curses."

"Understood, sir."

It continued for several minutes in this vein, salvage and recovery reports coming in about different issues, with Harry making decisions regarding them.

The part that elicited the largest reactions by far was the part about material assets.

A vast amount of materials, in the form of both strategic and economic assets had been recovered. Harry ordered every unknown object to be confiscated as strategic/knowledge assets, but that was the tame part. The part where smiles broke out was when he announced that there would be a 100% dividend of all the monies to all soldiers involved in the attack.

Even with the number of soldiers, the wealth of the factions had been enough to make each of them, if not exactly rich beyond compare, then comfortably off. This, of course, was especially due to the fact that even their foreign assets were fully claim-able, due to the right of conquest being internationally acknowledged. After the last of the recovery issues had been dealt with, Harry turned the attention of the room to the next topic, that of consolidation.

"Okay, to recap, we now have taken control of one primary, eleven secondary, and thirty lesser ley lines. Along with that are around a dozen odd population centers, each with five-six thousand people. Yes?" he asked no one in particular.

"That's right, your grace." Selene responded.

"Okay, so let's begin then. Keystone status?" he asked the overall commander of the Tech Corps.

"93% efficiency and counting, sir. We should have everything at 100% within today itself."

"Excellent, then… population?" he turned to the Commander, Medcorp, who'd been tasked with evaluating the civilian population that were now Harry's subjects.

The man's face was dour, as expected from one having his duties. As it was, the news wasn't much better than the bearer's face. "Severely underprivileged, sir. Everything is lacking. Meds, clothes, food, you name it."

"Details, man. Tell me more." Harry said, just a trace of impatience in his voice.

"Very well, your grace. There is, at minimum rations, enough food for forty percent of the population. Medicine is about half of that, and clothes, while slightly better, are at about fifty-five percent.

Furthermore, there is virtually no infrastructure in place. If we want any productivity at all, we shall need to build it all up. Porting platforms for supplies, houses, hospitals, the whole lot, sir." He said, his tone and face both equally somber.

Harry would never quite understand why this was supposed to faze him. What had these people, the ones in the room now looking like kicked puppies, expected? Five star hotels? This was war!

"Oookay, so, how much of that have we got bottled? Eh Selene?"

"I do believe, that by the measuring standards you have programmed into me, the proper amount is 'enough to supply the goddam planet till the end of time', sir.

A complete lie, that. Harry had about as much humor in him as a piece of slate, and things like this had been programmed for the sole purpose of confusing those around him.

Indeed, the report elicited a wide variety of responses, from incredulous shaking of heads, to chuckles.

"Of course, the question is whether we should do it or not…" he murmured, seemingly to himself but just loud enough to carry across the room.

"Sir?" The man next to him, a colonel of one of the Golem regiments, asked.

"We can do it, sure. We can land the buildings, distribute everything free of cost, and bring it all up to civilized standards. Thing is, what do we do after?"

"Oh, I see." The man said, nodding thoughtfully.

He didn't, Harry knew that without legilimency.

The problem was, it was a valid concern. If he handed them everything, it would create a vicious cycle where they would always expect him to do it, and worse, every other place the news spread would expect him to do it.

On the other fact, the very news that he was providing for his subjects, if spread around properly, could make future conquests significantly easier.

It was quite the dilemma, to be honest.

Thankfully, a mind unoccupied with anything except cool, hard logic made dilemmas easy to handle.

"Okay, do this. Land as many housing complexes as needed, around sixty percent of as many hospitals as needed, and a school or two. For supplies, import enough to last them for the next… two weeks, and use that time to bring existing sources up to scratch."

The Tech corps commander nodded, as the one who would supply the expertise needed to fulfill these orders.

"And by 'up to scratch', I mean fully self-sufficient. I want everything, farms, pens and whatnot for food, forests for wood, wand and potion ingredients, labs for medicines, the whole lot. Build them, grow them, dig them, all on-site, and use the locals wherever possible."

He turned to one of the few civvies in the room, this one being the Director, HR Dept. for Althric.

"Get training facilities built to see whatever use we can make out of them, especially in regards to the construction."

It continued for a few minutes more, with issues being brought up and him making the needed decisions to resolve them.

It was at times like this that he was glad for the weeks he'd spent in the Muggle dictatorships, getting some hands on experience in dealing with administrative problems. The issues might be dramatically different, but the overall nature of the job remained the same, a careful balance between Doing, Deciding and Delegating.

Personally, Harry favored the Doing. He was the micromanaging type.

It wasn't long before the topic to be concerned with was the vital one, the continuation of the campaign.

Harry leaned back in his chair, propping it on its back legs as he waited for everyone with clearance below Level 3 to file out of the room. As soon as the last of them was out, he exerted his magic, creating and erecting a set of wards that included, but wasn't by any means limited to, seventeen anti-eavesdropping spells, eleven Scrying Reversal enchantments (whose function was exactly what the name suggested), two phase-shifts that put everything in the room just a touch out of tune with the rest of Reality, three spells to neutralize all impersonation magic, and, just for the hell of it, an illusion that created a gigantic signboard over the doorframe, with 'TOP SECRET TALK GOING ON INSIDE' written on it in a mixture of Blood Red, Neon Orange, Shining Blue, and Bright Yellow lettering.

"Well, gentlemen, let's get this out of the way."

"With the fall of three major factions, we have five enemies remaining. The biggest threats are the Alex's and the Cherries (for Cherinsky), but they aren't the only ones. There's one more Monarchist faction, the Karminovs, and then there's the UPF to deal with."

"Out of these, the Cherinskys have been damaged to a significant extent in recent days. Not enough to make challenging them simple, but enough to get us a bit of breathing space."

He paused for a few seconds, looking the occupants of the room in the eyes, looking through their minds for any ideas that they might be hesitant to express, or any hints of dissent. He always did this, to reward the former and crush the latter.

"But all that's in the future. For now, we need to secure our beachhead (okay, that one was an understatement, the so called beachhead was stronger than most of the strongholds), setup an info network, and bring our defenses up to the highest levels."

"Speaking of which… Selene, report."

"Acknowledged command. Accessing database… prepping final report from real time updates…done. We have taken command of twenty-one keystone points. Each of them is being protected by a stronghold, with one regiment each worth of soldiers in position within them. Apart from that, the defenses are one million each of inferi, automatons, and elemental magic golems. For comms. and logistics, we have two systems, and three auxiliaries. A mirror network is at 86% efficiency, slated to reach 100% in three hours, low-level spirits are being summoned by the dozens as we speak, patronus stones are being put in position, the construction of a floo network is underway, and the installation of astral projection gear is at 92% completion."

The room was filled with an almost synchronized series of smiles and glad noises at this, with much back thumping, beaming and cheering being executed. It all quieted down, as Selene continued.

"As for the wards, Project 'Absolute Unassailability' has been successfully completed. Each and every one of the seventy fortresses we have placed in the country is now warded up to beyond army-breaker limits. Apart from that, a network of state and Sovereign class wards has been set up. Learning from example, we have eliminated the need for any centralized triangulation points, allowing absolute self-sufficiency in each of the fortresses."

One of the strategists, a demonologist, if Harry was correct, spoke up at this. "What about the anti-vampire methods? I requested that certain measures be adopted to handle the fact that the House of Drakul is allied with the Alexandrovitchs."

Harry took this one "Measures have been adopted, as a matter of fact. Solaris lamps have been placed around the buildings, moats have been dug and filled with enchanted water, spells have been included so that it's impossible for anyone to allow in any outsider, let alone a vampire."

As the man nodded his acknowledgement, Harry deftly changed the topic.

"Okay, that's our defenses. Now, the latest reports on the enemies."

Selene released a projection, displaying the charts composed out of months' worth of painstakingly collected data. Mostly everything they had collected on their enemies, on their strengths and weaknesses, was explained and analyzed, from the fact that the Alex's allies meant a near-constant drain on their population (agents were deployed to worsen it wherever possible), to the Cherinsky family's overreliance on mind magic, to their own problems.

The meeting continued for somewhat longer than expected, but it ended eventually, leaving the way clear for the party. Harry attended a couple hours of that, and then apparated away, to a couple of business meetings.

A couple hours later saw Harry semi-sprawled in a stiff wooden chair, the back of which he'd changed with a spell to be at a 500 incline to the vertical. It wasn't due to any requirement of comfort on his part, rather it was a calculated disrespect towards Pierre de Marchais, Additional Secretary to the Minister for Magic of the Republic of France, in front of whose desk he was sitting.

He was a portly, redheaded man, with a rather extraordinarily unpleasant temperament. The man's duties included transport facilitation, and it was in that respect that Harry was here.

A month or so ago (when the France branch of Althric had finally settled down to do some work), he had received a purchase order from this man, for 5000 porting platforms, the brand-new piece of technology Althric had launched recently, used to transport huge quantities of, well, anything from one point to another. It was something of a cross between vanishing cabinets and portkeys, with the range of the latter and the stability of the former. Media had already dubbed it 'the greatest advance in dimensional magic since the floo', and it'd been selling like scalding hot cakes in any market he cared to sell it in.

The order had placed the delivery deadline at two weeks max, with a threat of 'strict action' if it was violated. Attached was a demand draft for 4,500,000G, half of the total payment by triple the market price, which was six hundred galleons per piece.

Well, the Flamel arrogance and disregard for money bred true, at least.

Had he been anyone else, Harry might have rejected the order out of hand, for the ridiculously crass and offensive way in which it was delivered. But where others would have seen arrogance, Harry saw opportunity.

Because that's what it was, an opportunity like there'd never been before. To understand this properly one would have to know the details, such as of the present example.

Calculating the market prices of all of its components, and adding in a decent workmanship fee, the production cost for each platform was 350 galleons. Given that Harry produced slightly over half the components in-house, and that too without any risk of ever running out, the price fell to 120-130 galleons.

So, he was already making a huge profit. But, faced with the kind of gigantic, incomparable wealth France possessed, Harry was unsatisfied.

He'd decided to see just how much could be milked out from this country. It had taken a decent bit of the material he had, as well as several favors used up, but he'd secured meetings with just about every high-ranking official in the country.

The end result, apart from several contracts, each lucrative enough to kill, was here in front of him. Namely, a summary of reasons behind the delay (he'd had the product lying around from about a day after the reception of the order, but he'd made a point out of thumbing his nose at the temerity of the frogs by taking twice the 'maximum allowed time'), and of the reasons behind the drastic cost overrun, which had brought the final bill to a staggering twenty-five million galleons. But the trick wasn't in the summary, rather in the seal at its bottom, which was right next to an ugly signature, and a centimeter or two below a 'APPROVED', written in bold letters.

Harry had discovered with a bit of digging that apart from being insufferably snarky, Pierre de Marchais was also dry honest, and he knew that seeing something like this happening, and much worse, having to be a party to it, would eat away at the man.

Just as Harry wanted it.

The larger the number of disillusioned people in governments not his own, the better.

Of course, there was a litany of surprises buried in the platforms themselves, but that was another matter.

"Well, Mr. Marchais? Shall we commence with the testing?"

The man's voice was like a broken glass bottle in a bucket of ice (unusually cold and sharp. Don't ever say that I don't put effort in explanations, and yes I stole that from Stroud). "Certainly, your grace."

Harry snapped his fingers. Two shadows emerged from thin air, each carrying a briefcase.

Pointing to the opposite walls of the huge office, Harry said "There, and there. Put them there, open them, and let Mr. Marchais do his work."

The spirits obeyed, and in a matter of moments, the platforms had been opened and laid out in the correct way.

Looking the man in the eye, Harry made an expansive gesture towards one of the platforms. "Waiting on you now, sir."

Over the next several minutes, the man transported item after item from one case to the other, casting a series of spells at the object in question (the bureaucrat's packed lunch), till he was satisfied. Unable to find any problems, Marchais was forced to admit that there wasn't anything at all wrong with the platforms, even in portable form. Range-testing would come afterwards, at the French government's own time.

A few minutes later saw Harry walking out with a nice silky cheque. It didn't remain silky when he balled it up, even as he apparated to Gringotts London and breezed through the corridors. Opening the door to Grithlauk's office, he yelled "Take five percent!" before throwing the balled up cheque so that it hit the goblin straight at the tip of its ultra-sharp nose.

A part of his mind said that actions like this kept the goblin off-balance, susceptible to manipulations, and so were a good thing to do. Another part blamed genes. The blood of Prongs…

And the rest of the parts of his mind didn't give a damn, so it all worked out.

Immediately after that Harry was off to his next meeting, this one in Italy. The man he was meeting was named Giotto Fontini, Bishop Giotto Fontini, to be exact, the in-charge of the papal guard. Unlike the French, who had virtually unlimited wealth, the Church actually had to watch its budget, which meant that Harry had to deal with the system in a somewhat different way.

And that was he was busy getting to.

"So, Duke, I trust you didn't have any problems on the way here?"

"Oh none at all, Bishop. I actually find trans-continental apparition a rather relaxing hobby, to be honest."

To this the man gave no verbal response, a raised left eyebrow the only indication of his incredulity.

Harry continued on. "And how is His Holiness, by the way? I hope he appreciated the donation I made."

What Harry didn't say that the Pope had better act like he appreciated it. One billion Galleons might be loose change to him, but it was a quarter of Magical Italy's foreign debt, and also, to be honest, the primary reason behind the easy camaraderie (compared to other businessmen) that he enjoyed with the Church's senior members.

It was a few more minutes of pointless chatter, before they got to business.

"Ok, so here's the inventory. First of all, there are fifteen thousand Master-grade Solaris lamps. At 120 G apiece, that's one point eight mil flat. Next, six tons of enhanced livesilver, that's 2.7 million more, at 450 thousand a ton. Twenty-three new churches, each warded up to Champion-class defense, that's a straight thirty-four point five million. Then there's what, two thousand televisions? Tell you what, take 'em for free. Then there's the odds and ends, some dragonhide, a dozen crystals, and stuff, rounding off to an even three mil."

Here he paused, taking a moment to analyze the look on the Bishop's face. It was a strange mix of surprised and jubilant. Harry knew the reasons for both well. after all, the prices he'd quoted were near about two-thirds of the minimum on the market, making this an extraordinarily lucrative deal for the Vatican.

But it suited Harry perfectly, as his target with Althric and the other companies (he'd launched a dozen or so smaller companies recently, as red herrings to prevent anyone from realizing the amount of power that he was rapidly gathering in the economic sector) wasn't to make a lot of money. He had more than he could burn of it.

No, it was to gain financial power in a very tangible way. For most people, financial power was equal to money, no ifs and buts about it. But what Harry wanted was market control. The power to dictate prices in markets from Baghdad to New York, to deny and allow resources to people, even countries as he saw fit, to know who wanted to buy and sell what, when, where.

That was the power he was after, and it would come only after greasing every wheel there was to grease.

He decided in a split second that this particular wheel could do with a tad more fat.

"Grand total is 42 million Galleons, I'll knock it down to forty point five, forty in a cheque and five hundred grand in bearer bonds." He said, smiling slightly at the (quickly hidden) gleeful look on the Bishop's face.

The reason was, of course, obvious, especially as Harry knew that the man had already gotten fifty million galleons sanctioned for this particular purchase. Had he wanted to, Harry still had plans in his mind that would allow him to squeeze the full extent from him (not that that was saying much. Harry had plans for every single variation of every single situation he was involved in.)

And had the man in question been an unpleasant one, he could've made an ironclad case for ridiculous overruns, too, much like France. But the fact was, this particular facilitator had been deemed more susceptible to positive influence. So, it would be the carrot that would be used with him.

It was a simple strategy. Every sentient being in the entirety of existence could be either bought or broken. There were no exceptions, no shades of grey, and no doubts about that whatsoever. The devil, as one said, was in the details. Things that would work on one person were not guaranteed to work on others. Indeed, things that worked on someone once weren't guaranteed to work on them another time. For different people, the prices, the pressures, they were all different.

For example, a psychological profile of the French-man had showed him as ridiculously honest, thoroughly upright, and insufferably sanctimonious. Thus, he was the kind who would have to be blackmailed.

On the other hand, the bishop was hopelessly corrupt, extraordinarily shameless, and rather the combative type. So… it was bribery.

Of course, Harry was Harry Potter, so while taking the recommended measures, he'd started simultaneous steps to make them susceptible to the other means.

Thus the tiny, undetectable transmitters embedding themselves into the hard marble of the floor, completely invisible to any and all detection measures, just as there'd been the silk purse full of an even dozen magical crystals that he'd left lying on his seat in France.

The transmitters were a rather innovative idea, actually. Magical means of collecting and transmitting data were easily detected in an organization of this great power, and therefore judged inefficient. So… alternate means were devised and deployed, depending upon the near-complete ignorance of all muggles matters that this most hidebound of institutions possessed.

Simply put, the actual spying, the collection and sending of information, would be done by purely electronic means. The only magic that had been cast, and therefore was there for the wards to detect, were the maintenance spells that allowed the devices to function optimally in a magic charged environment. And those, being everyday household spells for the most parts, were easily ignored.

In any case, it was time for the next task on Harry's agenda, which was the final tying up of a very, very large loose end, followed by a meeting in India.

Speaking of the land of snakes and snake charmers, he'd recently achieved a major milestone, having finally found 'inner peace' in his animagus form, which basically meant that he'd analyzed and integrated all the instincts, abilities, and eccentricities of the Basilisk. It was a rather exhilarating feeling, to be honest.

Power was wrapped around him in an ethereal cocoon, coils of venomous, snakelike magic just begging to be let loose, to rain ruin and ravage upon his enemies. All the serpentine powers that he'd previously possessed, heat vision, extraordinary olfactory senses, diamond hard skin, were enhanced dramatically, far, far beyond anything he could have imagined.

All in all, the basilisk was mastered as an animagus form. It would probably have some other long term effects, but that was for later. It was time to move on to his next form. Harry had done the needed rituals, and had discovered the form to be that of a Dire wolf, a creature every bit as unique and powerful in its own way as the basilisk. Harry had transformed into the being a couple times, but just as the basilisk, the form was mostly useless till he had the instincts to go with it.

It would most likely take far lesser time than the basilisk, but it hadn't happened yet.

All those thoughts were put aside, as he apparated into the middle of a dressing room.

Lord Voldemort had been repeatedly acknowledged as the greatest dark lord in the world. The truth of this statement was impossible to judge, given that each and every dark lord of all time had been named the same at their respective times. But still, given his lack of a thorough, proper education in the deep lore of magic, it was a very impressive achievement. But of course, more than a bit of that had been owed to his followers.

He had been an ardent believer in numerology, and his organization had reflected that. Voldemort was the one and only Lord of the Dark Order. Under him was his inner circle, which organized and commanded his followers to do his will.

There were twenty-one members in total.

They were divided in three groups. One was the civilian operators group (Though it wasn't called that). It managed the political and financial side of things, running interference in the ministry, keeping the money and spoils flowing in, things like that. They maintained the Imperius curses, the slush funds, and all that was entailed.

The second was the military, which was what the public got to saw and fear. Each of the seven commanders had three lieutenants, who each controlled cells of forty-seven members each (of course, the total force this meant, slightly over one and a quarter thousand, was the Death Eater organization, all sworn to Tommy dearest. There were vast numbers of other, supporters, called 'sympathizers'. The third were his direct subordinates, his personal enforcers and emissaries.

Thanks mainly to the workings of the first group, all three had a very, very deep penetration in the Ministry, the Wizengamot, and the financial community. They were aurors, businessmen, bureaucrats, you name it.

They had been one of the main reasons behind his success, and a huge, huge portion of the first, and several vital parts of the second group, had been left completely intact, thanks to vast payments in bribes, favors and resources. That made it a ridiculously simple thing for him to take back command for his old organization, recruit the parts that were missing, and restart things.

If Harry didn't do something, that was.

And boy, had he done something.

Sitting in the room where his guests would be arriving in a few minutes, Harry thought back to the conversation he'd had a few weeks ago.

"Horcruxes are such an intriguing thing, aren't they, Lucius?" Harry's voice was light, as if discussing the weather.

It got just a tad playful, as a worried, afraid look appeared on Malfoy's face.

"I suppose that could be said, your grace." He said in a tentative, probing tone.

"I mean, did you know they were invented by a Peverell? It was Damien's many, many times great grandfather, I think, and my grand uncle or something."

The man just nodded, seemingly unable or unwilling to speak.

"Did you know, they became such a great, great vogue in Asia? India particularly, I remember. I mean, what are they? A minor branch of soul magic, used to achieve immortality, something that's certainly dime a dozen if you know where to look. But in the Indian's hands…whoa, I mean, you still can't pick up a muggle folk tales book without coming across a story where some King or Sorcerer had his life in a parrot or some stone or a ring.

"Of course, one has to take into account that it's a pretty dang impossible thing to get better than a Chandravanshi in Soul Magic, what with their marriage spells being able to bind man and wife for seven reincarnations, but still, Horcruxes being as common as they are is a strange thing."

At this, Harry's focus shifted to the other occupant of the room, namely Theodore Nott Sr. While not quite the image of calm, he seemed to have taken the topic much better than Lucius. But then, the Malfoys had history with Horcruxes.

No one would ever forget what happened in that time in ancient Greece, the story of Hyperion.

He was a powerful King, arguably one of the most powerful around. He managed some serious conquest in his lifetime, banding together near about half a dozen city states into a relatively stable kingdom. Then the eventual time came. He was plagued with worries about his mortality, just like so many before and after him.

Well, long story short, he found the secret of Horcruxes, and created one with one of his cool shiny jewels. So far so good.

Fast forward a couple centuries, and he had another six or seven states, making him a serious contender for Supreme Hegemon of the Hellenincs (not that any such position existed then).

It was a good time, to be honest. Peace and prosperity abounded, hunger was low, people were happy, their dogs were happy, their cats were happy, their goats… well, they were rather angry actually. And sore, but that's neither here nor there. Everyone was having a good time, so much so that they came together and dubbed the king as 'Hyperion the Magnificent'.

And then some wacko got damn close to offing the big guy, after shanghaiing his way into the repository of the Horcrux. He didn't manage it, of course, and doomed just about everyone on his little island to ignominy and death, but he also put a thought in the King's head.

He could be destroyed.

So… the natural follow up was, what to do to prevent it? (those were productive days)

And then in a rare case of profound stupidity, the thought came 'Well, how many of my horcruxes is anyone going to manage to destroy?'

Well… he created a few more, and hid them around. Fine.

Except… it wasn't, really. It didn't show up immediately, but he realized that he was now capable of far lesser than he had been. It wasn't a very obvious thing. It was just that aspects of him, his legendary wisdom, his oratory abilities, his kindness, all seemed to be… missing, somehow.

Well… that went about as well as can be thought of. In a matter of years, his kingdom was in ruins, partially from external causes, mostly from his actions (he'd declared war on Olympus, of all things. Not a good thing to do. Period.) His abilities, his magic, were all depleted, trying to patch the gash in his soul.

But nothing had suffered as badly as his appearance. Whereas he'd before been Adonis given form, now he was an ugly, crooked thing, reeking and rather gelatinous at times. Unfortunately for his surroundings, even his diminished powers could cause untold damage.

And thus was born Herpo the Foul.

In the coming years, Greece would burn time and again as the shattered remnants of his sanity attempted to return to his old glory, but it could never be managed.

He was eventually destroyed, of course, but he served as a valuable lesson to all wizardkind, and especially to his descendants, the family eventually to be known as the house of Malfoy.

As Harry forced his mind out of the tangent, he concentrated to Nott. He was saying something.

"Indeed, sir. I believe our own nation has some considerable history with horcruxes, does it not?"

Ah yes. Nott was something of a scholar in his free time, Harry remembered. He motioned to the man to continue.

"Well, there was that commoner, I believe, who was in overall command of all the Naval forces in Arthur's time… his name was, I don't quite remember… Edmund or something?"

Harry could have smiled at the obvious bait. Even now, the man wanted t test the 'inexperienced young lad', by dangling a question like this in front of him.

"It was Edward, Viscount. Edward Teach, popularly called 'Blackbeard', Grand Admiral of the Northern Armada of the Royal Navy. And yes, he had a horcrux that he kept near him nearly at all times. Well, to be exact he was on it most times. His ship, the Queen Anne's Revenge, named after one of the regional Queens that died shortly around his appointment.

"Of course, he was far from the only one. There was that Slytherin vassal noble, what was his name, the one who looked very good?"

It was at this that Lucius finally spoke. It seemed that the short time was enough for him to regain his wits.

Or maybe the words 'looked very good' had healed all the damage, it was difficult to know.

"He was one of the lordlings of the House of Grey, I believe. His name… I think it was Dorian, I'm not sure."

It was at this point that Harry judged that the iron was nearing optimal temperature. "Yeah, that was his name. His horcrux was a painting, I believe, of himself at that. It's rather fascinating actually, the way anything and everything can be used to hold a soul shard. A painting, a ship, birds, stones, and everything in between." here he glanced at Lucius, before going for the kill. "Even a dirty old diary can be a horcrux, would you believe that?"

This provoked the reaction Harry wanted from the blonde ponce. Lucius Malfoy paled to the bone, as terror overcame all his features, the beginnings of a sputter appearing on his lips. At his side, the Viscount of Nottingham stared in bewilderment, wondering just what was wrong with the normally composed lord.

Harry decided to twist the knife a little. "You know, I have somewhat reliable reports that even recent Dark Lords have been making Horcruxes a lot. Erebus's grandfather didn't, thankfully, but by all accounts, Voldemort was well on his way.

Here, a shade of Malfoy's fear was reflected on Nott's face, as thoughts of what could happen to him with Tom Riddle reborn were considered in his mind.

Harry kept up the game for a bit longer, pushing and probing, dropping hints, redirecting questions, till he had them right where he wanted them. It was at this point, that he delivered his coup de grace.

"Well, let's cut to the chase, gentlemen. Your old master is on the rise. I recently found evidence of a death eater in Hogwarts. He has been identified and is being dealt with, but it has been ascertained that the Dark Lord is extremely close to full embodiment, and there's precious little any of us can do about it."

"Are you sure, your grace? What of the death eater, he must know something?"

"I'm afraid he doesn't, Lucius. He knows that plans are in motion, but he knows nothing of the plans themselves." The last part was a complete lie, as Harry knew exactly how and when Voldemort intended to arise. But he had plans for the Dark Lord.

"I believe that the both of you must have realized this yourselves, given the, ahem, mark, that you possess."

The two shared a look. He knew that he had hit the nail on the head, especially given that he'd called this meeting only after gleaning the worries in Lucius's mind.

"Yes, your grace, we have discussed this already among us, to tell the truth. We were wondering if we could ask for any help…" he trailed off, probably unwilling to commit too strongly.

"Help, Lucius, is always available for those willing to ask for it." Harry said dramatically. He then showed some hesitation on his face. "But there is a small problem."

He might as well have told them that the world was about to end.

Continuing before they had seizures, he spoke "See. The actual harm that he can do to you, that can be prevented, all it'll take is wards and men. That much is fine. The problem is, no amount of protection is going to do a knut's worth of good if the both of you remain slaves.

"Excuse me sir?" a hint of Malfoy anger was present in Lucius's tone at this, only to cease as his eyes met Harry's.

"See, the time when you joined his organization, you submitted yourself to his bindings. The dark mark, the repeated acknowledgement of him as "my lord", that sort of things aren't gotten rid of that easily, you know."

"Now the news isn't all bad. It can be done, but it'll take a great deal of cunning, and finesse, not to mention more than a few sacrifices. What you need to do is…"

And that had been that. He'd given orders, and today was the day to bring the whole thing to fruition.

Crouch Hall had stood for a long time. It hadn't always been called that, being originally the ancestral seat of a minor Noble family. It was a throwback to older, more warlike times, when the Keep of a Wizarding House, and the knowledge of its location, its defenses, had been some of the most valuable knowledge in the land. The 'good old days', as many called them.

Then the family had gone extinct, and the building had ended up in the hands of Sir Caspar Crouch VI, the great-grandfather of Sir Bartemius Crouch Sr., Warlock of the Wizengamot, Director of International Magical Cooperation, former Director of Magical Law Enforcement, former aspirant for the position of Minister for Magic.

Speaking of whom, it was a shame what Harry was here to do. Bartemius Crouch had been a good, strong man in his time, occasional incidents of monumental stupidity aside. Now he was an imperius-ed puppet for Lord Voldemort reborn.

Well, to be more accurate, he was an imperius-ed puppet for his own son, who was Voldemort's servant. Still, none of that mattered right now.

Harry rose from where he was sitting in the shade of one of the many trees just outside the ward boundaries, and gestured to the leader of the tech. team with him that had come to work on the wards. He could've done the job himself easily enough, sure, but what the hell.

Having already extracted the full details of the matrix from Barty Jr., it was a trivial matter to pop the wards open like a can, without triggering even the slightest alarms inside. Harry strolled in, casually apparating ahead in short bursts, even as his own anti-travel wards went up to prevent escapes. As he walked, active defenses rose, with golems forming out of the soil and the trees in the gardens rearing up, starting to form into defensive formations.

He snorted, before a snap of his fingers withered away the power of the defenses. The power of a Magical House was directly related to that of its Lord. Bartemius Crouch Sr. was an old man, pushing sixty years of age. The result…

He continued with equal effortlessness into the house itself, even as statues and self-firing weaponry broke against his shields. Gargoyles hurled themselves, scrabbling and clawing… and shattering, most importantly. He could only wonder about the irony. Here was Britain, where every family had all the resources it could ever want but the need or the willingness to use them, and there was Russia, where willingness and need abounded, but among cash-strapped lords.

The rest of what happened at the Keep deserves no mention. The idea of Lord Voldemort ever posing a threat was nipped in the bud without it ever being a consideration, the Ouroboros Alliance gained a new, most unwilling, and severely brainwashed member, and most importantly, the stage was set for what would shortly come.

Walden Macnair wasn't a brave man, nor a halfway decent one for that matter. He was a mid level employee of the Ministry of Magic, the scion of an old, moderately rich, but not ennobled family, and possessing a good network of connections, which kept him in a safe lead ahead of his colleagues.

He was also a death eater, one of many, many who felt the familiar burn on their arms that evening.

He was following the unspoken command a few seconds later, clad in his old regalia. As he apparated, allowing the transport to be guided by the summoning, he wondered what this would mean, especially in view of the tremendous amount of power the Potter brat had recently gained.

He appeared soon in an unfamiliar place, to see that a great deal of the old crowd was already gathered. That was strange, he'd always imagined that the first meeting called after the restoration would be only the inner circle.

But if the Dark Lord willed it this way, then who was he to argue?

Fifteen minutes later saw Macnair in position in the center of the room, at his designated place in the inner circle.

Curiously enough, it was a circle the center of which was currently empty. But no death eater worried. No doubt some dramatic entrance had been planned for their lord. He was fond of such things.

Indeed, no sooner had he completed that thought, that through the floor in the center of the room, a snake poked its head out.

The crowd was surprised at this, but before they could react, the snake was followed by another, and then another in a few seconds. After that it was a veritable flood of reptiles, as they emerged one after the other, snakes recognizable as among the deadliest of the world gathering in the middle of the room full of the followers of one of the men recognized as among the deadliest in the world.

And moments later, the snakes started moving, crawling over themselves, creating a slowly rising hill of slimy bodies. It was at the once disgusting and fascinating to watch, as the set of snakes rose into a giant pile, which eventually reached, and stopped growing at, a height of exactly seven feet.

Then the snakes twisted and contorted even more, moving, withdrawing, bulging, till they had attained a human shape. Even then they continued to move, rapidly forming into a recognizable visage.

Till Lord Voldemort stood in the room, looking upon his followers with an imperious gaze.

Switching POVs

Harry stopped the flow of magic to the illusion, content with the sense of awe among the death eaters. It would have been awesome to be able to actually do that, sure, but that was still far away.

He continued to stare at them, while slowly cranking up the aura of doom-ahem, the spiritual pressure. It wasn't long, before the first among them rushed to Harry's feet, kissing the hem of his robe.

As it was, it started a flurry, as no one wanted to be the last to bow. And once they were bowed, they stayed in position for quite a while, as no one wanted to be the first to get back up. eventually, he verbally commanded them to rise, before beginning a walk of the room.

As he strode, while speaking admonitions and promises alike in a harsh, disgusting voice, he couldn't help but be amused that Voldemort had planned this event out, down to the last gesture, over the last year. He was, after all, using that very speech with a few alterations.

But eventually he had made a full circle, personally 'greeting' each member of the inner circle, and answering their questions. It was after this that he spoke.

"But my loyal followers, we cannot afford to delay much more. There is work to be done. First of all, Lucius, Theodore, step forward." Harry turned his eyes at the pair, watching as they shuffled ahead.

"Word came to me, my friends, that you had perchance grown out of your need for me, what with the new club you seem fond of frequenting."

"No, my lord, absolutely not! They are but our allies, you are our god, my lord!" the both of them spoke in unison, seemingly horrified at the very idea.

"We shall see." Was all Harry said, while moving ahead.

"Indeed, each of you will get a chance of redeeming yourself and restoring my trust in your loyalty." He spoke silkily, in a voice nevertheless laced with awesome command.

"For you see, my friends, there are going to be a lot of changes in this organization, and very soon. Immediately, as a matter of fact."

It was at this that he sensed the fear and uncertainty in the room multiply manifold. It was a dangerous line he was treading, that much was clear. He threw a momentary look as the ceiling of the room, where, the carving of a snake was present, its maw opened wide and currently occupied with a crystal orb, which itself was currently a jet black, as opposed to the white it originally was.

The last soul fragment of Lord Voldemort, which had till recently been a rather ugly homunculus.

He continued "In the far off lands that I was forced to inhabit, I wondered about what it was that led to my fall, and I found that without the pressing concerns of managing the war, the answer was easy to find.

"I was…unwise in how I conducted the whole scenario. I forced this land, our birthland, into a civil war, when there wasn't any need in the slightest for it..

"After all, aren't there present in this room some of the wealthiest men and women of all Britain? Aren't here so many successful politicians, so many Lords, and two members of the Council of Fifteen? And most importantly, am I not, myself, the Heir of Slytherin?"

The room, at this point, was full of bobbing heads and slight 'yes's, which all ceased as he continued.

"And yet. And yet force is a very necessary part of power, the power we need to change our world, to throw the mudblood vermin out." Once again, cue affirmative responses.

"But despite all that, I have decided that there must be limits. There cannot be anymore magical blood spilled needlessly. There cannot again be a weakened nation, neither a weak generation of magicals."

He was starting to get annoyed with the nods now.

"And so, I have decided upon a number of methods that will achieve our purpose, the cleansing of our world, in the most expedient of ways. These shall be revealed to you over the coming days, but there is one thing that must be done immediately.

He snapped his fingers, causing an elf to bring a very particular device into the room. It was like a basin in shape and size, although lined with strange symbols, consisting of mythril, and with a single, blood red stone set in its bottom.

At this point, he felt the mood in the room turn from a mix of excited, nervous and scared, to outright terrified. Because what was currently sitting mere feet from him was a device very well known to the occupants of the room.

"My lord, is that-" one of the death eaters spoke.

"Yes it is." Harry said shortly, slightly breaking character by using less than ten times the words necessary.
"As you most likely know, I am an heir of House Slytherin. I was unable to claim my heritage due to a magical accident in my youth. But in my exile, I succeeded in changing that status, by means you need not know.

"As such, I shall be using this binding pool here to bind my followers to me, so that sudden cases of the Imperius do not spring up should something suddenly happen to me."

He looked around the room, wordlessly challenging anyone to question his words. He saw the desire rising in a few eyes, which necessitated him to crush it by virtue of a simple exercise of mind magic.

A few managed to speak up before he got to them, but they were obedient enough after a round under the Cruciatus.

As it was, Malfoy was the first to go. Harry gave him a glass full of the binding potion out of a flagon that he summoned with a gesture. As Malfoy drained the glass, Harry incanted a series of spells on him, which ended just as the glass was emptied. Wordlessly, Harry gave the man a ritual knife, which he clasped in the left hand, while touching the red stone in the basin with the tip of the middle finger of his tight.

Then he slit his right wrist.

As the blood, instead of obeying gravity, moved down along his hand into the stone, Lucius Malfoy incanted the vow.

"I Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, Lord of House Malfoy, Marquise of Wiltshire, do now swear eternal vassalage and fealty to the Lord Voldemort and the Ancient house of Gaunt under the terms of absolute and unconditional obedience regardless of circumstance or condition. Let it be said that all that was, is or ever shall be of House Malfoy of myself is now House Gaunt and Lord Voldemort's. so I have said, so it shall be."

By the time he finished, the room's occupants were shocked beyond any words could describe. Because while no one ever imagined leaving the Dark Lord's service, this was something else entirely.

Bu then they didn't know of what had happened hours previously.

"Now the news isn't all bad. It can be done, but it'll take a great deal of cunning, and finesse, not to mention more than a few sacrifices. What you need to do is to switch the bindings you're under to someone else, to someone who can protect you from Voldemort."

Now Lucius Malfoy wasn't the very image of intelligence, and he was rather scared, but he wasn't stupid.

He stayed silent just long enough to secure himself a further assurance. "I, Harry James Potter, Lord of Slytherin house and Duke of Parsellsia, swear that I shall not overly misuse or take undue advantage of any oath of vassalage sworn to be by any person currently present in this room. Thus I say, so it is.

It was a thin cushion that Malfoy and Nott had, but it was a cushion.

Of course, all of that was irrelevant to Harry then. It took over a full two hours for everyone to be sworn to him irrevocable, and then, after he sent them away to recover from the drain (there was a rather significant one, due to the changes made in the nature of their blood and magic.), it took him several hours more to draw upon the newly formed connections and change them, switching the control links so that they were divided equally between the six houses he controlled (which was exactly what he'd done with the Yaxley assets such a long time ago).

Soon he would have their libraries, their artifacts, and their contacts, but the main purpose was solved.

Lord Voldemort was neutralized.

And the newly gained force was going to be a valuable asset to Harry, he knew that much already.

He'd started with Forty-five votes directly voted upon by himself, and about thirty in the hands of his vassals. To that he'd managed to add the six Yaxley votes, five death eater votes, and four Yaxley vassal votes. Together, that gave him a political 'core', so as to speak. Ninety votes that were completely, absolutely, unable to be taken away from him. To that were now added twelve votes from the Malfoys and the Notts, nine from their vassals, and twelve other votes of death eater 'lesser' families. So it came to a sum total of 123 votes. A nice, magically powerful number, just as he'd planned.

That was all the votes he could feasibly acquire permanently, and it certainly was more than enough. Especially as it gave him nine votes at the Council of Fifteen. The rest, as far as a majority in the house was concerned, he could get with bribes, blackmail or simple influence.

Of course, as things were, he could very much end up needing every single one of them. Because he hadn't been alone in gathering his forces. He had detected signs that pointed to the Morrigans calling their vassals together, to supplement their already formidable voting bloc, and rumors spoke of a new party forming among the warlocks, to 'take the power form the aristocratic idiots', as far as the line went.

Power was being concentrated, in other words, with favors being called in, strings pulled, pieces of blackmail exploited, and preparations made.

He gave it four months, seven or eight at the very least, before the shadow war entered full swing. With it would come all that was entailed. Business decisions would be executed in certain ways, contracts revoked, licenses withdrawn, legislation passed along careful lines. Carriers would be made and broken, lives lost, owing solely to whatever family the people involved had connections to. Everything would be up for grabs, wizengamot seats, positions within the ministry, within businesses, copious amounts of money would change hands, lordships granted and stripped, ad infinitum.

It was a game of thrones, where the dice were bones and the reward was pure, naked power. It was also known, as far as the older families were concerned, as 'fun'.

Still, crude foreshadowing by the author can wait.

The situation in Russia cannot.

Over the month of February, Harry had consolidated his gains in the motherland. The defenses were at 100%, the productivity of the newly acquired lands and populations was on a steep rise, and information was being gathered and collated for the future, to allow for plans to be finalized for the remaining campaign.

Because while Harry had gained enormous advantages in this war with his attack, they had come at a huge price, namely the element of surprise. He was now known to them, and that meant that they would start acting against him. The lack of that… well it had been an advantage beyond imagination.

It still rankled to a degree, actually. Every prediction he'd made, every evaluation, strategic calculation, all of that was now down the drain.

Still, there was no use dwelling on the past.

He was in a full meeting with the Russia subcommittee, for a set of reports and plans.

Deciding to start with the business affairs, he turned to the Agent in command of coordinating their efforts in the area.

"Mr. Blackston, how has it gone?"

"As good as can be expected sir. We have, paying five times the market price, secured 84% success in Project Deprivation. As I was tasked to do, I have bought out the complete stocks of most war related materials to be had anywhere in the world, and secured contracts that will ensure that everything in that regard that's produced in the next decade goes to us."

There were smiles and nods at this, with a few sounds of 'Hear, hear'.

"That's good work, Agent. Now, why is this 84%? Is it a problem of money, permits, licenses, what is it?" Harry asked, an eye on the operatives whose task it was to ensure that everything flowed efficiently.

"Your grace, money isn't any problem, but yes, permits are proving something of a nuisance."

"Explain. You were provided with enough background support, yes?"

"Yes sir, the officials had been bribed and blackmailed appropriately. But in some cases there are treaty obligations, and you know, sir, no company or Noble house can overrule those."

"I see, I suppose blood is one of the problematic substances, then?"

The man looked somewhat surprised at Harry's insight for a moment, before he schooled his face and answered. "Yes, sir."

Harry'd figured as much.

In magical trade, blood was one of the most valuable commodities out there. Witches and Wizards demanded quality, magically charged blood for their rituals, Vampires demanded large quantities of any sort of blood, and yet other beings had their own needs. As such, 99% of Magical nations required the user have a license for both selling and buying blood, which allowed the governments to cut in a nice thick slice for themselves (VAT and Sales tax on blood were each 49% and 74% respectively, and export duty was 230%. They were exorbitant prices, yes, but everyone knew that the Romanians alone could and would pay anything)

Thing was, being such a priceless commodity, both parties involved in the blood trade often wanted more binding agreements than simple supply-and-demand. They wanted to be able to make long-term investments based on the business, for one thing.

Out of the three 'Vampire lands', as they were called, none produced anything more than 45% of their needs, and each had a web of agreements and treaties regarding their supply.

Harry had resisted opening a branch of Althric regarding the matter, as thanks to a certain voting bloc co-led by one Dolores Umbridge, blood trade was banned in the Isles. Of course, all of the dozen or so 'ancillary companies' (floated for the purpose of hiding just how much of the market he would soon some to directly control) did trade in high quality blood, even if the supply was small (he had to use the lobotomized death eaters for something).

"Okay, see how much you can coax out of the market anyway, push the success up to 90%, at least, y'know."

"And speaking of that, what are the other substances that are giving problems?"

"Magical crystals for one, sir. As I was ordered I released large quantities of crystals of all types on the market, flooring the price. But the quarry owners still refuse to sell, sir."

"Do they now? Okay, do one thing. Make a list of the owners that are causing problems, put everything you can about them into it. Send it to me, and I'll see what can be done. Meanwhile, release another ten tons of every type on the market. Use the usual intermediaries, make sure it isn't traced back to us. I want the bottom to fall out of the whole industry. "

The man nodded, satisfied for now.

"Okay, so. Anyone have something else about business to add?"

There were a few issues here and there, but they were speedily resolved, allowing the meeting to get to the meat of the matters they were all concerned with.

Namely, the military power of the remaining five factions, and the ways to neutralize it. Harry had already issued another set of levies on his brand new vassals, yielding another six-seven thousand wands. It would take them around a month or so go get them to scratch, which meant that they could be deployed at the same time with the troops already under training.

The question was, would it be enough? Or on the other end of the spectrum, was he overdoing it?

To understand the details about the Russian Civil war, one would have to understand the history of it.

It had begun in 1915, when the Tsar Nicholas was murdered along with everyone of the Romanov name within Russia at the hands of Dark Lord Rasputin. The reasons weren't very clearly known, but there were many theories, one of the most popular being that Nicholas was actually was a squib, and had been making Rasputin cast everything for him, while at the same time handing over more and more power to the muggles out of the visceral loathing that he (the Tsar) held towards everyone more gifted than him.

Rasputin had finally broken fealty in the most spectacular way possible, by simply overpowering the entirety of the power that the Romanov family magic could bring to bear and the purging the bindings from his core, soul and blood. It had been a pyrrhic victory, though, as he was left severely weakened after doing it.

Still, he managed to take command of the nation, and ordered a frantic clean up. All evidence of the freedoms that muggles had was destroyed. Indeed, pogrom after pogrom was falsified.

And then, of course, he took personal care to pick the person who could damage the muggles the worst. That man he found in Vladimir Illyich Lenin, and his compatriots among the Bolsheviks. It took minimal effort to raise them to power, and then a few manipulations saw Stalin installed on the seat of power, ready to rain ruin and ravage upon his country.

But that is getting ahead of ourselves. In magical Russia, the reins of power were now held by a weak, crumbling shell of the man that could have become a King beyond imagine, a God in his own right. His followers were understandably upset, even more so when he refused to name a successor. Eventually his entire organization was split into vicious faction fighting, which soon grew into outright civil war.

And, well, the rest is a dichotomy of awful, old tales retold, as opportunists crawled out from the woods, foreign expansionists set up shop, and war started to rage.

In its earlier days, everyone believed that they could pull a quick win, and take the vital keystones if they could only move at the correct time, take the correct opportunities. Much blood was spilled, as they all tried, only to fail again and again.

This continued, for years and years, till everyone involved was tired beyond reason, their resources depleted to nothing, and all sense of opportunism gone. The generation that inherited the civil war from their fathers were a defensive, protective sort, determined to save themselves at all cost. Years had drained any advantages any of them held, leaving the lot of them evenly matched to a ridiculous, outrageous degree, to the point that the conflict basically became endless.

Someone would launch an offensive, take a castle or two, and start to celebrate, only to realize that they had lost their old holdings, because of the fact that they'd hopelessly overstretched their forces.

(A/N: Any of you who have played Age of Conquest (the android game) with the difficulty at Extreme will know what I mean.)

So, by this time everyone had just about enough to do a decent defense, but anyone going on the offensive and taking something was more likely than not to lose something in return.

Except Harry, that was. He had enough in men and materials to drown them in sheer numbers. Had he wanted to, he could have simply used an endless series of body-waves, and sooner or later, it'd have worked.

But that was the exact strategy that had brought the Russians into their current state in the first place, so he had understandable reservations.

In any case, all of that was one thing. The other was that Harry wanted to bloody as many of his soldiers as possible while he had the chance. Apart from Russia, the rest of the magical world was experiencing a rather nasty outbreak of peace, and that meant fat troops and rusted equipment. Not something he liked.

Bringing himself out of his musings, Harry directed an order at one of the Intelligence Corps officers.

"So, now that we can start of military matters, let's begin with a full, in depth analysis of all our enemy forces. First, the Alexandrovitchs."

The man responded as he'd been trained to, rapidly and efficiently.

"Certainly, sir." He rose from his seat, even as a map of Russia appeared on the wall, with all fortresses highlighted.

Pointing to one of the biggest fortresses, he started "This is what the boffins have named CA-1, after 'Castle Alexandrovitch #1'. Please keep any comments about creativity to yourself. It is believed to be the primary stronghold of the Alexandrovitch family, mainly due to the fact that this is where the keystone for their Primary ley-line is.

We believe that their sovereign wards are based here, while the building has its own set of triple layered Unassailable-grade defenses.

Several eyebrows were raised at this. Unassailable grade was the second highest defense level in the Ouroboros Army vocabulary, basically meaning 'so not worth it'.

"Apart from their static defenses, there is a horde of at least seventy Level ten demons on constant patrol, supplemented by divisions of elemental infantry and as thankfully small number of necromantic creatures.

"In addition, there is a garrison of three hundred humans inside, not to mention heavy artillery comprising mainly of fiendfyre, flamedrake potions, and some quantities of Amaterasu solution."

"I didn't know the Uzumaki were selling that." one of the Captains murmured, throwing an accusing look at the 'business' coordinator.

Harry himself knew that the sales of 'the nectar from the sun goddess' was a very tightly regulated substance, and as a matter of fact a cause of major friction between the Uzumaki and their vassals the Uchiha, who were the primary producers of it.

The former wanted a lid kept on it, the latter wanted to be billionaires with it, same old, same old.

The officer forged ahead. "Apart from the primary fortress, there are other fortresses, each controlling a secondary ley-line. Their defenses are roughly equal, with each possessing Mountain-class defenses, two regiments of infantry apiece.

"Apart from their defenses, they have been recently supplemented with a number of necromancers, which indicates an increase in the number of inferi they are fielding. Then there is…"

It was fairly boring as far as debriefs went, but a necessary thing. After completing an assessment of the Alexandrovitchs, the man went on to the Cherinskys, and then the other, non-monarchists. Meanwhile Harry, who'd read the whole thing beforehand, mused on their own defenses.

The Ouroboros Army had originally had twenty-five thousand men from his own estates and those of his vassals. Added to those had been around five thousand from the remaining members, bringing the total up to thirty thousand. Then the prison troops, and a few more contributions, and a recent series of levies from former death eaters, and the number was another ten thousand, bringing the total up to forty thousand soldiers. The last ones would join them some time from then, yes, but those were the numbers.

Now while a fair number of these were elementals, sorcerers, mages and other, directly involved people, most were the 'controllers', that was, people whose main responsibilities were to direct the vast numbers of inferi, golems, automatons and other constructs under their control. The ratio varied, but the average numbers of 500 mobile infantry, 200 heavy infantry, and 50 jets, formed into a single unit under a team of ten operators made for a very, very impressive package.

The total numbers were more than had ever been fielded outside of the Avalonian wars of Conquest, and certainly more than the resource-starved factions of Russia could resist.

Magical Russia would be his, it was just a matter of time.

'And of vast, strenuous effort' he thought, thinking back to the werewolf infested forests that one of his spy-automatons had seen the Head of the Alexandrovitchs sneaking away to, among other things.

Harry wasn't the only one thinking about Russia that day. The man's name was John Stanford. He was an old man, with a practically non-existent hairline. A decade ago he had been an extremely senior political analyst for the CIA, specializing in what was at the time fashionable to specialize in, namely Eastern Europe and the USSR.

And he was worried. Time had seen his body weakened and his belly expanding, but his mind remained as sharp as ever. He spent his time making a hobby out of what had till recently been his profession, mainly because it was all he knew how to do.

And he was worried. Russia was changing.

He knew Russia better than he knew his own country, and in knowing it he had come close to empathizing with it, and he knew that she was changing fast.

He thought back to the things he'd recently read.

The changes went back a long time, but the most recent catalyst, as far as he could tell, was a conference that had been called in the July of last year, involving every one of the potential industrialists in Russia. Everyone who owned anything, factories, mills, companies, had been invited, and then seated in a single, giant hall.

His sources didn't know exactly what had happened inside, but they had all left with smiles on their faces.

And what happened later explained the cause. No one quite understood just how it happened, but in one, fell swoop, the power of the Russian oligarchy had been broken and crushed into an unrecognizable pulp, while a true free market had emerged .

The details were simple enough on the surface. As part of the privatization process, large number of state assets, factories, mills etc, had been tossed to private individuals practically for dirt. These were the oligarchs.

What had been done was that Yeltsin had issued a simple ordinance, outlawing all of those sales, and imprisoning everyone involved, while restoring everything to the state. Now a large number of those Oligarchs had been powerful members of the Mafia, and things had started getting hot, till each of them had been arrested, and had gone on to betray their entire organizations, while signing everything they (still) owned to the state.

Then the real thing had begun. The government had held auctions for the assets, inviting all comers. The assets had all been sold off at what everyone agreed were reasonable prices, thereby finishing off the privatization once and for all.

Even then hopes had been low. What it they had the factories? Hardly anyone possessed the money to build anything anyway, and the government, not quite broke but not 'flush with money' either, was unlikely to issue tenders.

Except that it did. And it issued tenders like it was going out of fashion. Roads, hospitals, hotels, schools, colleges, mills, factories, you name it. Contracts were being offered for anything and everything. A lot of people became convinced that there had to be a shining, yellow poultry farm somewhere in the motherland, given the number of golden eggs the government had.

And it wasn't limited to contracts. The government was in a full on problem solving mood, and it showed. A problem of Russia had been food. There were huge warehouses worth of food rotting, while people were starving elsewhere. The problem was to connect the two ends.

The Russian Ministry of Transport placed an order for half a million Tata Trucks.

The drivers later complained that the roads were practically nonexistent, causing large expenses in repairs.

The same ministry had the trucks outfitted with off road tires.

It was the same for everything. The Russians used the default government response to problems, that of throwing money at it, but they did it well.

Piping and mining technology worth billions of dollars rolled into Siberia, all paid for by the government. Massive employment drives were undertaken that saw 70% of the Russian poor into stable, if less paying jobs, all bankrolled by the state, initially at least.

It had been ten months now since the meeting that John placed as the catalyst, and Russia had already gone from 'near collapse' to 'rapidly rising', in an industrialization drive, the rate of which had been confirmed as over ten times that of the Industrial Revolution and the German Economic Miracle put together.

All of that made for a very worried former analyst, given that absolutely none of this should have been possible by even his most liberal calculations.

And the worse thing was, Russia wasn't alone. Yugoslavia, Ukraine, a dozen or so republics in Africa of all places, they were all on the same, near vertical graph of growth. It was a sad day for democracy, even, when the fastest growing countries in the world were all dictatorships.

Still, nothing anyone could do.

'And the pity is, there's nothing anyone can do' thought Erwin Lakeson, Director of Lakeson Holdings, a small but highly renowned trading company. He was thinking of the newest economic miracle that had gripped Wall Street, namely a company that was well on its way towards shattering all existing records. He reviewed the file in front of him, though its contents were now memorized.

It had been founded back in the 50s, by the second son of a Duke, who, in order to escape from his family's shadow, had adopted the name of the legendary bird that was the symbol of rebirth. Well, the origins were clear enough, as was its growth to become a major player on the Bristol market, achieving a nice fat slice of the heavy traffic in and out of the region. Even what happened afterwards was familiar, namely the passing of the founder of the company and the ascension of his son to chairman, followed by the company taking 'new directions'.

The man had incorporated the company, starting a mining interest as well as a few rubber and coffee plantations here and there, all the things that had been fashionable at the time to own. Needless to say, most of the concerns had bombed, taking the company share with them.

Fast forward to the late 80s, and the man was dead, leaving a widow and a son. The widow died a couple of years after, leaving the orphan as sole heir of a (very) modest fortune.

It was after this heir came to majority that things got interested. Somehow a survey was conducted on one of the mining concessions the company held, and a huge, huge gold vein was discovered. The discovery was kept completely quiet, and they had gone looking for a buyer. Well, one was duly found, and the sale was made, leaving a gigantic quantity of cash in the hands of the lad.

And the end result was that Time magazine had just pronounced Samuel Phoenix as 'The New Face of Capitalism'. And Erwin had to agree, the boy was Midas reborn. Whatever he touched turned to gold, be it dead end mines, candy factories, art auctioneers, or builders. He had taken the Cray Computer Corp., a virtually bankrupt firm, and turned it into Phoenix Cybernetics, a multi-million pound company. He had taken a dozen infrastructure firms, and gone looking for contracts in the heart of the bloody Soviet Block, and returned with his hands full.

And there was the recent thing. Everyone agreed that one of the single most lucrative and yet hassle-full fields was weapons. Governments demanded verification after verification, check after check, they made surprise visits, and created no end of complications. None of that had stopped Phoenix Munitions from being born, and true to form, once it had, it had been flooded with contracts from dictatorships across the world.

However even that was old. What Lakeson was wondering at had to do in an entirely different continent, namely, Africa.

The company had recently floated a charitable trust, the Phoenix Foundation. Now by all reasonable standards, one would expect it to do what everyone else did. That is, ask for donations, keep ninety percent, and use the rest to buy a few blankets and food.

Except, what it had done was to hold a series of tests in every country from Russia to Yugoslavia to Sierra Leone and Argentina, and then sponsor everyone who passed for the very highest levels of education possible. Meaning that for school age kids Phoenix paid for a full Harvard education, for college age ones it was Oxford, Cambridge or Ivy League. And it was not just education. Their travel to the city where they would be studying, their stay, their clothing, feeding, everything would be bankrolled by Phoenix.

Just. Like. That.

And as if that wasn't enough, Phoenix had just built low cost housing, at rates like £200 a flat, for Fifty Million Africans. Apart from schools, hospitals, and all other amenities. Not just that, but to prevent the normal fate that befell such things, i.e. confiscation for Govt. or terrorist use, the company had placed five regiments worth of guards from Phoenix Security around them, all equipped with the latest weapons and given the latest training.

Granted, they had secured a very hefty payment, in the form of the right to first refusal on any and all natural resources ever discovered in the countries they were patronizing, but for the number of things they were doing, not to mention the amounts they must have paid into the secret accounts of the dictators to get the whole thing through…

It was mind boggling.

And the worst thing about all of it was that none of it was American. Phoenix Inc. was an organization owned by a limey, run by a limey, and unfortunately utilized by a lot of non-limeys. That was the problem. Anything Phoenix achieved, the credit went to London, not Wall Street.

That was the unfortunate part, and an even worse thing was that that was how it would stay. There was nothing anyone could do.

It was an opulent building. Certainly, the high flung arches, the gemstones scattered here and there, and the elaborate fountains in the gardens, all proved that. But then, the person who was rapidly approaching towards it was used to it.

He was currently high in the air, sitting inside a Rolls Royce Phantom cruising across the air at a comfortable speed. Behind him was a train of Limousines, carrying elaborate, gilded trays full of jewels and decorative weapons, baskets full of the finest fruits, clothes, among other things. It was a traditional shagun, the visiting gift of the Indian culture.

As he approached, he thought back to the circumstances. The Patils had finally sent a message with relatively decent terms, which was the prompt behind this visit.

It wasn't long, before he was stepping outside the car, where a welcoming party was waiting. As he was surrounded by the assorted flunkeys of the Patils, he sent one last curse at Salazar for convincing him that this was a good idea, before he put on the game face.

Walking in, he heard the crier announce him. "All rise! The Duke of Gryphonsworth and Parsellsia, The Earl of Wilmington, The One Who Lived, The Dragonslayer of Hogwarts, The Warlord of Russia, Harry James Potter, approaches the court!"

'Wait, what? The Warlord of Russia? How the hell did they… Okay, scratch that, the Chandravanshis. But why would they… Of course, a power play.' We know you were there and we'll make use of it.'' Harry thought, even as several plans were discarded in his mind, while others were adjusted according to this particular contingency.

Well, there went the 'slightly embarrassed, inexperienced lad' routine down the drain. It would now be a liability, a cause for them to question his martial abilities.

Pity, it'd been a good one.

He exhaled in comfort as he allowed the nature of his magic to course through him. The fierceness of the Dragon, the bloodlust of the Werewolf, the chill of death, the sheer corruption of chaos, all bubbled through him for a few brief microseconds, before being tightly reined in by the combination of his own icy ruthlessness, the stark pragmatism of the basilisk, and the boundless patience of the Kraken.

If they wanted a Warlord, they'd get one, and damn them if they weren't prepared. His gait changed with his magic. Whereas earlier he was just casual, now there was a hint of arrogance about it, legs falling ahead each other in a way that made the very idea of someone stopping him seem the product of a demented imagination.

'Of course, there is more.' Yes. They would expect this, for him to use the title now that they'd awarded it to him. So that made it likely that at least three or four of their plays would be designed to capitalize on it. He himself had over a hundred contingencies that involved capitalizing upon their capitalizing on it.

But they could have other plans that would capitalize upon his capitalizing upon their capitalizing upon his Warlord title…

He enjoyed politics, but it always left him with a migraine.

He was on autopilot though the first several minutes of the meeting, as he shook hands, nodded at the employees of Althric Swadeep, embraced, tried to bow and touch their feet but being prevented, prevented people from bowing and touching his feet, carelessly gave away gifts worth hundreds of thousands of galleons, etcetera, etcetera.

He noted everything, however. The placement of every single item in any of the rooms he was shown, the exact features of everyone he saw, their probable strengths, weaknesses, among other things. He noted the exact tones of the song coming from the team of Mer-musicians, sitting in the biggest globule of water he'd ever seen. He counted the exact number of diamonds in the chandeliers that hung seemingly every few meters.

Not for the first time, he was reminded of why his great, great, greeeat grandfather on his mother's side, Alexander III (yes that one), had wanted this country.

The golden bird indeed.

It continued, them showing off, him showing apparent total appreciation, for quite some time, but eventually they sat down for dinner.

A lot of cultures strictly forbade talking at the dining table. Thankfully, this one didn't. He talked about everything, from the businesses, to the latest music sensation. He was complimented on his innovations by some, criticized lightly by others, and yet others questioned him on what he planned to do in the future.

Of course, he didn't just answer questions. He asked them too. He asked the merchant-lords about businesses, the warrior-lords about what they thought of the weapons Althric had recently launched, the scholar-lords about what they thought of Hogwarts and how one went about getting an admission into Nalanda, and others about other things.

Indeed, between his legilimency and his questions, the visit was already successful by the time the meal was done, what with the amount of information he had extracted.

He now had blackmail, potent blackmail, on seventy percent of Maratha nobility and royalty. Go figure.

Still, windfalls aside, it was over an hour before they retired to the office of the Maharaja, and sat down to business.

The first several items on the agenda were irrelevant. Contracts for Althric, for the sale of several pieces of land, mines, orchards etc. were negotiated and agreed upon swiftly and simply. He gouged them at every chance he could, yes, but then he wasn't immune to gouging either.

It was after an appropriate amount of time had passed, that the issue of the jewels arose.

"Simply put, your grace, we must have them. They are an extremely important part of the heritage of this family, and they must be with us."

"I know, your highness, I know. But as a man of the world you will understand that items as priceless as them can't just be handed over. After all, I didn't get them for free."

"I fully understand. Now as I was saying, I think five shastra scrolls should be enough, your grace. After all, they are among the most powerful bits of magic in the world."

Harry didn't roll his eyes, but it was a close-run thing.

Jewels as powerful and as expensive as the ones they were talking about, for five scrolls? Yeah right.

"Of course, your highness, but there is the matter of battle magic. I was hoping we could make some headway in the details of the divine weapons."

At this the man nodded thoughtfully. "Well, I was informed of that, but it isn't as simple as handing the prints over, your grace. I'm sure you know that."

"Of course, of course" Harry said.

All in all, it was a typical example of upper echelon pureblood politics. Matters of sums of money that went closer to tens of billions than to hundreds of millions of galleons and weapons to devastate continents were discussed, the fates of hundreds, thousands of individuals were decided.

Here, no spontaneity could be tolerated. The difference between an 'I'll do it' and 'I'll try' could make or break fortunes here. Every word, every gesture was a weapon, readily used by whoever could.

The last time a meeting like this had happened, the crown prince of Gandhar (one of the subordinate kingdoms of Meluha) had opened the gates and wards wide for Alexander's invading army. Harry didn't intend to make the man in front of him go quite that far, but a foothold would at the very least have to be established.

The negotiations went on for several hours, tiring everyone involved beyond what they had even imagined. Harry, who had, as he now realized, been entirely too dismissive to the cunning of the people from the land of Chanakya and Shakuni, was forced to go up to nearly his fourteenth level of contingencies (not a good thing, as it meant thirteen separate miscalculations), while the Indians, who had expected to thoroughly fleece the firangi, were left wondering just how they hide all this from the Emperor.

Because the details of the contract that was finally signed were much too different from what anyone had expected.

Harry ended up granting the House of Patil a right of first refusal for all Althric contracts within India for a period of seven years. Furthermore, he would have to meaningfully employ in his organization at least a thousand Patil appointees, while paying for their training, feeding and working out of his own funds. That was fine, he could do all that out of Misc. Exp. anyway. The kicker was the military clause, where it said that his trainers would have to train Patil forces up to an international military standard.

Of course, there were gains. He was now the new Peshwa of Pune, a title that came with half a million acres of land, four ley lines, and over three hundred million galleons. That title gave him the right to build whatever he liked in his new territories, place whatever vassals he liked, and in other words, would serve as a beachhead for the eventual conflict that would arise.

Of course, the Patils were now British nobles as well, with all that was thereby entailed. He had managed a victory in this by foisting off minor portions of Yaxley lands at them, thence untraceable to him.

And there was the fact that he was now betrothed.

He'd known of its inevitability even before stepping foot in the country, but to know that he was to be married to both the Patil twins-they hadn't even contended themselves with one-eventually still had a very much unwelcome note of finality.

They'd wanted him to marry them immediately, but Harry had succeeded in shutting down that particular avenue with a look and a few words, thankfully. It was a simple game of numbers. He was fourteen. That was seven times two. Two wasn't an auspicious number, but three was. Hence, seven times three, that was twenty-one, was the earliest when he would so much as think of any marriages.

Maybe he shouldn't have, but he'd enjoyed the looks on their faces when they had swallowed that. He had cause to, as the idea caught them in an impossible situation. They wanted him tied to them ASAP, but they couldn't argue against his words without going against the very tenets of their superstitions.

So… yeah. It was fun.

On the other hand, the betrothal would still require a couple of ceremonies. Big fat ones, where everyone who was anything would have an invite, and there would be drinking, and laughing, and rings, and whatnot.

The nausea was almost enough to overcome his occlumency. Not quite, but almost.

In any case, he went back to Russia immediately after the meeting. He'd been away far too long anyway, and rumors of chicken legged houses were starting to gain traction.

Olympus forbid they be true. He was confident in his skills, but not quite enough to face her.

Ekaterina Peverell, his many times great aunt and perhaps the greatest necromancer in the family in the past two millenia, she had been one of the team of nine necromancers tasked with subduing Russia in the Arthurian campaigns, but had 'gone native' in a rather spectacular way. More to the point, she'd never been confirmed dead.

Baba Yaga was one of the very, very few things that could make him consider aborting Russia altogether. While he wasn't done with the conquest, that was. Once he had all four ley lines no power in the land would be able to stand against him, and he fully intended to seek the woman out.

Till then, discretion was the better part of valor.

Of course, he could ask Uzariel to kill her…

But a study of relevant folktales had told him that she had almost certainly achieved Ascension, in which case the only thing siccing Uzariel would get him was the wrath of a goddess.

Such were Harry's thoughts, as he came back to Russia. Thankfully, investigations revealed the rumors to be baseless, allowing for a collective sigh of relief. And so, with the fright over, things went back to normal.

Over the course of the next several weeks, the Ouroboros Army would fend off numerous invasion attempts and recon missions, using the considerable might of their wards and their armies to repel the armies of the enemy factions. Vampires eventually got deployed by the Alexandrovitchs, but Harry's newest work, Solaris Lamps, did a pretty good job of repelling them. As far as offensives were concerned there weren't many, mainly because a large chunk of Harry's army was currently required to man the defenses of his fortresses. At least, that was the reason he'd give to his generals.

Still, time passed. The effects of Project Deprivation started appearing, causing the attackers more and more problems with every attempt they made. Harry had reports of the representatives of the factions trying every market in Europe with increasing desperation, while being hunted relentlessly by his own forces.

Till a month passed.

As April dawned, Harry could be seen in yet another meeting with his officers.

"Well, gentlemen? What is the final score? How many soldiers can we safely put in the field?" he asked the room.

It was the Air Marshal, Steven Manson, that answered "Well, sir, the minimum skeleton crews are a regiment per castle. At 24 castles, that is eight legions. But, the AIs are now finished integrating, and have assumed full efficiency. That allows us to spread a regiment over three castles. For the sake of caution, we have limited it to two."

Harry nodded. He'd been the one to make that decision.

He spoke "So, that frees up four more legions, giving us 14 legions in the field, against defenses worth…what?"

"Nine legions, Harry." Selene's voice spoke from the speakers.

"Still too close."

"We could use the ACs, sir." A captain said from the back.

Ah yes. Fifty Boeing 747s, loaded up with WMDs and defenses, and given the rather lofty designation of Air Castles.

Harry shook his head dismissively. "We don't use genocidal weapons unless as a last resort, Captain." He said, finality dripping from his tone.

It was a tempting idea, yes. Level a city or two, then sit back and let the enemies crawl to him on their elbows, begging to be allowed to surrender. He could do that, yes. Hell, even the Boeings were unnecessary. A touch of his left ring finger would suffice.

But that method would work only here, and then where would he be left, with an army as green as this one?

"You don't burn your paddles when deliberately sailing up the shit creek." He muttered quietly, just loud enough for those immediately around him to hear.

Ignoring the sniggers, he continued "Well, gentlemen, we're just two weeks away from the reinforcements. I need someone to point us a list of minor castles for OFOs (Officer Familiarization Operations).

The commander, Intel. Corps spoke up here. "Certainly, sir. As you know, despite Deprivation's success, there have been some successful resupplies that the factions have managed. I'm putting up a list."

As he finished, a list appeared on the wall in front of them, detailing the receiving faction, the nature of the supplies, the amount, and the suppliers. Harry noted with some pride that there were fewer than a dozen items on the list, and out of them, only four had 'Unknown' anywhere in the fields.

However, the contents made him frown. As the man moved to start pointing out the supply depositories that would be hit, Harry raised a hand, motioning him to wait.

"Hmm. Commander Vosley, can you read me item nine?" he said to the officer.

"Certainly sir. Item nine is six quintals of weapons grade Iron, sold to the Count of Trepinzoid. Country of sale is…" the man trailed off, growing pale.

"Go on, commander."

"The country of sale is… Britain." He said, voice shaking.

"Yes. Britain. As in our country. As in the country where I made personally sure to pay ten times the market price to buy out every scrap of metal. As in, the country where we own eighty percent of the total number of mines, and the futures for the next ten years of the remaining twenty percent."

Harry was tempted to lay into the man, but he knew that it wasn't the guy's fault. Actually, it was no one's fault, because there was only one possible source for the iron to have come from.

"Don't worry, commander. It's not you."

He looked at several of his officers, responsible for several international affairs. With a series of slight probes into their minds, he knew that they had reached the correct conclusion.

"So… either the Agents are wrong…" he looked at the Commander, who made to speak, to defend his men, no doubt. Harry waved away his concerns.

"Or the goblins are playing games." He finished, a dangerous note in his voice.

"Selene, how much did we pay Ragnar again?"

"Eight hundred and forty-seven million galleons, Harry. For, and I quote, 'Every hint of magical metal in all of the goblin nation'"

"And then they do this."

If there had been any hesitation, it was gone now. The list in his mind, where till now there had been Albus Dumbledore, the Weasleys, the Grangers, and a few others, had a brand new entry.

There would be blood, he thought to himself. There would be blood, and there would be pain, and by the gods there would be death. Gringotts would burn, and Ragnar and his clan would drink this very iron. The fate of the British goblins was already sealed.

Meanwhile, his officers would have to be answered. They had just been told that the men under were put in undue danger because of the insatiable goblin greed.

Sure enough, it was one of the colonels who asked "Shall we look over the relevant contingencies, sir?"

Harry shook his head "Not quite, colonel. A time and place for everything, and everything at its time and place. But rest assured, the goblins will learn the meaning of the words 'Mongolian Vengeance'.

"In any case, we need to focus. So…commander, the depositories?"

"Yessir. There is a major depository here, and another here, both belonging to the Alexandrovitchs. The Cherinskys own several fortified warehouses in the Northern Districts, here exactly. Then there is a resupply station for their air force here, if the images from the Nimrods are to be believed."

The men around the table nodded. One of them spoke. "What about developmental stages? Their labs and greenhouses?"

Slick as ever, Vosley answered "Yes, sir. Magical imaging has revealed three major research-development complex, here, here and here." He finished with a flourish.

Harry was, to be honest, reminded about those memories he'd lifted from the generals of the muggle armies, pertaining to the Gulf War. Something much like this had been a regular occurrence there too, with the Air Tasking Orders, and the Strike contingencies.

And in both cases, the attacking parties had suffered rather heavily due to the elaborate, delicate art called maskirovka. Although what the muggles could manage didn't even begin to compare to the real thing, with the levels of illusionism and trickery involved, the allies had still wasted several hundred million dollars thanks to Iraqi experts.

Here, it was denying Harry of viable attack possibilities. Because the numbers the Commander was quoting were far from the numbers they had initially noticed, those being almost ten times greater. But gradual elimination, based on patient, thorough detective work, inside intelligence, and Harry's own extreme talent in illusionism, these were the targets that had been confirmed, truly confirmed, as genuine.

As for the fakes, all that could be said was, what work!

Illusions crafted and projected over dozens of miles, using not just magic but actually manipulating both reflection and refraction, using mind magic, memory projection had been seen, apart from transfigured troops that were identical to almost the last degree to the real things, to erecting entire hills over genuine locations… it was a feast for those who appreciated such things.

In any case, now that the plans for the future were prepared, he could leave the rest to his subordinates. Harry didn't like that, but he'd long since learned that as important the ability to do each and everything himself was, knowing how to properly delegate was just as vital. After all, it was a matter of time and scale. He could run everything he had online now himself, yes. It would be a massive task, to run the spy links, the money managing, the company details, the administration of four duchies, an earldom, a baronetcy, a viscounty, and a whole district, the entire war campaign, and the endless series of odds and ends. It was enough work to keep a whole army of bureaucrats busy (as a matter of fact, a small army of bureaucrats was busy). But he could do it.

Thing was, what about the future? What about when his plans went fully global? What about when their scope was multiplied a thousand-fold? If he didn't want everything to collapse like a house of cards the moment something happened to his micromanaging skills (which, if he insisted on running them ragged, was pretty much guaranteed), he would have to learn to let others do some of the work. He would trust them. Not absolutely, oh no. His absolute trust was an award he would never, ever grant, not even posthumously. But there were degrees of trust.

But that was just about enough of that. He had work to do.

His name was Charles Calthrop, and he was a secret agent.

He was also a slightly overweight, balding man, but with a towering physique and considerable intelligence. Currently Mr. Calthrop was sitting in a delicatessen on Rue de Paradise, Paris, waiting for his 'friends' to show up for their meeting.

While he waited, he mused on the nature of his work. More specifically, what a misconception people had about it.

The word 'spy' was always associated with adventure and action with high-speed chases, break-ins into well defended castles, sneaking out documents, killing and maiming people left and right, and all around having a great deal of fun.

It couldn't be farther from the reality. Sure, the danger was there, as was the promise of the aforementioned occurring. But the thing was, it was very, very rare, and in any case far away into the future.

Meanwhile, if he had to use any one word for what he did, it would have to be… tedious.

Yes that was the correct word to use. Because what he did could basically be summed up to observation, and observation was always tedious.

You see, Charles Calthrop was the leader of Team Aquitaine, the serpent-sworn subdivision tasked with all covert operations (as far as anyone other than Harry knew) within the Magical Republic of France. And no one, not a single person could tell that by looking at him. Partly it was his personality; he was a cheerful, smiling man with a booming voice that carried down several blocks, and was rather fond of thumping people's backs.

But it had far more to do with nature of what he did, one thinks.

Calthrop's day-to-day schedule basically consisted of waking up at nine in the morning, having a run or two, eat a heavy breakfast, and then, moving from place to place, spend a great deal of money for seemingly frivolous purposes. He strolled into restaurants and tossed a sackful of galleons on the desk, announcing that he would foot all the bills for the day, because his cousin's best friend's nephew's great aunt's grandson's uncle had just had a kid. He would walk into a hippogriff racing stadium, bet enough to buy several small houses, and then stroll off.

Another thing that he was the antithesis of the quintessential spy in was his social life. As people believed, spies were friendless people, who lived alone and died alone, working in absolute secret. Him? He could have filled a theater with his friends alone. Perhaps because there was no 'acquaintance zone' for him. Anyone he had a couple of friendly words with was his friend immediately.

More than a few people had rolled their eyes and shook their heads that he, a grown man, acted like this, but even they had grudgingly accepted him into their lives. After all, all his habits constituted their own charm.

And it was this charm, heavy and cloying and overpowering, that covered under it the truth of Charles Calthrop.

After all, no one noticed that the coins he tossed on hotel desk were all tagged with tracers and spying spells. No one noticed that when he bet, it was always in a way to benefit a certain kind of people. No one could bring themselves to see the way his eyes and ears were always working, when he listened to those around him pour their hearts out, when he perfectly witnessed and understood every twitch, every slight glance. He wormed his way into their hearts, and they never noticed when every detail, every piece of information in their brains passed into his.

He was the ultimate spider, sitting in the center of a web of lies and trickery and outrageous spending, perfectly aware of every tremor that was caused by those caught in it. It was an art he'd learned from Harry himself, who'd in turn learned it from some of the greatest masters that there ever were.

For now the web was solely devoted to information, but soon, the time would come that the aspect of influence would be added. Officials, from clerks to HODs to Directors to Secretaries and Ministers, would all be ensnared, hooked onto a steady diet of anything and everything they wanted, from the rarest and choiciest goodies, be it drugs, wine, women, whatever.

That was the serpent-sworn. The creation of a brilliant mind, brought into being as a result of sheer ruthlessness and unlimited resources.

Hogwarts

Neville was bored. He'd just finished off with a Herbology assignment, and was trying to relax, just lie around a few minutes, before he went to work on the questions that constituted the magical theory exercises. As he sat, he pondered the goings-on of Hogwarts for the recent days. He still had trouble wrapping his head around some of the changes that had been brought to the school, and he was far from the only one.

Hogwarts now covered more topics, in deeper detail, than any other institution in the whole of the western world ever had in recent history, except for the long defunct Scholomance. Even in the East, only Nalanda, Taxila, The Lhasa Academy of Occult Sciences, and one or two other places could begin to compare. There were courses on Warding, Battle Transfiguration, Explosive Potioneering, and just about any topic one could think of.

It was now necessary for a student to have at least three research papers to their name before they could be accepted into seventh year (not major ones, of course, Harry didn't make that high demands yet. But it was the principle of the thing). Apart from that there had been eleven successful magical animagi, and Neville had heard from Harry that he was considering making it compulsory for a NEWT.

Personally, Neville wasn't sure if that was all that much of a good idea. It would certainly ensure Master-level pass-outs, but there were those who simply didn't have the talent. Of course, knowing Harry, he would probably say that that lack of talent was enough to make them unworthy of the Hogwarts tag. Neville himself wasn't worried, having made serious progression into his first form, that of a Re'em. It was certainly a far cry from the boy who couldn't turn beetles into buttons.

Meanwhile, he'd heard that Harry had earned a transfiguration mastery himself, based on a thesis that thoroughly debunked the old theories of animagus transfiguration. Neville hadn't read it yet, but he'd heard that it was already mandatory reading in almost all institutions. Indeed, the James Potter Animagus Theorem stated that it was fundamentally impossible for a non-magical form to truly represent the soul and magic of a magical person, and that all existing 'animagi' would, actually be suited much more by the title of Animorph, given that it was just a morphing of the body that they did.

It went on to state, prove and explain that there was, contrary to popular belief, no limit to the number of 'morph's that a person could do, citing, among other examples, the famous incident where a witch had chased her young apprentice across several hundred miles while they both turned into a humongous number of beings. The apprentice became a fish and jumped into the water, she became a crane and dived at him. He became a pigeon and flew away, she became a hawk and gave chase. He eventually became a small bug, which she ate after turning into a hen.

It was rumored that Harry had turned into eleven separate forms to prove his theory, before the guild had accepted it. Neville knew that it was no rumor, and it had been nineteen forms. Not that the numbers meant anything. Neville knew Harry more than most. If he hadn't yet turned into every animal in existence, it would be rather disappointing.

Meanwhile, Neville himself had perfected four forms, that of a bull (so as to get an idea as to how things were like, to prepare for the Re'em), a bear, a tiger, and a crocodile. He would have done more, certainly several marauders were in the teen numbers, but he just didn't have the time. He was working on the sixth level syllabus now, having achieved the magical three digits twice, while taking over ten extra credit courses, mainly in Earth Elementalism, Druidic Magic, Chaotic Arts, and Combat Magic and the assorted subdivisions. Then there were the 'Marauder only' classes, in Wartime Strategy, Political Science and its relevance in business, Advanced Management and the correlation with politics, Extended Magical theory, and several other subjects.

And even with all that, he was still barely keeping ahead of Luna, who already had over ninety of the hundred credits she needed before she became a classmate to Neville. She was taking Practical Divination, Unassisted Flight Mechanics (she was a powerful wind elemental), Magical Situational analysis, among other, similar sections. To be honest the aforementioned workload kept them from seeing each other too often. Neville knew that she was being considered a major up-and-comer in Divination, partly because he'd been the one to clear the release of Marauder funds enabling her to buy one of the single most expensive books out there, 'The Unabridged Anthology of Delphic Prophecies'.

Neville was brought out of his musings when his ring gave him a twinge, reminding him that it was time for him to take his potion. As he summoned the vial with a snap of his fingers, he couldn't help but admire the ring. As the potion worked its way into him, his mind wandered again to when he'd got it.

Neville was sweating profusely. He was focusing on the memory of a lunch, trying to remember it in as deep a detail as he could, before concentrating those memories with a few sprinkles of other instances of boredom, and then forming the result into a wall against his attacker.

The effort was successful, and he sighed in relief as the pressure slackened, only to grimace again as he felt not one but seven new intrusions simultaneously. As before, he fended them off using a mixture of boredom, pain and sadness, in a struggle that left him with the mother of all migraines but also a deep satisfaction.

It only increased, when he heard his attacker's words "Well done, Neville! That was truly magnificent! You didn't falter once in that!"

Neville gave a shy smile. It was always nice to hear compliments, even more so from one of the people he regarded the most.

"Well, I did just as you said it should be done, Harry."

"And you did it perfectly. I must repeat, it was very, very well done indeed."

Neville just smiled.

"Now that your occlumency is at a formidable level, we can move onto other, more fruitful things." Harry said, his tone near the end acquiring a tinge that made Neville's brows crease.

"What exactly d'you mean Harry?"

"I mean that while Occlumency is useful, its use mainly lies in protecting what we'll be doing now from prying eyes."

"And what is that?"

"Fun stuff, Neville. Fun stuff."

It had been shortly after that conversation, that Neville had taken a series of blood analyses. Tests for every talent that could conceivable have entered the Longbottom bloodline were taken, with all of the long, painful but above all boring without compare rituals that were entailed. Indeed, the cumbersome nature of the rituals was almost enough to make it not worth it, and Neville had a sudden sympathy for all of the fiction writers, who liked to equate it all to a heritage ritual, done with a single drop of blood.

Still, the results had done more in ten minutes to make Neville confident of himself than any amount of pushing and prodding by his grandmother had managed in fourteen years.

After all, who could have imagined that he would turn out to be a full druid, or an Elemental? Let alone both. Neville's element was Earth, and as said before, he had made great strides in it.

Of course, it had come with a downside. Apparently, some bastard had bound him and his talents. His core was limited to nearly a third of what its actual size was, and his arcane skills were all constrained.

Neville still remembered the feeling of absolute, overwhelming terror that he'd felt, upon seeing Harry go into an apocalyptic fit of rage when he saw the results. Over 50 acres of prime Gryphonsworth woodland had suffered for it, being reduced to ash and splinters.

And it had been Harry, after calming down, who had started Neville on a series of magical treatments to undo all of that damage. Not trusting anyone else, Harry had insisted to cast and brew everything himself, making Neville wonder just how deep his pseudo brother's anger and suspicion went. Especially when he'd extracted a number of oaths from Neville himself, making him swear to never, ever reveal the facts to anyone, not even his grandmother, given that her decision (which, according to Harry simply couldn't have been a mistake) to give Neville his father's wand had caused a significant amount of damage to his core on its own.

Of course, shortly afterwards Harry had been called away, meaning that Neville's recovery could suffer. That was when he'd given Neville the ring, along with handing him several important duties related to the Marauders. It would keep track of everything, keep the spells working, make the needed changes at the right time, remind him to take the potions when they were needed, et al.

And it also served as an aide in Neville's learning. As it turned out, Harry had left a fully sentient Nexus in the ring, which helped enormously in Neville's work. It was a dicta-quill, a pensieve, a remembrall, all rolled into one. Then it was connected to the central Hogwarts nexus, and could actually use the Slytherin family technique of memory assimilation to grant quick knowledge. Neville hadn't assimilated too much information (it gave him a headache), but he'd done it a fair few times.

Of course, what Neville did not know was the array of hidden functions that the ring had. His core and magic were being unbounded, yes, but the way it was happening was different from what it appeared to be. The old restraints were being dissolved, yes. That much was easily detectable if one knew what to look for. What no one except a tiny number of scholars could see was that an entirely new set of enchantments was being crafted, with unmatched precision and delicacy. These ones would not impede his progress, but they would do one better. They would control it. They would regulate and direct every fluctuation, every change in the magic, systematically shaping it in specific patterns.

Weaknesses against several spells and potions Harry had invented for this exact purpose were being ingrained, vulnerabilities developed and then covered up. The ring emplaced thirteen separate suicide switches throughout the being of the Longbottom heir, pieces of magic that would kill him at a single command from Harry. Meanwhile, his body itself was being shaped and changed like a piece of clay. Certain hormones were being altered chemically, their threshold levels changed and their intrinsic properties altered to suit certain purposes. Basic functions of his organs were being altered, streamlined.

It was a delicate art, drawing heavily upon Alchemy and Shapeshifting, both of which Harry was thankfully a master.

On the surface, they would allow for him to function beyond normal human capacities, to lift more, run faster. They increased his energy output, both in terms of ATP and magical power. They made him tire later, hold his breath longer, and all around be more, much more than anyone around him. But a look deeper revealed the darker side. It was a means of control, to supplement the others working at him. His emotions, his responses, were all dependant a great degree on his body chemistry, and all of that was now under Harry's control, being used to supplement and augment the deep routed compulsions and deceptions currently working on Neville's mind.

In any case, the ring would wait. For now, we go to the letter Neville held in his hand. It was from his grandmother, and it invited him to attend the next Wizengamot meeting in an observing capacity, as was his right as Heir Longbottom.

Neville was not surprised at the letter. He'd known it would be coming, having been told by… you guessed it, Harry. It was a testament to Augusta Longbottom's political and filial astuteness, inviting him to his position as soon as he ceased to be a stain on Longbottom honor (and that was what he'd been, there was no doubt. Such was the power of the marauders and Neville himself in Hogwarts that no one dared mention the word 'squib' around him anymore, but he remembered.)

The question was, what exactly did he do with this invite? The normal thing to do would be to go like a good little heir, sit there, and listen to what was said, just as his 'observation' position suggested.

That would be the normal, simple thing to do. Neville could do that, yes. Only thing was, with that choice came the dark, crushing weight of the knowledge that he had disappointed Harry Potter. Harry had elevated Neville, taken him from an ordinary, normal little boy, weak, self satisfied, incapable of casting anything more than a Lumos, and he had turned him into a wizard worthy of the Longbottom name.

And if anything could be said about Harry, it could be said that he abhorred normalcy. He loathed it, despised it with a passion.

Neville could hear his friend's voice in his mind, clear as when he'd first said it, all the way back to when Neville had asked why he'd bought two hundred and eighty Firebolts for Hogwarts "Neville, if you're going to do something, do it in a way that the world is forced to sit back gape in awe. Otherwise, don't bother."

He also remembered less solemn advice "You're a British count. You must one-up, on all matters, that frenchie called Monte-whasisname."

With a shrug, Neville resigned himself to the plan already forming in his mind.

He thought 'Ring?'

'Yes, Neville?'

'Would you kindly arrange for a dossier detailing every ministry employee and wizengamot member below the age of twenty-two to be sent to my room?'

'Certainly.'

'And order up a plenary meeting of the marauders, will you?'

'Will do'

It would be several days later, on a seemingly minor meeting of the wizengamot, that Magical Britain would see the rise of a new star from the latest generation, one that would burn bright, very bright indeed.

Cornelius Fudge wasn't a very happy man. He had reasons to be, sure. A fat salary, fatter bribes, several pretty young things at the houses he'd squirreled away here and there, they were all reasons to be happy. But he wasn't, and there were reasons for that too. A couple of society wives he couldn't stand, troublemakers in his ministry, and most importantly, the feeling that he'd been missing several opportunities to earn fat bribes.

It wasn't anything concrete, but there was too much going on in the ministry, and he wasn't seeing any part of it. Barty Crouch had been missing from his office for most of the year, enough to get tongues wagging about retirement. Indeed, Fudge had started to look around for replacements, wondering which sycophant to place in the position. They had been grand plans, which had all come crashing down when the man had returned, and resumed work as if he'd never been gone.

Indeed, Barty Crouch seemed to have receded decades in age, such was the energy with which he resumed things. He had renewed old friendships, invoked favors, and generally cemented his position in the ministry, reaffirming his considerable power throughout the ministry.

Not to mention the changes he was making. The creation of the Office for Liaison with Sentient Magical creatures, for one, headed by the old number two at Goblin liaison, Dirk Cresswell. It had been granted vast powers under Crouch's authority, as well as the responsibilities of liaising all sentient magical beings, be they mer-people, Giants, Dementors, Goblins, or Centaurs. The fact that it was under the DIMC meant that the Ministry was acknowledging their own sovereign rights, not a small move by any estimate.

Then there were the personnel changes. In an unprecedented move, Crouch had summarily recalled and fired several of Britain's oldest delegates to the ICW and sent new ones, almost none of which were ministry personnel. Granted, the fired officials had all, without exception, been scumbags of the worst sort, some being bribed to ignore flagrant violations of the Merlinian accords while others turned their hosts hostile by their very presence, but it was the principle of the thing.

And those were still among the tamer of Crouch's works. Other, less believable measures included supposedly establishing a permanent office within the Alps, to serve as Headquarters for a new, permanent delegate to the giants.

And as if that wasn't enough, he wasn't the only Cabinet Director to have been making changes. Ludo Bagman had unilaterally reinstituted Hippogriff, Pegasus and Broom racing as acknowledged sports, while granting accreditation to free-flight quidditch, Carpet hopping, Quadpot, and several other games. Then he'd gone and lifted the ban on Dueling and Air-Jousting. He'd gone on to dissolve and then reinstitute the BQA (British Quidditch Association) with entirely new members , again very few of them ministry personnel, and tripled its hiring and training resources, by simply legitimizing the 'donations' from the various broom corporations through a Ministerial fund.

Of course, most of those were understandable, as the equipment, the uniforms and the players were all being supplied by Althric, which meant that it was just Harry making a profit. No harm in that, Cornelius himself had just cleared a number of petitions for several licenses, that allowed the creation of Althric Guardian, the branch of the company that would be dealing with self-protection and arming concerns. Wards, amulets, potions to make one immune to various kinds of magic, the like.

And then there was the pressure that the Ministry was currently under, to deal with the 'Great Schooling Scam'. The Director for Magical Education, Edith Hedllesley, had had to fire no less than six separate Principles and Deans, on grounds of gross incompetence and negligence. She'd been forced to concede that yes, it was the ministry that was at least partly responsible for the deplorable state of the knowledge of the average British magical, and that it was high time it was corrected.

All in all, things were changing too fast for Cornelius's tastes, and he had no idea as to how he was supposed to deal with it.

Cornelius Fudge was not the only one who had no idea as to how to deal with things.

She was young, being nineteen, twenty at the most. A mere six months ago, she'd been the carefree daughter of two loving parents, who, while possessing limited resources, had just about enough to take care of her.

Now she was an orphan, and well on the way to becoming penniless. Her parents had died in a fire in last November, leaving her with nothing more than a house, two modest bank accounts, and some personal belongings that had survived the fire.

Most of the latter two had gone to pay off their outstanding debts, while the former was mortgaged heavily. She had received a notice that it would be confiscated in a matter of weeks, and had been in the process of going into deep depression. She'd started skipping out on work, unable to deal with it all, till her friends had dragged her there. And once she was, she'd proceeded to suffer a nervous breakdown like no other. Having cast spells wildly, broken everything she could get her hands on, and screamed her head off at anyone and everyone around her, she'd ended up jeopardizing the only thing she'd had left, her career.

In short, she was destined for complete destruction, and most likely a life on the streets, with the worst part being that she realized it fully.

Which was why she was lying on the bed in her room, sobbing uncontrollably, having just had an argument with her 'best friend', Hortentia Selwyn. She had hoped to borrow some money from her, so as to protect at least some of her parents' belongings from being seized and sold.

But all she had gotten was new insight in the meaning of the phrase 'fair weather friend'.

Then she heard rapping on the windows, the telltale sign of an owl.

Oh Merlin no, not another set of promissory notes.

She opened the window, to see a magnificent black owl, that had a fat, cream envelope clutched in its beak. She took it, noticing the wax seal and the smoothness of the parchment.

Wiping her eyes on the sheet, Nymphadora Tonks read over the missive.

Dearest Nymphadora

It is with a sad heart that I write to you today, aware of the loss you have suffered. I never knew your parents in any close way, but I have heard nothing but good for them. The world is left the poorer for their passing.

I write now, not as the head of an Ancient and Noble house, but as a fellow orphan. Never having been particularly close to my own parents, I cannot say that I understand your pain, but I sympathize with you nonetheless. It is never an easy thing, to lose those one cherishes beyond all else. I must commend you, for being as strong as I have heard you have been. Unfortunately, I am currently out of the country, and am unable to return for quite some time, so I cannot support you in person. For this I apologize with all my heart.

As you may be aware, your mother, Andromeda Tonks, was born Andromeda Cassiopeia Black, second daughter of the Ancient and Noble House of Black. She made a different lifestyle choice than what her family wished her to, and was thus harassed by certain family members, among whom I must shamefully admit was my own mother. It resulted in an unfortunate souring of relations between her and the rest of the clan, to the point that she even refused her rightful inheritance, and then yours.

It is regarding that inheritance that I now write to you. I realize that although it can never overshadow your emotional loss, the loss of financial stability that you are suffering is nonetheless a big concern. As such I feel compelled to again offer to you what is already yours by right, your inheritance as a Black. It is not a very vast sum, being the total of what your mother and you were both entitled to, with added interest. It comes around to slightly over one hundred thousand galleons, and certain non-monetary holdings.

All you need to do to claim that inheritance is to present yourself at the offices of Jeremson, Jeremson and Ackerley, solicitors of the Black family, with this letter and proof of your identity. Failing that, you can visit the office of Bonebiter the Bloody at Gringotts, again with both of the aforementioned documents.

However, I must warn you, there are certain complications.

Firstly, you cannot utilize the capital of the trust till you have been gainfully employed for three years. I apologize, but it is the standard for such trusts. As an apology, I have supplemented your income, which comes to four thousand galleons a month, from the interest and the stipend which has caused this trust to be formed in the first place, so that it is an even seven thousand galleons.

Secondly, your mother, in what se doubtlessly believed was a drive to protect yourself and her from my family, enacted certain legal measures that forbid anything more than correspondence to be traded between the families Black and Tonks. As such, you shall unfortunately be unable to receive anything from the family till you bear the Tonks name and are denied your rightful bloodline. I have already legitimized both your mother and yourself as Blacks, making you able to claim your bloodline, but unfortunately the matter is not final till you acknowledge the process and formally accept both your blood and name, with everything that is entailed.

I understand that asking you to make such a decision so soon would be an abominable thing to do, and as such have ordered for the offer to be open till the next auditing and recalculation of the Black Estate, which is to occur on the birthday of my heir, the Duke of Gryphonsworth and Parsellsia, Harry Potter.

And at this point I must take your leave, for my duties beg attention. Once again I offer my condolences for your loss.

Yours
Aries
Baron Blackwater

And that's it. Done, over with, finished.

As always, I welcome all feedback.