The Chronicles of Camelot: The Snake, The Boy and the Chamber

by blackshadow111

The world is a far older and better place than the muggles believe. Harry Potter knows this very well indeed. Watch as the heir of Alexander and Arthur takes a world rotting in its mediocrity, and turns it into a utopia. With unlimited resources, an icy, brutal ruthlessness and an unparalleled mind, no one can stand in his way. Amoral, Political Harry. Dead, but the rewrite is up.

23. Chapter 23

So… another new chappy! Sorry for the lateness, but you know…real life, yada, yada, morons of the DLP, yada, yada.

Anyway, there's an awful lot of foreign dialogue in this chapter, and there'll be a lot of it in the future too. Given as going by the so-called authentic route (the original languages) is pure insanity, I'll be writing it all as if it was pure English dialogue, with all the proper context and everything.

Of course, exceptions to this will be there as and when I feel like it, but rest assured they won't cause (m)any problems.

Oh, and another thing. September is my best guess for chapter 24.

Edit: 22/06/14(Indian): Now with beta work complete by the great and mighty Joe Lawyer! Buy at 100%discount!

Aaaaand, we're on!

The room was rather discomfiting, what with the harsh artificial light and the high humidity. But that was what they got for holding a meeting here of all places, seven hundred miles below the surface.

Rockford considered it an honor anyway, to be invited to meet Rannoch the Crazy, younger brother of Ragnok the Bloody himself, the Chieftain of the Gringott clan and Chairgoblin of Gringott's Bank. Mostly because Mitchell Rockford was not a man used to being in the presence of royalty, even of another species. He was one of the aides to Julius Morrigan, here at the behest of his master.

Raising his wand to cast yet another cooling charm on his face, he waited for the goblin to finish reading the dossier that he had put on its desk ten minutes ago. Privately he wondered at the wisdom of involving the goblins at all, but orders were orders. In any case he was just the go-between, the courier; his job was simply to go back and forth with the relevant envelopes that held the messages that Morrigan and the Goblins were communicating through.

But even in his lowly position, he had heard the rumors, that there were plans in the works for a serious alliance, so that their faction could rely on the goblins' firepower in the shadow war that was currently being waged nation-wide.

While waiting patiently, he looked at the walls, his gaze going over the many shields, armors, axes and maces that were prominently displayed. The latter two weapons were a bit too stained with a rust red color for his comfort especially since he knew for a fact that Goblins didn't have that particular color of blood. And finally, the ugliest and most disturbing part of the room, in his opinion, were the series of racks holding mummified heads, mummified human heads, which were displayed like the trophies that they were. Seriously, the only thing more disgusting was the beautiful woven tapestry he'd seen outside in the corridor, that of a war band of goblins sitting around a campfire, having what looked to be a happy picnic. The picnic was not a problem, the problem was the wailing that was coming from where goblin matrons were preparing the delicacies before cooking, the cries of live human babies being lathered in spices and salt.

Rockford shuddered.

The subtle movement drew the attention of the Chieftain's guards, who, guessing rather accurately as to the cause, grinned wide, showing a truly horrific collection of sharpened teeth. He suddenly remembered the tales of men who went down into the depths of the goblin warrens, only to never return, their bodies never found.

He would have had time to do a lot more worrying-and-becoming-scared if Rannoch hadn't grunted loudly and thrown the envelope in the fire, before looking up at him.

"Q$%#%$ll!" Was what Mitchell heard.

"Uh, what?"

"Quill! You moronic human!" The leader of the primary financial institution in Britain barked.

"Oh, I-I have this pen-" he stuttered out, showing the goblin the new pen that he'd bought from Althric Enchanters. Even Morrigan agreed that they were too bloody convenient to not use, despite tradition.

"Bah! Quill!" The goblin barked again, turning this time to its aide. The other goblin, probably a nephew or other relation, rushed over with a quill, which the older one took with an angry motion of its right hand. With its left it pulled out a piece of parchment from its desk, waving the aide away before it started scratching out what Rockford presumed was it's response.

While the goblin scratched out a reply, Rockford's mind again wandered. This was his fourth such trip and so far he hadn't gotten any more comfortable with the whole thing than he'd been when he'd been told about it the first time.

He looked at the goblin who was still scratching away, a scowl now firmly developed on its ugly face. Rockford wondered why it didn't use pen and paper. After all, practically every institution in the wizarding world did, nowadays. Granted, he wasn't supposed to be happy about it, especially as it provided the opposition with upwards of two million galleons a month in profit, but as said before, it was too damn convenient not to use, despite their conflict.

Too bad the man had never met the diabolical genius that was Harry Potter. If he had, he might have known better.

Eventually the goblin was done, signing the document with an ugly little squiggle, before he sealed the thing in another envelope.

The messenger then took it like always, and was rapidly escorted back to the surface, by the same guards who had done the same previously.

He walked out of the bank just as rapidly, striding over to one of the numerous smaller side alleys that dotted Diagon. Turning on his heel, he apparated away.

And things went right to hell. For him and his masters, that is.

Instead of the picturesque fields that would have been his stop before he popped off to the nice, relaxing courtyard of Morrigan Manor, he instead appeared in a cold, grey-walled corridor. Before he could realize the fact that something was terribly wrong, though, he was out like a light, thanks to the spell delivered to his head.

"Extract his memories," a man wearing a blank mask ordered, in a machine-like, indeterminable voice. A second man wearing a similar mask nodded, before going to work with his wand, deftly extracting strands of thought-essence and depositing them into neatly labeled vials. Meanwhile, the speaker went to work on the envelope. The seal was opened with the careful application of a colorless liquid that had been developed in one of the many labs on the Sharr lands for this very purpose, along with a string of words spoken in a harsh, alien tongue. These special words had been purchased from a goblin for a, well, humongous was the best term really, a truly humongous sum of money by Albert Runcorn, a death eater that Harry had set to errands of this kind. Runcorn had some giant blood in him from two-three generations back, giving him a considerable resistance to magic in all its forms, not to mention a truly imposing physique and strength that went beyond normal human physiology.

Regardless of all that, what mattered was that the seal had been opened successfully with the message intact. It took two to three seconds for them to extract and copy the entire document, before resealing the envelope with yet another purchased string of words in an alien sounding language.

"Time, number two?" the second man asked.

"Ten seconds, number one."

"Good. Wipe them."

"Done."

"Check the previous obliviations."

"In progress…. Yes. All previous obliviations on the subject are secure and remain undetected and undisturbed. He doesn't know a thing and no one else does either."

"Good. The Duke will be pleased."

"Yes, of course. Now…"

"Take him back a minute in time, wait for 40 seconds, revitalize him, and then drop him at his target."

"I know, I know. This is not the first time, you know."

"You get lax on the easy ones-" number one began like he was quoting a very familiar bit of wisdom.

"You get dead on the hard ones. I know that." The other finished, with a small smile starting to show through the mask. Another small smile was visible on number one's face. After all, they were father and son.

"Well, get to it."

"Sir yes sir!"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

At the ripe old age of one hundred and seventy-one, Mario Lopez was craggy, brooding, and immensely cunning; had he not been the latter, he would never have occupied the chair that he did. Officially, he was no one all that important, just the Senior Special Advisor to the Minister for Magic of the Republic of Magical Spain. But as the coming ministerial elections would signal the end of the tenth consecutive administration he had been a part of, no one really believed in the myth anymore. At least no one canny enough to matter did.

But even as far as most of them knew, his power lay in the extensive network of contacts he had right across the world, counting among them at least seven foreign kings, five Ministers and three General Secretaries, to name but a few. For others, it lay in his vast personal wealth, the magnitude of which was never spoken of or truly known, and only rarely even hinted at among the circles most people could only dream of belonging to. Yet others thought his power stemmed from the fact that he was the Head of the Lopez family, which went back right to the beginning of the Avalonian wars, and even in today's modern age, controlled an army of men who would gladly die for any member of it.

All these theories were correct to some degree, but never completely. The source of Lopez's power was the same as most of the senior most leadership of the Spanish government. Because he, Mario Lopez, was also El Quimera, Grand Master of the Knights of Aragon. It was a position he had hard fought for and won only with tremendous difficulty, all those years ago as a young man full of ambition.

Right now he was sitting in a room, along with a host of his aides, a general from the Department of Procurement and the Junior Secretary for Industry. They were waiting for the last invitee, so that the meeting could begin properly.

It was a few minutes, ten, to be exact, before the man finally arrived. He was no small man himself, being the Deputy Treasurer of Magical Spain.

Moments after they were settled, Lopez asked the burning question on his mind. "Well?"

"The answer is yes, Grand Master."

"Without any doubts?"

"Yes sir. Potter gave us twenty-nine points at the start of the program. I've calculated the kickback ratios, the feasibilities of the price manipulations, and also the export licensing. It all checks out, we can do it."

"I see." The man said, wizened head nodding slowly and gravely. "Well, should we, then? Your opinions, please."

It was the treasurer who finally spoke, "I say we should do it, GM. It has become more and more burdensome to ease gold out of the government accounts, what with the recent laws that have been passed."

Detecting an accusatory tone in the voice, Lopez narrowed his eyes. "And you blame me for that, boy?"

"N-No, Grand Master! Never! It's just…"

"Good. See that you don't. It is not like I liked doing it. But they had become too curious, the plebeians. If we had killed that bill again then it would have been as good as painting a bull's eye on all of us."

"We understand, sir."

"Good, good. How much is our net profit, again?"

"Five billion British galleons, GM, over six months."

"Good. Votes, then?"

A flurry of hands went up. It would be nice to be able to say that it was this vote that decided the matter of the proposal that had been put forth by the welsh demigod, but the truth was that it was utterly irrelevant and they all knew it. With the Grand Master having spoken, that was pretty much it.

Althric Inc. would henceforth be granted a plenipotentiary license to trade in any and all goods and services that their own charter allowed them to, and the taxes they paid would be slightly less than half of what any other company their size would pay.

And that was only the tip of it. A lot could be bought for five billion a year, and indeed, a lot had beenbought. There were entire markets, whole sections of the economy that had been blocked off by the men in this room for their own benefit and this license opened them all right up to the company.

LATER

The Theocracy of Delphi
Greek Archipelago

"High Priestess! Ma'am!" the attendant rushed into the office of the head of state, yelling her head off.

"What is it?"

"It's-It's-"

"Speak up, woman. Quick!"

"It's the oracle, Ma'am!"

"Oh? What about her?"

"She's issuing a new prophecy, Ma'am!"

"What? But wasn't she suppressed?" Frantic nodding was the only response.

"Oh? Very well, take me to her." The old woman ordered, rushing out of her room at a rapid pace.

The exchange above may be more than a little bewildering to the uninitiated. Why would an oracle be suppressed? Well, the answer was… yeah, politics, the more-or-less constant explanation for 90% of all the stupid-ass decisions in the world.

Turned out that the kings of the Hellenic League didn't like it when their expensive, rare gifts, and all their swaggering, bowing and scraping alike, elicited only dire warnings of doom and destruction as pretty much the only response. Big surprise, that.

So… yeah. The oracle had been put on sight suppressers an awfully long time ago, and was now more or less a showpiece.

Till now, that was.

"Demons of the world, run
For the first and the third are united in one
Death and Chaos, War and Peace, together
As the legions of all the lands gather
Act now, be not late
At his hand or trampled in his path, choose your fate"

The oracle slumped over, spent, at these words. Or, to be more accurate, dead, if the rapidly blackening skin was to be any indication.

And that, as they say, was that.

Diagon Alley
1st of June, 1995

It became visible exactly as the bell chimed for noon, badly scaring the woman standing underneath it. To be honest, it was a pretty scary sight.

It was a misshapen mass of flesh, furry in some parts, and human in others. A deep, disgustingly filthy sort of human, but human all the same.

Looking carefully at it revealed it to be a hand, from the shoulder below. Well, to be more precise it was half a hand and half a foreleg, starting with generous, well muscled biceps and ending with a paw that nevertheless had human-like fingers. To the uninformed, it was an ugly little thing. To the informed, it was the arm of a werewolf, torn off mid-transformation.

To both, far less disgusting were the words that blazed below it.

It read

Dear moron flight-from-death

If people are going to die and go missing, they'll damn well do so from both sides (not that this one counts as people). So before you make another attempt on the people of this land, my people, try and look for Fenrir Greyback.

Hint: He's resting in 'pieces.' Ha! Pieces, geddit?

And another thing, I…

Wait, what was I going to write?

Forget it, I'll say it later. Your mom awaits.

Love, HP

Later reports indicated that identical messages were hanging at three other public locations, under Greyback's legs and torso. That did beg the question, what happened to the other parts?

Well…

"It won't come off, Madame. It is fixed there, with a triple-matrix enchantment, backed up with a quadrically reinforced enhancement field, and six layers of septa-shielded…"

" ' . ! Get it down." The woman's calm was legendary, as was her political canniness, to be honest, but this performance piece truly tested them both.

Hanging from the front door of the Office of the Director of Magical Law Enforcement was the other hand of Fenrir Greyback. The reason why it was here could be seen on the forearm, an inky black skull tattoo with a snake doing very inappropriate things to it.

And then there was the message.

Magic above, you lot do suck, don'cha?

For fifteen motherfucking years, you failed. I did it in fifteen days.

Love, HP

It was hard to say what pissed her off more, the truth of the message itself, the fact that it happened to be carved onto her 25,000G door, or the fact that there was jack shit that she could do to prosecute its writer. After all, no matter how certain everyone was that it was him, all Harry Potter had to do was to ask, 'How many people in Britain do you think have the initials HP?' And just like that any case she could build would collapse right there.

Not to mention that even if she could prove it at all, even then, the wizengamot would probably laugh the case out of court, with Potter probably coming out on the shoulders of a cheering crowd. No, this wasn't something even Morrigan could fix. Sentencing Harry bloody Potter for slaying a death eater werewolf (and she could bet all her allies' collective asses that that was how it would be seen, no matter how much anyone else whined about 'murder' or 'due process') was utterly inconceivable.

So…yeah. There was nothing that could be done.

Castle Sharr #14
13th of June, 1995

It was a full moon.

The people united in the courtyard knew it the best. And boy was there a lot of them. There were thirteen packs present, each numbering between five and fifteen total members, along with nearly five hundred unaffiliated 'loners.' They had been sought out carefully and quietly, lulled with promises and oaths and offers of protection from a cruel government.

It was a terribly strange thing, the sheer level of stupidity that wizardkind was capable of. Once they had been both respected and feared, mighty warriors who had played a crucial role in establishing the supremacy of the dragon pennant throughout Europe. Even in the following centuries, they had been soldiers and law-keepers alike, always maintaining an elevated status that the rest of society could only envy.

And then had come that black day, when a group of a hundred soul-mages had wrought that curse upon them. The dying energies of a mighty clan had been set to their destruction, and the one thing that each and every one of their kind treasured above all had been ripped from them.

Control. Control over oneself and one's power, and thus over one's fate. That was what had been taken from them that day, and not one of their kind had recovered from that loss in the centuries since. Many had tried, oh yes. Attempted to thrive in their new forms, devoting their faith to the 'Mother Moon' that was now their enabler as well as destroyer.

But of course, it was a pathetic delusion.

Perhaps blaming wizardkind was wrong, or simply too harsh. Magic knew that they had been patient for centuries, treating their now accursed brethren with, if not the old respect, then at least with some basic decency.

Then they had come. The mudbloods.

"Oh, but he's a monster!"

"That's so disgusting!"

"Stay away from us, you animal!"

"Wolfy! Wolfy! Wolfy!"

The close-minded bigots had been the poison that had seared through the veins of a society woefully unprepared for it, turning a sharp, honest society (in its own Darwinian way) into a stagnant, decadent hellhole. Merit was replaced with connections, power with political correctness. Ruthlessness now, the greatest weapon ever possessed by any man, was considered a sin, and qualms, a must-have. Where there had been worth, there were now rights.

Wizards had once had their collective heads spelled on straight. The strong ruled and protected the weak, if they felt like it (that was the whole bloody point of being strong), while the weak served the strong. Those who didn't feel like serving could become strong, or perish. The alphas ruled, the rest obeyed.

Now? Well… the less said the better.

The important part, however, wasn't that society had changed. The important bit was that the change had been to the great disadvantage of the Lycanthropes.

They desired respect, but could get by with fear. The one thing that was anathema to them, was disgust. Guess what they got?

So was it any wonder at all that they tended to jump at the merest whisper of a call by anyone supposedly willing to help them. They had supported countless revolutionaries over the centuries, always hoping that his or her victory would make things better for them, never having the brains to realize that by the very act of supporting sedition that they were making things even worse for themselves later on.

So bad was their reputation that even Harry Potter, the most open-minded, ruthless, and power-thirsty person in the last several centuries had been averse to approaching them till he had absorbed literally tens of millennia worth of memories and developed all the maturity that came with it.

But of course, it was never too late.

"So, my dear alphas and loners, here is my offer, for the last time. Swear to me, swear to my cause, and you will have the full support of six members of the council of fifteen and our countless supporters. Everything will change, I can promise you that much. Better lives for your young, your statuses restored, and most important of all, I can remove the curse."

"And for the last time, human, how can we believe you?" the representative of the werewolves said. He was Mark Sanders, aka 'He Who Is Red Clawed,' the alpha of the London pack. It had been Fenrir Greyback ('The One Who Ravages') till not too long ago, but the new one had won the Battle Royale that had come after Harry had… y'know.

The best part? The Ministry still hadn't gotten any of the pieces down. And Harry was even done with the bronze coating of the head, which he fully intended to mount in his Gryffindor office any day now. It made quite the display piece, if he said so himself.

But worrying about the proper placement of a dead werewolf's head could come after he secured the loyalty of the living werewolves.

"You can't, and frankly you don't have to. I challenge you, all of you, to a fight for leadership. Right here in this courtyard."

That elicited total silence.

It was a while before the first of them spoke, tone subdued. "Well, that being the case… there isn't much to say, is there?"

"No. I suppose there isn't. Not to you, anyway." Harry was subdued too.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that I speak now to the lone wolves among you, the ones who don't even have the small protections that a pack is able to grant its members, who are the true sufferers in all this. I ask of you, lone wolves of Britain, what would you have?

"Would you remain as you are now, spurned at every door, hated and scoffed at, being seen as no better than monsters? Are you satisfied to lurk in the corners of society, to be feared one second and mocked the next, to lack even the most basic of amenities or dignities? Would you really be averse to accepting that you can be part of a greater whole, a better future, that you can be made much, much more than you currently are?"

Harry could see the effect his words were having. Well, his words and the potent aura he was emitting, and the potions that were floating around in the air in aerosol form, and the spells that were embedded into the very light that was coming from the orbs moving near the ceiling…

Well, let's just say that there was an effect from numerous sources, and there were also his words.

The minds of the werewolves were starting to see the picture he was painting, a picture where they had the same rights as everyone else, where no one acted disgusted by them, where they were accepted and treated as equals. It would be a life without the constant shame, without the stares and hushed whispers, without any of the stigma that they all were so encumbered by, and all they had to do was to submit, to form a pack and acknowledge a new leader, one who could make every dream they had possible, even the ones they didn't dare to dream…

They never really stood a chance.

Three hours later

"Come on! Begin!"

They were assembled on the grounds, in an arena built in the form of a ring that was enclosed with translucent shields. Harry was shirtless, prowling around in the arena, his muscled frame coiled tight. Tiny glyphs burned dark upon his skin, thrumming with silent power. His eyes were slit and bright amber, the color of finely aged whisky. On any other person the jet-black claws and the small fangs may have appeared as abominations, but on his, it only gave him an animalistic charm, a sort of raw, unrefined charisma that clouded the senses and triggered all sorts of instinctual responses.

It was just as well that there weren't any female alphas here.

With the male ones, who were present, the responses were obvious. The moon was shining bright, its power seeping deep into them. Because everyone here was excessively skilled and experienced with their curse, they had held back their change till this very moment, building up the power of the moon within them, suppressing the curse by sheer force of will. Now, they exploded, fur and claws erupting out, transforming man into beast.

Meanwhile, Harry was gone. In his place was a huge, pitch black direwolf, prowling, waiting.

The Londoner was the first to attack, leaping with a fierce growl at the black wolf, which darted out in a blur, before snapping his jaws up, catching its attacker's back left leg, mauling it deeply with a slight exertion of his powerful jaw muscles.

Having caught a firm hold, he moved quickly to slam the other wolf hard into the ground.

Immediately, even as he did it, he was aware of several hundred pounds of flesh and fur flying at him in the form of three other weres. Harry rolled away, dodging the wolves that fell on their downed compatriot instead, while he took the chance to lunge at the biggest one, becoming nothing more than a black blur as he moved, ripping its stomach open with his claws.

The wolf moaned, curling up in agony, even as Harry crashed headfirst into another of the alphas, barking in delight as he felt its bones give way. Then there was another blood red wolf crashing into his side headfirst, causing Harry to regret it a bit, when that one's skull split open.

He roared then, releasing his power in a series of waves that threw the wolves off of him, flying into the far off walls of the hall. Then he acted with all his power and speed, darting across the arena at a frantic pace.

The first thing he did was to deal out a few good hits to the four wolves still down, sending them straight into unconsciousness. This took about 8-10 seconds or so, and then, of course, he was fending off an attack from the brown wolf from the side, taking the hit stiffly, before he sent the offender flying with a hit from a massive paw.

And now, with over half the defenders knocked out, we leave this scene, where the outcome was never truly in doubt.

Morning

They were all assembled, the alphas of Britain's packs, kneeling before the conqueror of them all. His power permeated through them with ever-deepening thrums, reaching deeper and deeper, synchronizing itself with their magics.

Till the time came.

Harry reached into his new vassals' cores, browsing and prodding and poking till he identified the sick, disgusting coils that denoted the curse of the werewolf. It was this curse that had robbed the noble Lycan race of its control over its actions' this curse that had turned fierce, mighty, wolf-warriors into slobbering beasts of rage and instinct alone.

No more.

'O curse, I command you. Cease to be.' Harry thought simply, flooding the connection he had with the werewolves with a mix of his magic and his immortal authority. He felt it, as the curse fought back, trying to resist the command, trying to use its hold in the wolves' magical cores and blood to counter the effects of his will.

But, of course, it was not to be. On one side was a centuries old curse, powered by the pain and heartache of a hundred mages that had suffered at the hands of Lycan kind, who had died en masse while lashing out in all the ways that they knew how.

On the other side was the indomitable iron will of the Thunderborn himself, backed by his power and status as the youngest of all immortals, and swathed in the power of the Master of Death.

It was a flood of power that few forces in the world could resist and the curse was not one of them.

And thus was born the one who came to be known amongst the Lycans as 'Death Who Walks,' Supreme Alpha of the British Isles.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

The first thing that anyone would notice about the man was his age. He was old. And not just the usual grey haired, age spots dotting his pockmarked face old, no, this was a different kind, the italicized kind of age, as in, he had really, really seen whole centuries pass. For the most part, that would be because he actually had.

The second most noticeable thing about the man was his attire. He had on a set of white robes with red trimmings, along with a conical hat of the same style, while a gnarled, well-aged pipe puffed noxious smoke from where it was hanging from his lips.

The spymaster watched, as a bony, stick-like hand came up to hold the pipe, as the man spoke.

"And what news from the Order of Fire? Azula still the same?" he enquired.

"Even more so, I'm afraid, Mr. President-Sensei." The white haired man responded, red lines on his face crinkling as the beginnings of a smile appeared on his face, when the other man grimaced at the awful title he'd coined.

"I guessed as much. I suppose there is nothing for it; I'll have to make a visit myself. Might even have to drag his Excellency there, come to think of it." He growled out in his slow, rumbling voice.

The spymaster nodded, thinking of all the time he could get alone with the initiates if the old man was to keep the High Priestess busy by means of a sound thrashing.

And then they both jumped, as a yellow flash blinded them for a second, heralding the arrival of one of the most powerful men in the whole of the Far East.

"Drag me where, exactly, Sarutobi-Dono?" Namikaze Minato, Yellow Flash of the Leaf, the Golden God of War, Nightmare of Stone, CIC of the Gotei 13, husband to Princess Kushina Uzumaki, and, last but certainly not the least, Shogun of Whirlpool, asked.

"To the Temple of Fire, Excellency. Azula is refusing our inspectors entrance."

"What, again?"

"I'm afraid so, sir."

"Y'know, I'm getting sick and tired of this. I mean, this sort of thing…"

"We know, Minato, we know." Jiraiya said sympathetically, with Sarutobi nodding slowly. All three of them were thinking the same thing, that this was only the latest in a long list of minor rebellions over the years that the regional powers within the Shogunate were now so fond of.

It was a truly sad thing, the whole matter. For the last century and a half, there had been minor rebellion after minor rebellion, by Daimyos, Priestesses, Abbots, Kages, and, by the looks of it, everyone in between.

And the worst part, they'd brought it all upon themselves.

To truly understand the whole convoluted mess, one would have to appreciate the historical context, especially the point in time when the various clans had finally become truly tired of being only assassins for hire and had decided to take power for themselves as lords. It had taken several centuries, but they had finally managed to establish themselves as the topmost lords in the country, eclipsing all others.

Then, of course, to throw the whole victory in their faces and being such gracious losers, the last remnants of the old regime had summoned a Greater Daemon of rather extraordinary power, called simply the Juubi. Predictable results followed, as the land was fundamentally reshaped, entire regions fell, and millions upon millions died before its terrible wrath.

Then one man rose. A grand mage, as the westerners called magicals of his caliber; he was a demigod, a son of Izanagi himself. He faced the beast, and after a titanic battle lasting weeks on end, defeated it. Being a force of nature rather than flesh and blood, the beast couldn't be killed, so the man, the Rikudo Sennin, bound it, imprisoning it within his own body.

It was unclear what exactly followed, but the historical records indicated that the power of the beast reacted with the divine energies present within the demigod, changing him, creating new powers and abilities. His eyes became as silver as a mirror, black rings appearing within them, along with nine markings, tomoe, as they were now called in the vernacular.

Well, time passed. The respect and love that the people had for him continued to grow as he traveled all over the land, healing the damage wrought by the Juubi. Till eventually, when he had healed the last of the scars upon the land, the leaders of the remaining clans approached him with an inevitable offer.

And so he ascended to become the Spiraling Storm, aka Uzumaki Arashi, the God-Emperor.

That was over two thousand years ago.

As time passed the rule of the Uzumaki family was cemented and enhanced as they established a stable, well-functioning empire. Wherever the Uzumaki sword fell, peace and order followed.

Their power continued to grow through the ages, of course. The eyes of the Sage were inheritable by his descendents, as was found. The people called them the Rinnegan, Gods' eyes. Of course, they were a recessive trait and not all would develop them, so at least the whole thing was limited somewhat.

Uzumaki Lords without them had to be satisfied with being mere Emperors, while those who had them got to be worshipped as living gods, which, to be fair, they were.

But then… that was what had brought them to this point, to the very edge of ruin.

Minato was the one to eventually break the silence, by asking, "Okay, Sarutobi-dono, tell me, it probably means jack shit, but I've got to ask anyway, what is the current status of the bindings?"

"The bindings, Minato? But why? I'd hardly think this to be the time…" Jiraiya interjected.

"I don't know, sensei… it's just, well, Kushina said she felt something.

"Another pregnancy, your Excellency? You two certainly are active, aren't you?" Sarutobi snarked, not altogether too kindly.

Minato noticed this, but said nothing. He knew Sarutobi considered it a foolish pursuit, to believe that he would succeed when so, so many had failed before him. He himself thought so too, in some way or the other, at least. But something refused to let him give up, and Kushina felt the same.

So they kept trying, again and again, to get back what had been taken from them.

Finally, he spoke. "Just… check them, please."

Sarutobi nodded, going back to his desk and pulling a crystal orb out. Putting it on top of his desk, he paused to let the other two get into place. After a couple of moments, Sarutobi started his work, speaking out the words of command, making the gestures wherever needed to shape the energy within the seeing sphere.

After about ten to fifteen seconds, the orb was fully active, all of its compartment separations removed. Then Sarutobi commanded gruffly, "Show the curse bindings." The orb clouded over, before a clear image appeared. The viewers leaned in closer, trying to get a better look… and one by one, their jaws dropped open in shock.

For the last several hundred years, the image in the glass had always been the same, a whirlpool, standing still. It wasn't even frozen, no. It was just as if someone had made an incredibly realistic glass model of a whirlpool within the orb.

Now, on the other hand… now, the whirlpool was in full movement, water swirling around, crashing against the walls of the sphere, while what looked like small fishes floated within it, glowing in a variety of different colors.

Sure enough, the President of the Parliament of the Central Forty-six spoke first. "But- but that- the whirlpool is active!" he choked out.

Minato grinned. "Exactly! And that's not all."

"It's not?" Sarutobi asked. The whirlpool was a divination device, linked to the ancient curse upon the Uzumaki bloodline. It was that curse which had reduced the mighty clan to a shadow of its former power.

Sarutobi remembered the legend well. Uzumaki Nagato had been colossally powerful, possessing the Rinnegan, not to mention a host of other powers, reminiscent of the old Sage himself.

The only thing he didn't have was the throne, because his fossil of a father had still been sitting on it. As time passed, the fawning that the nation bestowed upon the crown prince turned him ever more arrogant, and the more arrogant he grew, the more he chafed at being kept from the throne.

It had been when the man was a young twenty-nine, when the group he'd formed around himself, the Akatsuki (meaning Red Dawn), was officially accredited as a paramilitary group. Immediately afterwards, the prince and his mates ran off to try their luck with 'those pussies next door.'

It should be noted that those 'pussies' he was referring to, was in fact the Chardravanshi Empire, one of the most powerful nation states on the surface of the planet.

In hindsight, Sarutobi thought, it was rather lucky that it had never come to an actual clash between the official forces of the two countries.

Oh, no. What had happened was just that the Red Dawn had come across an academic institution where a well-renowned hermit was teaching a crop of students that he himself had pronounced 'especially promising.'

Even that meant precious little, except for the name of the 'hermit.'

As those who are aware of Hindu mythology may have already guessed, the hermit wasn't one at all. In fact he was a living god, an Avatar of the god Vishnu.

His name was… Parshuram.

Well, knowing what came next does not take much imagination. It was to the invaders' credit though that both groups were decimated, a clash that created what muggles today called the Bay of Bengal.

And, of course, it couldn't be a titanic magical clash without some long lasting terrible curse that stretched far, far into the future. So Parshuram finally ascended, but not before laying down a curse, a simple but devastating one, that made it impossible for any males to be born to the Uzumaki bloodline for the rest of time.

And the rest, as they say, was history. Every mystic under the Uzumaki clan's control was set to work to neutralize the curse, putting all they had into it, using all their vast resources. All said the same, that the curse's impact could be reduced, but not neutralized…no, not happening…ever.

And that was the root cause behind all these troubles. The elemental orders were rebelling because they only answered to the Avatar, wielder of all the elements. The Shadow-Shinobi, or Shadowkhan as they were called, refused to serve unless the 'Heir of Tarakudo' led them. The many, many spirits that inhabited the land, Kami of the winds, rivers, mountains, forests and everything in between all refused to obey anyone other than the Living God. The Xiaolin monks refused to serve without the 'Unifier of the Heylin and the Wudai,' and the Bijuu… well, the less said about them the better.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

"So that's done then?" the voice of the Tsar of all Magical Russia asked in rapid Russian.

"Yes, sir. Five thousand porting platforms have been laid in every major public location. We've set the fees currently at ten knuts for in-state travel, three sickles for national level, and ten galleons for international transport." The Minister for Transportation answered.

"Good, good. That reminds me, what about the passport matter?" he asked, turning to his Ambassador to the ICW.

"One more meeting, your majesty. The ICW's Core Committee is being annoying."

"I thought our British friends were supposed to handle that?"

"Well, they have, for the most part, sir. There are just a few complications left."

"Get them removed," the most powerful man in Russia ordered tersely.

"Of course, sire." The man responded, bowing deeply.

"And you, what about the matter with the Nosferatu?"

"The reports appear to be true, sir. The Nosferatu have a new leader, one that has enabled them to expand their lands to cover all of Yugoslavia."

Vlad nodded slowly. He was very much aware of the fact that he was just an extraordinarily sentient (and extremely expensive) clone of Harry Potter. He was also aware that there existed spells embedded within the core of his very being that would destroy him at the very thought of rebellion or harming the original in any way.

Good thing that going against the Creator's will was simply inconceivable to him. How this was relevant here was that it would be a serious temptation for anyone in his place to make a power grab to retake the Vampire lands, possessing as he did, a huge, veteran army, all blooded and experienced with lots of shiny new weapons.

But of course, it would not just be problematic, but outright ridiculous to try to conquer lands that one already ruled.

That left another option, going south.

But China… the Xiaung were very, very powerful. As in, powerful enough to laugh off all thirty legions of the Ouroboros Army. They had their Were-Beings, a vast host of Animal-Human fused beings who could send any currently existing nations crumbling down. (A.N: Come on, take a guess. Please. Hint: Valley)

Then there were their special forces, an order of powerful warrior-monks that could send any number of soldiers running away in terror. This order had earned a reputation over the last several centuries, mostly due to the original role it had played in chasing the Mongols out of China. They were among the few places where the arts of magically enhancing one's body could still be learned, not to mention possessing a huge, huge wealth of other lost knowledge. Then there were the tales of Grand Master Dashi, of the sorceress Wuya, of the legendary artifacts that lay buried within their catacombs, of over a hundred noble phantasms, each fantastic in its power.

Of course, there was a wild card out there who could very well change all of that, but for Harry Potter to don armor and take up weapons against an Eldritch Family… Let's just say it would be an 'all in' move that could very well result in the earth being reset to its default state, i.e., a lifeless primordial ball of fire.

So infrastructure development it would be.

"What about the private sector? Any real hopes?"

"Not really, I'm afraid, sir. There simply isn't enough cash in private hands, or knowhow, for that matter. Sixty years…"

"I know, I know. Schedule a meeting with Potter."

"At once, your majesty."

It was all the simulacrum could do, really. The Creator would have to sort it out, especially as he'd not seen fit to give Vlad the enhanced brainpower or the inclination for such things.

Speaking of brainpower…

"Well, what about Karkus? Has the envoy returned?"

"Yes, your majesty, he has." Yuri Strassinov, the Deputy Minister for Foreign (Species) Affairs answered.

"And?"

Strassinov's answer was a bit too quick, betraying his disbelief and excitement. "They have accepted your terms, sir. The Tribe will be broken into four new ones, and each will have their own mini-mountain range to rule over. In return, they will agree to swear eternal vassalage and absolute obedience, and to be blood-bound to the Throne of Russia, your bloodline, and you yourself."

Vlad nodded smugly. Strassinov's disbelief was well warranted, given as giants, flesh-and-bone engines of pure destruction that they were, just did not do this sort of thing. Ever.

The closest they came was to form alliances with dark wizards, which were basically the ultimate alliances of convenience, as in the giants got to break things, and the wizards had someone to break things for them.

But of course, there was a difference here. The negotiations for this had been carried out by Harry Potter directly.

'Negotiations' basically meaning that…

He went in among them, found the Gurg, and told him that all his tribe now worked for him. When differing opinions were expressed in the form of a yell and a thirty foot behemoth rushing at him with a club (surprisingly not, as it happened, by the Gurg. He'd been in the middle of standing up when he'd been beaten to the punch.), this action was responded to by using the most tried and tested method ever.

Namely, Harry flew up to the giant, (a particularly stupid specimen named Golgomath) and achieved a dental-cerebrum-unification with an uppercut to the chin. This was answered to by the dead brute's friends… yeah, you guessed it, yelling and rushing at him with their clubs. Two more brutalities followed from Harry's side, namely causing one giant's chest to cave in and putting the last one's foreleg bone through his eye.

Then he turned back to the Gurg, who had finally gotten up and was starting to…well, you guessed it, pick up his club, having stopped to watch the carnage. He stopped again though when Harry snapped his finger and a ten-foot bucket appeared in midair, full of an amber liquid.

Now Karkus, even though he was a veritable Dumbledore by giant standards, was rather stupid. However, stupidity has never stopped any red-blooded male from realizing when a giant sized (pardon the pun) bucketful of six centuries old firewhisky is placed right in front of them.

The giant looked at the whisky and then at the corpses. He looked at the corpses and then at the whisky. The back and forth went on for several moments, before he growled out what Harry could only assume was the equivalent of "I never liked those fuckers anyway," and went for his rock-carved jug.

The rest, as they say, was history. Well, if history involved spells that converted ugly giantesses into 38"-22"-38" busty wenches, or ones to elevate disgusting looking male giants into a handsomeness on par with Sean Connery in his prime. Or, for that matter, million-liter vats of fertility potions, steroids, varied aphrodisiacs and whatnot.

In the end it had cost all of that, along with a dozen or so massively tricked out and enchanted, city-leveling war maces, but it was it was. And in that way, yet another problem was solved, the fertility enchantments would be cast on the giantesses, and the chapter closed for now.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The Kingdom of Magical Bulgaria
Two Days later

The court of Fedor VII, King of magical Bulgaria, recent Durmstrang graduate and an intimate friend of Quidditch Ace Viktor Krum was in session. The most important matter on the agenda was that of a recent report that had been presented by the oldest of the King's advisors, also an old friend of the young king's father.

And it was a really, really alarming report, made especially so by the old man's well known staunch conservativeness.

The whole thing was rather long and rambling, but the meat of the matter was in the last few shocking pages.

…and therefore I can come to only one conclusion from the available facts, your majesty. There is a serious gathering of military forces underway in Europe, one which might develop to be a considerable threat to the sovereignty of this country.

To summarize, here are the facts:

The Russian civil war has ended after decades of stalemate with a Tsar on the throne once more, who has reached this status only after utterly destroying the most likely candidates that we would have considered for the land. This was achieved by a force which was entirely unknown to us. The reports, as you well know, are rather ridiculously vague and rambling, ranging from personal involvement of your friend the Duke of Gryphonsworth to supporters that have come from a dungeon in Macedonia to a storm that uprooted all enemy strongholds simultaneously.

And the bigger problem with this is that the Russians are at the heart of the matter, as I will now explain.

Recently a number of laws have been passed by the British wizengamot, several of which severely curb the muggle-kind of that country.

Known supporters of both of the last century's major Dark Lords have vanished, presumably having been recruited by a new power.

More than a thousand major and minor companies have changed hands in recent months, some having been acquired by the British, but far more going to unknown entities.

There are other examples, many of which I have detailed in the previous pages, but the simple fact is that, pardon the drama, a complex web of lies and manipulations is being woven throughout the world. There are fake contracts, rerouted taxes, unnamed accounts and untraceable deliveries, all of which amount to hundreds of millions, if not tens of billions being moved around discretely.

There are minotaur tribes missing from Greece, and an odd silence among the vampires. The Uzumaki look as if they are preparing for a major move, and all of Indraprastha is in a tizzy ever since the Patils defeated and annexed nearly half of the Chandravanshi domains, establishing a frankly disturbing level of power.

There is unrest in the Libishomen tribe of vampires (or Sparklespires, as the nickname for them goes), and by all accounts, the French branch of the Veela are on the verge of open rebellion. This last, naturally, is of a particular concern to us.

All of these examples have links back to Russia. The vampires, India, all of them. As such I have to say that I fear that dark days are ahead. A web of lies and conspiracies is being woven, through which every nation is affected severely, except for one, Russia. That land's power is increasing dramatically, with the new government doing more in months than most have managed in decades.

It is, therefore, my opinion, that preparations be immediately made to develop the nation's infrastructure with an eye on preparations for a terrible war, to be waged against a numerically and technologically superior enemy, who will show us no mercy and possesses no remorse.

Yours,
Malkov Drach

Fedor was not a stupid man. He was a rather brilliant administrator, actually, having managed his way deftly through several exceptionally thorny problems in his short reign so far.

But something like this… well, frankly, there were limits. But of course, there was someone, a financial and administration expert like no other, whom he had befriended ever since the boy eight years his junior had thrashed him in the Quarter finals of the Prague championship.

Fedor pulled out his phone and without bothering to dial any numbers, spoke into it.

"Get Harry."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Harry stepped out of the pool of blood. This was something he did alarmingly too often nowadays.

Well, it couldn't be helped, he thought to himself, as he focused his magic on his newly enhanced perception. Yes, it was something quite alright. The feel of every drop of blood as it raced within his veins, the awareness that he could do things with it that no one else could even dream of… he kind of understood why so many Romanovs had gone insane.

With a thought, he funneled his power decidedly more savagely into his new heritage, intent on a particular task. You see, the child who had resurrected the Romanov house magics, the first magical Romanov in two centuries, was the one who was heir.

Heir, as in Harry's current superior in the hierarchy of Harry's brand new family.

Well…had been superior, that is to say, what with how it was crying out in pain as Harry shattered all the bonds of the family magic, before subverting them utterly. The apparent became the presumptive, the presumptive became, first the heir, and given as he was an adult, then the Lord of the family.

Harry Potter was now the Head of the Romanov family, with complete access to the estate, all the palaces, all the books in the library, and the vast fortune that lay in the vaults (the accumulation of several decades of deep-cutting taxes, one of the major causes of the revolution). The first was useful, it would serve to reestablish Royal authority in Russia, the last was irrelevant, but it was the middle that was absolutely vital.

Over ten millennia of amassed knowledge lay within those coveted libraries, knowledge that penetrated the deepest mysteries of blood in all its forms, which allowed for the most elaborate of controls, the most exquisite of alterations.

The Romanovs had been the foremost pioneers in the realm of genetic engineering and all other biological trickery, as evidenced by the Vampires, not to mention that the books and scrolls in their books that described, in intricate detail, all the ways to bind another person to one's will for generation upon generation (on both sides) using nothing but the third that was the body and the blood.

There was one particular aspect that he was almost desperate to explore, but just didn't have the time, for now.

Oh, and of course, cracking the Romanov line meant that his methods were guaranteed success now. Every noble family that had ever known respect, long dead bloodlines that had once been the toast of civilizations; they were all now available to him! Find a grave to get DNA from, get a child adopted by one of the spirits of that family, and voila! There were gifts like no other to be had, gifts that travelled only in bloodlines. Harry already had most of them, but that wasn't anywhere close to enough. They would have to be amplified and enhanced, ramped up to godlike levels, much like his ascent to being the Master of Death had done to his Necromancy. Now, that mastery had been accomplished to some extent by his Thunderborn-hood (Thunderborn-ship?), but of course, satisfaction was one curse he had no intension to ever let anywhere near himself. Not to mention the even more important goal of having more people with talents.

Of course, all of those things were matters not currently relevant.

Harry switched his focus to the matter at hand, specifically those of the reports from the surveillance web he had watching over Britain, meant primarily to monitor the shadow war.

"Well, Selene?"

"There have been six more attacks, Harry. Bagman was targeted in his office and someone tried to sabotage Crouch when he was apparating."

"Oh?"

"He would have been in seventeen pieces if they had succeeded."

"Oh… trace?"

"On. We have pinpointed several markers that point towards the Bones, but there are a few other ones as well."

"Okay, keep on it. Meanwhile…"

"Yes?"

"Bones, huh? She's coming rather dangerously close to becoming annoying, isn't she?"

"I am not qualified to answer that, Harry."

"Rhetorical question, my dear. What's the control level on Susan?"

"87%, Harry."

"So that makes it about nine times out of ten that she'll pick the marauders over her aunt. Okay, amplify the psychic emitters, reroute the whole output through the Alley."

"Done."

Harry continued on to other matters that required his attention. "What about Germany? The Sun Knights?"

"Have been successfully reinstated into the Thule society. The penetrators remain at their posts and the society believes that they are working for them now."

"Good. And the agents know that they are working for Russia, right?"

"Yes, they are under the impression that their leader is a direct adjunct of Vlad, an assumption that is actually true, but at the same time…"

"I know, I know. Totally hollow and meaningless. How far away are we from the leadership?"

"A good deal away, Harry. At least seventeen degrees of separation."

"That sucks. Well, we have the drones, right?"

"Yes, sir, we do. Over five hundred birds, insects and rodents, all following the most senior members of the Thule Society at all times. Their transmissions are routed through the Turkey towers, bounced off of the Washington monument antenna, and are resynchronized and split-calibrated over two dozen times, putting the link beyond any tracing technology other than our own."

"Okay, now tell me about the Morrigans."

"Julius Morrigan has cemented his control over the main Judicial Committee, Harry. He's started with targeting the sub-committee chairmen."

"Oh, has he, now?"

For those who didn't know it beforehand, the British judicial system could be a nightmare. There was the central, or main, committee, that Morrigan was chairman of, which had twenty-one 'working' (a hilarious, hilarious misnomer, as work was the last thing any of them did) members, including him, all of them Judges of the thirteenth degree. More to the point, all of them were full voting members of the wizengamot. Other than them there were the secretaries, assistants, EOs, and the usual collection seen in any underworked-overstaffed governmental organization. Below this institution, were the subcommittees, each with its own chairman. There were twenty-one of them too, with each member of the main committee serving as a conduit to the chairman of the respective subcommittee.

These were the real, crime-sentencing, backlog-clearing force of the country's judicial system. They sat in the courts, wrote out the warrants, approved the various inter-party agreements, and so on. If two people wanted to make an arrangement, these people were the ones to ratify the contracts.

Now, Morrigan had established his control over the central committee, which was rather bothersome because it also put 21 votes at his command, but the more bothersome fact was that he was trying to weasel in on the junior chairmen as well.

"How many of the subcommittees do we own, Selene?" Because a judge's salary sucked in rather major ways, most were members of prominent law firms as well, as in of the same kind that Althric Legal had been purchasing with a vengeance over the last year.

So… "Three, for certain, Harry. That is as many as you control under your name. Three more are Ouroboros members, and taking Dumbledore and Voldemort into account, the total tally comes to eleven, with methods of control ranging from financial dependency to blackmail to genuine dedication and loyalty."

"And Morrigan?"

"Six by himself and two of Bones'."

That left two. Two important components of the judicial machine that would have to be acquired ASAP, lest the old fool get to them first. But another important thing to do was…

"And the level of control we have on our subcommittees, Selene? I mean, I gave explicit orders that just getting the Chairmen of the subcommittees was nowhere near enough."

"And those orders were followed, Harry. Rest assured that we have a 60%+ level of control minimum in all of the subcommittees' membership."

"Sixty percent plus is not nearly good enough, Selene. That leaves forty percent of over five hundred total people; that is roughly two hundred people out of our control."

"But none of them can get even a single resolution passed, Harry."

"Doesn't matter. The operation we have running over there, it's the Themis Directive, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir. Under the leadership of-"

"I know who I made the leader, Selene. Just allocate a further thirty mil for them and reduce the restriction level to 3. Before you ask, I know the contingencies that this'll invoke in Plans #34-49. Enact the resolutions for them."

"Acknowledged, sir. There'll be a personal confirmation required, as you know."

"Tomorrow evening."

"Of course."

"Oh, and what about Troy?"

"Project Troy is in progress sir. Things are still at the preliminary stage."

"Okay, keep at it."

"That is acknowledged, your grace. Oh, and Hagrid's due in about five minutes."

"Right." Harry said, nodding, before going over what he intended to say to the man.

He looked over a few files and approved some expenditures, till the knocks came.

"Come in, Hagrid."

As the huge man lumbered in, Harry took the time to look him over. He could have sighed.

Harry was no fashionable dandy, but he appreciated good hygiene and basic grooming, at the very least. Hagrid… did not, and that made what Harry was doing today all the more necessary.

"Well, sit down, Hagrid," Harry said, with a sharp look on his face.

"Righ' Harry. Wha's this 'bout?"

Whoa, he did jump right in, didn't he?

"Well, that's a rather touchy topic, Hagrid. You see the changes I'm making to the school?"

"Yes, Harry. I wus sorry McGonagall 'ad to go."

"I was too, Hagrid." Harry said offhandedly, before coming to the point.

"See, Hagrid, thing is, Hogwarts is changing. The old rules, the old standards, they're all gone, or getting that way. So, you see, the teachers all have to make the cut, too."

"Oh, Harry. I-I am doin' m'best, Harry."

"I know, Hagrid. But, well… Hogwarts just can't have an uneducated man as a teacher, you know."

"Uh… I-I s'pose you're right." Hagrid said morosely, head down.

"I'm glad you do. So you understand that I have to do this, don't you?"

"Righ', I do. I-I'll go 'n pack m'bags…" the large man said in the same tone, as if someone had killed all of his puppies at the same time.

"Huh?" Harry acted bewildered.

"Wha' Harry, you can't expec' me ta' go without anythin'!"

"What?" Harry said again, continuing the whole charade of emotion.

"It's bad enough tha' yeh're doin' this."

"Hagrid. Will you tell me what you mean by packing your bags?"

"Well, yeh're throwin' me out, aren't yeh?"

"Um… no, I'm not, and I'm pretty certain about that."

"But yeh said…ab-about that uneducated man thin'…"

"Yes, that I can't have an uneducated man teach here. Oh… oh!" Harry faked, as if just realizing what those words could mean.

"Oh, Hagrid, I'm not firing you!"

"Yeh're not?"

"No! Hagrid, I'm going to… oh, best just let you see." Harry finished, thankful that the whole drama was finally over.

He pulled three envelopes out of the drawer on his desk, putting them at the top of it. By now, he had to focus on the desk, as Hagrid was starting to blubber.

"Hagrid." He said resolutely and more than a little loudly, effectively shutting up the confused man.

"In this envelope-" he said, handing one over. "In this envelope there is a question paper for OWL level Care of Magical Creatures, and an answer sheet from Althric Stationers. Fill it out, and then take this one." He said, indicating the second envelope. "It has the NEWT paper and another answer sheet. Fill out that one too, real quick, and I'll have them sent over to the ministry. I've got an examiner standing by, who'll check both, and then we can get the ball rolling for more things."

"Oh." That was all the half-giant said, staring in shock at the desk.

"Hagrid!" Harry said loudly. When the man gaped at him, he said again. "The papers? Real quick, please?"

"Oh, righ'. Harry, I don' know how to thank-"

"Hagrid, this is just the first thing in a pretty long list. Let's leave the sappy bits for later, huh?" Harry said, not unkindly.

"Okay," Hagrid said, grinning. He pulled out an ugly monstrosity of a quill from his pocket, at which point Harry interrupted him in order to hand him a dictation quill, both to get things done quick and to spare the examiners from his atrocious handwriting.

It took nearly a full hour more, through which Harry heard more report summarizations, made decisions, activated scenarios, implemented new contingencies, drafted plans and did all the other things involved with being who and what he was.

He did it all in a bubble of silence, of course, and with a dozen illusions that depicted him doing quite a few other things, all layered over each other. He wasn't stupid.

But an hour later it was done, and all that remained was for Harry to hand Hagrid the Ministry voucher for an Ollivander's wand, along with the letter explaining his results (Outstanding in both cases, of course).

And then, they shook hands, Hagrid doing his best to tear Harry's arm off his shoulder by his innocent vigor, and it was done. The Hagrid chapter was closed, at least for now.

'So, is it time now, sir?' Selene asked, voice full of a strange viciousness.

'Yes, Selene, it is. To quote the words of Alexandre Dumas: and now, farewell to kindness, humanity and gratitude... I have substituted myself for Providence in rewarding the good; may the God of vengeance now yield me His place to punish the wicked!' Harry thought, a tad too melodramatically for his tastes.

Well, it was appropriate enough, though, regarding the immediate future.

See, things, as they were nowadays, were pretty stable. Panic about Voldemort was building up, pushing most people in the halls of power into one of the two main camps, the shadow war was going, well, wars never went well, but decently enough. The process of setting up the international stage was underway, his personal life was more full of debauchery than ever, and his personal magical power was reaching higher and higher heights.

So… yeah, it was time for some backlog to be cleared. As in, some much-needed, much deserved vengeance needed to be extracted.

Harry contained within himself a great deal of savagery. The natures of some of nature's most brutal beings, mixed with the natural corruption that chaos created within him, was a rather potent thing. It was controlled well, but part of that control was achieved through regular releases. The anger, sadism and fury, the pent-up frustration of years upon years, all of that needed to be dealt with.

And he knew just the right targets.

Harry apparated to Hogwarts.

40 minutes later

"Fly, little bat, fly!" the voice was savage, dripping with malice and pure, twisted evil, if such a thing existed.

Severus Snape looked at its source, and paled yet another shade of grey. He had been picked up out of Hogwarts half an hour ago, pulled away by some unidentified magic.

And since then, he'd known hell. The shadowy figure chasing him had ripped at him, torn away his arms, sliced specific tendons in his legs, all to allow him to crawl through a beach of sand, heated by a merciless sun to burn-causing levels. He'd crawled, even, only to cry out as snakes, dozens upon dozens of snakes of multiple species, started their work on him. The torture had been bad enough then, before the other things started to unfold.

Harry smiled. Severus Snape would never realize where he was. Here, in the heart of the Nevernever, there were no limits. Here this slug would burn, freeze and be mutilated, all a billion times over, and yet never die. Harry had made plans for this for many, many years, ironically enough, in similar zones where time ceased to mean anything. But Snape would not really be able to appreciate any sort of irony by the time he was done with him.

Harry had four years of extraordinary cruelty to make up for, and that was just the smallest of matters. There were two dead parents to account for, and one soulless godfather (A.N: Go read PoA, he is responsible.). There was fifteen years of sabotage to his school, and hundreds of traumatized students to avenge.

And by no means would he be limiting himself to Snape. The gods of old had not been feared for their viciousness alone, no, the main cause of that fear and anxiety had been the fact that they had extraordinarily bad aim. Vengeance almost always struck everyone around the target as well, doling out generous helpings of misery upon everyone their target ever remotely cared for, spreading ruin and chaos in its wake.

Now, in this case, the choice of targets was limited to a tiny selection, but that meant all of jack shit. Harry had already yanked every one of the bat's ancestors out of their cushy afterlives and tossed them into the deepest depths of the Warp, but even that was nowhere near enough. He would have gone after the Malfoys too, but the fact that Lucius had been unwavering in his loyalty ever since his recruitment had stayed his hand. He knew blondy didn't mean it as true loyalty, but rather as enlightened self-interest, but that was fine as well.

Of course, Snape was not to be the only one to burn. There was a much older score that had to be settled.

Thirteen years.

For thirteen years, Harry had been beaten, starved, and abused. Hundreds upon hundreds of times, his parents had been called worthless, good for nothing louts, that his father was a drunken bum and drug addict, and his mother was a whore who'd married him only because he'd knocked her up. Thirteen years, during which the fat little piggy duo had regarded him as a walking punching bag.

Thirteen years, they'd lived in a house left to his mother by his grandfather, gorged and fattened themselves off of the money sent over for his care, bought their lard-ball countless toys out of money that Vernon earned due to his shares in the company, while deriving perverse pleasure out of denying him even the basic things in life.

Of course, truth be told, Harry had genuine appreciation for all of that. Number four, Privet Drive had been the furnace where he'd been forged, the table at which he'd been cut and polished. Harry Potter, well adjusted wizard and a nice, well-meaning aristocrat, had died at their hands, as had The Boy Who Lived.

What had been left was pure fighting spirit and a relentless, terrible cruelty, the latter because that was all he had ever known or received, and the former because it was all that had let him survive the latter.

Harry had never really told any of his portrait advisors about just what he remembered of his life at the Dursleys once he'd broken through Dumbledore's obliviations, and he didn't intend to. The cold, harsh child, who had been similar enough to Dumbledore's experience with Tom Riddle fifty years ago to frighten him into casting the first of the new mind-spells (the original version had been mostly all gone), and then, through repeated resurfacings, into turning it into a whole new matrix of compulsions, artificial traits and erased memories, was best long dead.

But it had been the fragments of that child and the shattered remnants of Voldemort's psyche (what little was left after Harry's occlumency had cleaned it up), that had played such a role into making Harry what he was today.

And that was a rambling idiot, apparently, Harry thought as he forced his mind back to the here and now.

Just because he appreciated it, did not mean he forgave it. It was not out of some misplaced desire for vengeance, oh no. This was out of a very properly placed desire for vengeance.

Even Harry had emotional issues, after all, especially as he kept them literally bottled up by his mind magic. The aggression, he took out in the Nevernever, item world or outside. The more… erotic ones, he had no lack of willing bedmates to satisfy those with.

But the sadistic, madness-and-pain-and-just-sick ones… those were what had to be vented from time to time and no one deserved that more than these worms.

Of course, even then one would think that Harry would limit himself to the Dursleys alone. That was what anyone would do, after all, in his situation.

Harry was not anyone.

It happened, as such things often do, on a dark and stormy night. That was actually the first sign the denizens of the county got that something was terribly wrong, because the dark and stormy night had been a bright and shining afternoon just moments before.

And then they came. The public of the community was aware of them from the high-pitched, keening sounds that came from their throats, hurting minds and making ears bleed, before the things descended. Black-scaly wings beat and monstrous, corded muscles flexed, as the horde of vengeance demons descended upon the whole township.

Screams soon erupted, first from the children who had happily bullied a thin, spectacled boy just because a fat little oaf told them to.

The demons were unstoppable and utterly invulnerable to harm, as the few who managed to pull out knives learned.

They smashed through roofs and descended deep into homes where dwelt the women who gossiped about the most irrelevant little things, but yet were somehow utterly blind to the too thin, malnourished boy living right next door to them.

The elementary school was the first to burn, the demons ripping apart the very same teachers who had been far too willing to take bribes and listen to honeyed words, all while turning a blind eye to the obvious signs of horrific abuse plainly visible in the raven haired boy.

And standing high in the air, Harry Potter nodded grimly, watching with satisfaction.

The accounts were finally settled, the debts had been paid with blood.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Diwan-E-Khaas of Emperor Osman XVII
Babylon
Persia

"So, Salim? What news from Britain?" The speaker was just as magnificent as the seat he was upon. And it was no shabby chair. Crafted from the finest mythril, the throne was nearly twenty feet in height alone, taking into account the twenty-one steps leading up to it. Two platinum-colored panthers were stationed, mid-crouch, at the bottom of the stairs, and two more sat attentively watching behind the actual seat. Those with unseeing eyes would judge them mere statues, and indeed, that had been many a would-be assassin's last mistake over the long centuries that they had stood by the throne. In truth, all four were marids of the highest degree, a retinue of sixteen demons that changed in six-hour shifts.

Not that they were the only beings of such power nearby. The throne room was vast, easily the size of a generously built auditorium. It was rectangular in shape, one end opening into a set of huge double doors, while on the other there was a balcony, dividing it horizontally. The hall was for when the Emperor held his public meetings, the Diwan-E-Aam, lined along both the long walls by massive statues of horses sitting, each of which was in actuality a disguised spirit of extreme power.

Higher, on a level with the balcony, where the special meetings (like the one currently going on) were held, there were platforms built into the corners, occupied by master archers hefting massive war-bows. This, of course, was in addition to the huge number of hawk busts protruding from the walls, all of them ready to rain down all manner of magic.

And yes, the man who had asked the question was, in fact, just as grand as his throne. The eyes were night-black, unclouded and sharp as ever. The hair was white, with a last few streaks of black valiantly fighting against the onslaught of age. His face was a patchwork of wrinkles and age spots, and yet chock-full of the same steel that had sent grown men quivering even when he was but a young boy. He was an old man now, old and wizened, but only the worst of fools would say weakened. He had aged much like a sword ages, becoming all the more deadly for it. That steel was notably absent right now, as he awaited the customary response of his oldest friend and closest advisor.

"Ask my nephew yourself and find out, sire. It is not for my unworthy self to attempt to guess the answer to your inquiries." Salim Bashir, the Grand Vizier of the Persian Empire and one of the most powerful men in the world responded.

The imperial gaze turned to the young merchant, turned representative-spy-maybe even double-agent.

"Well?"

"It goes well, sire. As I have told you in my previous reports, I have gained the trust of a consortium of their most powerful families. That has allowed me to take almost complete control of all their trade in these parts. Apart from that, the recent changes are that there are some significant preparations being carried out to deal another huge blow to the group's enemies in the ongoing shadow war.

"Oh? Do elaborate. This shadow war… you have said previously that the final reward your associates work for is the complete control of that island?"

"Yes, light of the earth."

"Hm… very well, give your written report to your uncle."

"Yes, Majesty. Sire, if this servant may be so bold as to inquire…"

"Ah yes. Very well, I believe you have earned an answer. It is to be Harry Potter."

The man tried, but failed to conceal his glee from the Emperor "You mean you will be on his side?"

If the monarch was irked at the businessman's impudence, he gave no sign of it. "Yes. Of course, there will be safeguards and a watching eye, especially as Lord Ibrahimazeez has volunteered, but in principle? Yes."

"I thank you, Shehenshah."

With all this, it was really a pity that from within his pocket, the self-eating snake that was his Ouroboros Ring was active in a rather purposeful way.

'Initiating link… link established. Snake 1, online. Snake 2, online….snake 17, online. Link up complete. Initiate update.

Updates initiated. Time to Completion: 7 minutes.'

The AIs embedded into the rings, truthfully rather primitive ones possessing barely a millionth of Selene's processing power, were nonetheless capable of some very efficient data transfer, which was going on constantly as the meeting proceeded.

Eventually the data transfer was completed, at which point the final commands of the ring's programming were executed. It uncoiled, becoming a simple silver snake. It crawled out of the man's pocket, completely invisible and undetectable by magical or technological detection, till it reached the floor.

There it burrowed in deep, its intangibility meaning that not a mark appeared in the floor. In a matter of minutes it was almost entirely across the floor of the balcony and peaking out of the ceiling of the hall below. Once there, it paused, in order to run a series of co-ordination algorithms with the others for best coverage. Once completed, the results told it where to go and hide. It did, following the instructions from the seventeen snakes just like it that had already followed this exact procedure.

It had all begun when Bashir had told Harry about how he had been asked to report on the Alliance's activities, freely disclosing what he was asked to do to avoid what the group now called a 'Yaxley.' Harry had taken note of it and guided the man's reports back to the Emperor ever since, but unknown to the man, there had been much more going on than he even realized. Harry had hatched the whole plan within moments of realizing the tremendous opportunity within his grasp. So, the membership ring that Bashir had been provided with had been changed, subtly altered using the core-embedded enchantments that Harry tended to put in everything he touched these days.

Every time the wards of the emperor's palace came into contact with the ring, it would activate, and start its defense system. Not to fool the wards, oh no, that was an idiot's hope. No, the purpose was to take advantage of the opportunities already available to those who could see them. The man was expected to carry the ring in, after all, as he was known to be a member of the Ouroboros. He was also expected to put it away in his pocket, since member or not, it would be an insult to the emperor to wear it in his presence.

And so it worked. Of course, transmitting information to anywhere outside the palace was unthinkable, given as there were about eleventy bajillion wards on the palace to prevent that very thing. So the answer, naturally, was to transfer it only inside the palace, which the wards did not prevent. Ergo, the update system.

It was simple enough. The Ouroboros ring was a snake eating its own tail. That much was visible to even the naked eye. What wasn't known, was that the snakes were anatomically correct. As in, they laid eggs and could reproduce. Now a real female snake in nature could carry up to a dozen eggs at a time; these ones carried thirteen, the extra one serving as Harry's middle finger to nature. Every time the man came here, the ring he was wearing would crawl away, to be replaced by a new one that the snake disgorged.

So that left every snake with twelve tiny snakes that it could place at strategic points within the palace, where they could learn the maximum amount of information. And so it did.

The first batch of little spies had operated almost completely blind, of course, having had only the few directions that had come from Bashir's limited memories, as well as those of the few old architects whose souls Harry had managed to summon to answer questions one soul at a time.

But times had been relatively hard then, with Harry having to watch how much necromancy he did.

Now, on the other hand…

The first nest had actually learned quite a lot on its own, mapping out huge portions of the building physically, as well as taking as many opportunities as they could to do the same on the magics of the building.

They explored everything they could without being detected, constantly pushing, probing, recording and analyzing, coordinating with its brethren to conduct any processor heavy tasks for maximum efficiency. At least till Bashir came to the palace again, that was. That was when things started to go faster. The newly deployed batch meant a chance to transmit all the recently learned information into the snake that would leave with him and thus be brought outside the potent wards. The little spies would also receive new instructions from Selene and Harry with the new nest.

After that it was a waiting game, the little silver automatons learning everything possible, sending it over, getting new instructions, and generally establishing themselves at the palace, till, with the seventh batch, they finally had sent over enough data that instructions came for them to act on what they'd learned.

In this, they had been aided rather curiously by the Persians' own numerous security measures. See, knowing the importance of a good security system, the Persians did their level best to make a flawless one. They had human guards, sand-being guards, spirits, there were over three dozen separate ward-schema interlocked to protect the place from any conceivable attack or espionage. There were automatons flying out for miles and miles, tasked with eliminating any foreign ones (Harry had lost over a hundred of his birds just gauging the limits), there were spells even against muggle devices in place, making this place one of the few in the world to have them, and all of the other bells and whistles as well.

All of these things, well, they meant that the Persians were well justified in calling their defense system utterly flawless.

Too bad they didn't know Harry Potter Security Rule # 1: Every security system is flawed.

Case in point was the first weakness that the snakes used and exploited to great effect. Next, the bit about the three dozen separate interlocking ward schema. Thing was, magic was, at its essence, chaos. There were a lot of stabilizing elements in it, which made the difference between Chaos Magic and just magic, but the spark of randomness and unpredictability was still at the very heart of all magic. How this played out was that when that many separate formats and structures were interlocked, they tended to feed off of each other and generate all sorts of energies, like friction, fused magic, and yes, chaos. These discharges had to be handled one way or the other, or they would grow and grow until something incredibly unpleasant resulted.

The best way to do this necessary task was to align the discharges against each other, while creating an exhaust point that would feed back into the wards themselves, meaning that the discharges would first be diluted and then be used to supplement the structure.

The 'Harry way' to do this bit of necessity was dramatically different and about a million times better than most conventional methods, but that's a different story.

The problem here was that the discharge aspect of the wards had been done… well, not quite shoddily, but let's just say it wasn't that good. The snakes, however, were the finest infiltrators apart from the Shinobi, and so… well, they'd taken it over, let that be all that's said.

It had been altered into something much more convenient for them. Nothing major, of course, but the outputs, ties, and the links had been fiddled with just a tad. A few tiny changes here, a couple there, and all of a sudden there were pockets of magic forming, that would, if not detected and resolved, later develop into areas of wild magic (not the druidic, nature kind. This was a sort of bastard child between normal magic and chaos).

The snakes had been working quietly to guide the development of these pockets, to get them to develop into a network of explosive charges that would have blown barn-sized holes into the whole web.

Then a plucky young guard had found one of them, and alerted her superiors. That had sparked off a hunt, and all of the pockets had been quickly discovered.

That had spelled….a huge success for the snakes, given as it prompted a root-level diagnosis of the wards, thereby giving them a good, long look at all of the innermost details of the whole structure that would almost never be fully visible. Their limited memory banks had been completely filled, recording a whopping…6% of the structure.

Yeah. The wards really were that complex.

Still, win some, lose some.

Till Salim Bashir unwittingly revealed himself to be an agent sent over especially by Lady Luck to help Harry, that was. No, not literally. Tyche was very scared of both the Persian pantheon and of Zoroaster.

No, as things happened, the Wardcrafters who had designed the wards had all been scratching their heads as to how this had happened, and what to do now. Oh, they could remove the pockets of magic, that was no problem.

The real problem was how to prevent a repetition of it in the future, and how to do it in a way that would be guaranteed to stick. That was kind of an important point, you see, because Osman XVII, Emperor of Persia, King of Kings, Sultan of all Arabia, Lord of the Mediterranean, Master of Ten Thousand Djinn, Sailor of the Seven Seas, Greatest of the Khans, First Rider of the Golden Horde, Light of the World; and a dozen other titles, was not one to easily tolerate failure.

But he did appreciate honesty, so the answer had been a shamefaced confession of their inability to solve the problem permanently. That had made it a matter for possible outside help, and here the Grand Vizier had proposed the ideal answer. The problems were related to Chaos Magic, so why not let the people best at chaos magic do the job?

So… to recap, the contract to repair and prevent it in future, the damage to the wards that Harry's tiny, silver, automaton agents had personally caused, went to Althric Inc. The company that he, you know, owned.

Yup. The same brand of ridiculous luck that had kept him alive for three years as a worthless waste of space hadn't abandoned him even now.

Of course, there were binding oaths involved. There were always oaths. Oaths not to delay the job, never to reveal the details to any person, not to worsen the problems, not to do this, not to do that, it was a long, long list.

A long list of thrice-bound oaths at that, reinforced using a thirteen point shore-up that was powered from seven primary ley lines. Pretty much unbreakable, in other words, with less wriggle room than was between an ant's sharpened pincers.

Harry had been almost completely bound, forced to limit himself to observing, observing and observing some more.

'Had been.'

To be honest, the oaths were strong ones and well thought out, some of the strongest possible in the world. There was no fault to be had in that. Still, they were designed for mortals, not for the Master of Death.

So… yeah.

And that brings us right back to the underside of the Diwan-E-Khaas balcony, where a snake had received its instructions and was crawling ahead.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Ten Days Later
Spain
The man signed the last of the documents on his desk, watching as they disappeared in slight shimmers of light. He leaned back, spent and worried. He had done what his masters had asked him to, that was fine. It was just…

There was just some sort of intuition that was gnawing away at him. He couldn't put a finger on it, really, but there was just something that was striking him just the wrong way. Something about the arrangements he'd just pushed through.

They had been simple enough, on first sight at least. Dubious and extraordinarily dishonest, obviously, but that was run of the mill in the Knights' Spain. No, the parts that worried him were with the way the whole thing had been concealed. There was nothing wrong with it, but still…

He remembered when the instructions had been given to him.

"So, Romero, how are you these days?" the man had said, strolling into the home of Romero Vali, Senior Assistant Officer, Office of Licenses, in the Ministry of Magic for the Republic of Magical Spain.

"Well, sir. Very well." Vali's voice was ingratiating, his inner toady coming out fully to the fore in the face of the Special Undersecretary to the Secretary of Finance.

They exchanged some more pleasantries, before the guest came to his point.

"So, Romero, heard 'bout the new deal that's been signed with the brit?"

"Yeah, with Potter, right?"

"That's the one. So here's what high command says you need to do." The man said, passing over a thin folder. Romero took it, opening it to see a few pages of typing. He read through half of the first page in a few seconds, eyebrows rising high as he did so.

Apparently the Undersecretary noticed, as he chuckled and said, "Yeah, it's rather ground-shattering. Anyway, you need to work your magic on all that. Get it done, and then bury all the details deep into the paperwork."

Vali nodded, still shell-shocked about it all.

"Well, I'm off, then." The senior member of the Knights of Aragon finished, before strolling out just as nonchalantly as he'd come in.

And that had been that. Since then it had taken Romero Vali nearly the full month to get all the staff of his office to push the proper forms into the proper places, get all the signatures, all the committee ratifications and relevant approvals. There had never been any real chance of denial, of course, but that meant little in getting things to speed up.

And once the actual things were done he'd had to start skillfully hiding it all. Fake positions were created, salary structures devised, entire offices created on paper, licenses had to be transferred to a whole list of nonexistent entities before arriving at the actual one, fake auctions records had to be manufactured for the various government owned resources that were being pawned off, and all in all, a whole lot of shady jobs needed doing.

But it was all done now. Romero Vali had cooperated fully in handing over a nice slice of his nation's economy to a foreigner and the job was completed now. Still, it'd been necessary work. The Knights of Aragon had seen and felt what happened when a small oligarchy ruled openly, and so understood that this, the expert manipulation of a vast, labyrinthine bureaucracy was the way to properly hold power. The heads of offices were theirs, the directors, secretaries and ministers were theirs, the topmost businesses were all owned by them, some publicly and others secretly, and most of all, it was near enough a physical impossibility for their chosen to lose an election on any level.

Thing was, those were all. The junior bureaucrats, the ground level people, the underlings and peasants, plebs as their GM had called them, were not theirs. They couldn't be, after all. The organization was too big as it was, big enough that it was a very strenuous exercise to prevent leaks. As they rose, people would meet these underlings, take quiet drinks with them and feed them fine lunches, all the way illuminating the truth of things to them bit by bit.

Those who accepted it would rise, those who didn't would either encounter a dead-stop to their career or their lives, depending on the vehemence of their disagreement.

But yes, this was an Achilles' heel that the secret society had done nothing to prevent, mainly because they had no idea of it.

They were the peasants, after all, the harmless plebs. What could they do?

Never mind that the assured comforts that the members of the Knights enjoyed caused an unbelievable level of incompetence and laziness to develop in them, meaning that those who picked up the slack knew about a hundred times more about the nuts-and-bolts of administration than their bosses.

Never mind that the 'plebs' outnumbered them five hundred to one, never mind it that it was thinking almost just like this that had… well, that was all ancient history.

The truth was, people like Vali, who had the actual willingness and ability to move a finger despite having an assured future thanks to the secret society and their families, were far, far in the minority, and even they didn't realize that fact, nor its implications.

There were some rudimentary efforts, of course, caused by ancient regulations drafted by wiser people but the truth was, you simply couldn't hide a building on fire from the firemen.

But the people were the people, and the rules were the rules, so the total level of understanding held by the knights was limited to 'Keep all this secret'.

So… yeah. Making everything squeaky clean was kind of a needed thing, they understood.

Of course, Romero Vali might have been a whole lot less comfortable with all of that had he known that with all the work he'd done, all the strain he'd taken upon himself, his job had been but a small part of the whole, limited to a mere four points out of the twenty-one point program that was the Knights of Aragon side of the deal, in return for three billion British galleons a quarter, roughly.

Still, he didn't, and wasn't, and neither were the ones working to cover the rest of the parts, and the entire nation would be the worse for it.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Italy
Church of St. George # 41

The child to be baptized was wailing. The loudness was surprising, actually, given how frail the babe looked. A small head, thin chest and little stick-like stubby limbs could be discerned in the thick swaddle of cloth that was clutched to the mother's chest.

"Leave him, Elisabeta, give him to the priest."

The mother nodded quietly, and handed the babe over.

The priest took the boy, looking him over with a careful eye. After a few moments he nodded, before proceeding with the ceremony. He could see why the father had coughed up the money for the baptism, the thinking was that the boy could at least die a proper Christian.

He spoke out the words, calling down Jehovah's and his son's blessing upon the little thing, before dunking him well and proper.

The assembly watched, as the customary glow started spreading through the water, as the tethers of holy power forced their way through the boy's magic, deep into his very soul. Then, about five seconds after immersing the boy, he pulled him back out.

And then had to brutally suppress an urge to gasp loudly. Because the boy had changed.

Not the appearance, oh no, that was just as before. The priest knew it wouldn't remain so however, not after a proper upbringing. But for now, he looked the same.

To the untrained eye, that is.

To those who could pierce the veil and glance upon the true appearance of things, the boy was utterly transformed. Thin, sunken cheeks were replaced with a full, pink face, the limbs becoming healthy, supple extensions. Every flaw, every imperfection upon the baby was gone, removed utterly. Yahweh had reached down, and he'd chosen to do this.

And the reason for it was just as visible. There, shining like another sun on the baby's forehead, was a bright cross, the longer arm extending from the tip of his nose to the few wet strands that passed for hair, while the shorter one spanned both eyebrows. As if that cross was not enough, the priest turned the babe over and saw the mark, a few thin, slight lines tracing out the outline of two sets of wings, extending from the shoulders to the waist.

There was no denying it. The boy was to be a monk. He had commanded it.

The priest looked to the window at the side of the church, where a small fresco denoted an angel watching over the room. Meeting his eyes, the priest nodded.

The angel nodded back. The boy's parents would soon die in an accident, leaving him free to be adopted by the church. That was standard procedure and could be handled easily enough. What was strange was that this was the twenty-sixth monk!

Normally there were only two or three in an entire year, but this was the twenty-bloody-sixth! And the last twenty had been in the last month alone!

Still, God worked in mysterious ways.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Your Grace, what do you think about the recent rumors, about a bitter conflict between you and the Bones family?" the reporter asked, from where she was sitting in front of Harry.

"Those rumors are completely ridiculous. As you may already know, Susan Bones is a good friend of mine and I have nothing but respect for her aunt."

"But there are confirmed reports of the message that was stuck on her door, what about that?"

"Whatever was done to her door was done by some capable witch or wizard who has done an enormous favor to Magical Britain. As much as I'd like to claim that it was me, it would be a lie."

Getting the hint from his tone, the reporter turned to the golden-haired ponce next to him. "Mr. Lockhart, can you tell the public what it was that caused you to run for Minister?"

He smiled wide, showing a row of perfect white teeth, before responding, "Just seeing the state of things, Miss. For such a long time people like me have stayed out of things, to let the so called 'safe hands' do their work. But corruption and incompetence has crossed all limits in recent times and the public is crying out for change!"

Everyone nodded, some genuinely, others play-acting.

Lockhart continued, "And it is not just the corruption, either. Lord Voldemort"-cue flinches all around- "has returned, and the ministry seems to think that the best response is to twiddle its thumbs!"

"So what are your plans regarding him, if I may ask, Mr. Lockhart?"

"Certainly, you may. My allies and I have discussed a wide range of plans regarding the menace that the Death Eaters represent, and you may read all about them in our official manifesto at your leisure." As the reporter opened her mouth to object, he continued, in a placating manner, "Rest assured, I can give you a few points of our platform right here and now."

Lockhart flicked his wand, summoning a thin folder out of thin air. He opened it, making a dramatic show out of flipping a number of pages and seeming to examine them closely. "Ah, here we are. Once I'm elected, the ministry will expedite the process of reinstating the Hit Wizards, while at the same time, we shall look into increasing the total number of Aurors and other DMLE personnel. Apart from that, war-time measures will be authorized against the terrorists. As far as the matter of corruption and nepotism within the ministry is concerned, efforts will be made to streamline both the ministry and the wizengamot. Civil Service examinations will be required for the, well, civil service personnel, and the number of committees in the wizengamot will be looked at, with an eye towards reorganization."

"That is all well and good, sir, but don't you think that your plans are simply too ambitious? Too much, too fast?"

"I think I will let my close ally Duke Harry answer that question, Miss, if you don't mind?"

The reporter didn't say anything to that, but her eager and excited expression said it all for her. There were very few people in the world averse to a personal response from The Boy Who Lived, and she was not one of those few.

Harry looked her directly in the eye when her attention fell upon him, taking the opportunity to browse through her memories.

"No, madam, I think not. Please do not forget, we are wizards here. Unlike what the weaklings out there would like to tell you, there are, in fact, no limits to what we can achieve when we set our hearts on something. Increasing our auror numbers , for example, is simply a matter of time and effort. Through extensive use of mind magic during the training, calling up some of the noble vassals as additional forces, it's all doable, I should say."

"Well, your grace, I suppose only time will tell." The reporter said.

"You are correct in that, Ma'am." Harry said, with a twinkling smile.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Okay, latest status?"

"Rannoch reports that their preparations are well underway, sir. They have over five hundred thousand warriors preparing for war and several thousand more devising the battle strategy for it."

Morrigan nodded. "What about the money? How much have we gathered in the war chest by now?"

"Nearly three hundred million galleons, sir. All of the families have paid up their share, although some of the businesses are causing problems."

"Schedule a meeting with them. I'll take care of it."

"Yes, sir," the assistant answered, a young man and a distant relative of Morrigan, answered.

"Give me an update on our defenses."

"Sir, in the last six hours there were seven overall attacks. In four of them our enemies were successful, taking out over twenty million galleons worth of potion ingredients from our secure storage warehouses. The other three attacks were repelled, but it cost us several of our best men."

"Damn. That makes it…"

"The thirtieth surge of attacks in the last two weeks, sir."

The nobleman nodded slowly at that, a grim expression on his face. That they were losing this war he had absolutely no doubt of, given as they'd been losing it from the moment it began. The other side was far too well prepared with far too many resources to throw into the whole matter. But what other option did he have? Submission would mean death for him and disgrace for his whole family. It would also be a terrible insult to all those who had died in the initial attack.

So he fought. The alliance with Bones had done a lot to help them, putting the whole of the DMLE at his and his peoples' disposal. It'd also done wonders in preventing any further assassinations, foiling over a dozen attacks in quick succession.

Of course, that had only turned the enemy's focus to their resources and supplies, leading to the current situation.

"What's the status in Washington?"

"All the arrangements have been made with the Americans, sir, for you and your entire family. Untraceable portkeys to the safe house are being prepared as we speak."

"They were happy, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir. A family of eminence like yours, they were very happy"

Morrigan nodded. It was only a backup plan, so that they had somewhere to go to in the event it all went to hell. It would also mean the wholesale slaughter of all their allies and vassals, of course, with the lack of people to supplement and hold up the wards, but that was an acceptable loss.

"Okay, so what about…"

XXXXXXXXXXXX

"How are you, headmaster?" the redhead asked, looking 'Dumbledore' in the face.

Harry answered. "Well enough, William, well enough."

He looked around, at the collection of people present here, and scoffed internally. It was a purely mechanical thing, of course, given as he was in full on 'emotionless' mode, but still.

There was Alastor Moody, another meat puppet of his, sitting with Kingsley Shacklebolt, who most certainly was not. Sitting a bit further down the table was Arthur Weasley, along with his wife. Right across from them was Dedalus Diggle, chatting up Elphias Doge, while Hestia Jones shook her head lightly at them.

Much closer to him was Minerva McGonagall, a full-time member of the order ever since departing Hogwarts under an elephant-sized cloud. Just next to her was Podmore, followed further down the line by several other farm animals just like them.

So, these were the much vaunted 'Active' Dumbledoreans, the latest incarnation of Godric Gryffindor's 'Magnificent Order of the Glorious Phoenix.' He had to say, they were honestly rather pathetic. This secret society was one of the oldest in the world, reaching right back to the death of Arthur Pendragon, when the previously mentioned founder had organized his followers and supporters into a singular group, as part of his efforts to carry out the dead king's last order, to combat the worst of the families that'd been trying to plunge the country back into endless civil war.

Of course, a thousand years down the line, that wasn't how the group saw itself anymore. They saw themselves as fighters of 'good' over 'evil,' glorious champions of the light who were the last line of defense between the evil, evil Dark wizards and the innocent, innocent public. Harry allowed his mind to wander, wondering about how people could be so stupid. It was a pretty simple distinction to make, certainly, to equate light and dark with good and evil. So simple, and rather tempting at that.

That didn't make it any less fucking stupid. Honestly, separating the ideas wasn't that hard, as there was one hell of a divide already present. After all, Chaos and Order existed. Light and Dark existed too, to however tiny a degree. Good and evil, however, did not. Was that so hard to understand?

Harry continued to look around even as his mind wandered, eventually coming to rest on the magnificent creature perched atop a floating cylindrical piece of wood a few feet to the right of him.

Okay, he had to admit, the man was an utter moron at several points, but as far as the whole thing with the bird was concerned, it'd been a masterstroke of genius.

See, Fawkes the phoenix had a pretty interesting history. Completely contrary to what most of Britain had been spoon-fed into believing, the phoenix was not and had never been Dumbledore's familiar. Nor, as some of the more stupid among his detractors tended to believe, had he tracked down its first ash and eggshell and used them to bind it to himself in some kind of dark slavery.

Well, actually the latter was somewhat closer to the truth, but it hadn't been Dumbledore who'd done it. Truth was, the Gryffindor family had once possessed a vast, vast avian army of phoenixes. It was this army that had played a vital role in Ajihad Gryffindor's blaze through Europe.

But, well, a good few had ended up dead, as tended to happen in wars (there were ways), but most had survived. Fast forward a few centuries and they were sleeping tight in their containment orbs, not to mention a huge quantity of eggs.

Due to the precious and rare nature of this stock, very, very few were granted access to it, limited only to the Duke of Gryphonsworth.

Till the young heir struck up a friendship, of course. Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin had been the closest of mates, thick as thieves, and this transitioned well into their later years, when they both became Lords of their respective families.

At that point their friendship translated into a proper alliance and it didn't take much from there till both had the run of each other's houses.

Then, of course, the legendary feud occurred, and this was where things went wrong. History said that Salazar had died in Hogwarts.

History was wrong.

It doesn't take much imagination to guess what happened then. Chased away from Hogwarts, bitter, hurting, angry, the Lord of Serpents had snuck into the Eyrie and wreaked untold havoc. It'd been here that Godric had found him, laughing over the butchered remains of his enemy's most powerful weapons.

Well, he'd died rather painfully and slowly after that, the only remnant remaining in the portrait in the Chamber, and that was that.

As things stood, the first headmaster of Hogwarts had just one last phoenix egg remaining. And, being the narrow minded bigot that he was, he steadfastly refused to summon more of the firebirds from the summer realms. Not that he had the talent, of course.

So… the egg hatched, the bird was bound from the start, and Hogwarts gained two extraordinarily powerful creature guardians, both completely unaware of the other.

Now the bindings that bound the bird were incredibly strong, but there was some measure of latitude. The bird was bound to protect the school, just as the basilisk did, but it didn't have to debase itself by associating with the plebian headmasters that came and went over the centuries.

That was another misconception about phoenixes, that they were 'light' and 'good' birds, and made themselves familiars to the 'lightest' of wizards with only the 'purest' of souls. Bullshit. Utter fucking bullshit.

It was power, and purely power, that they were attracted to, plain and simple. So Fawkes appeared to only the most powerful of Hogwarts' headmasters, and allowed them to make use of its vast powers as they saw fit.

That was how it'd gone with Dumbledore, but it was a credit to the man that he'd somehow managed to pass the whole arrangement off as Fawkes being his own familiar, and indeed, bound it to the other thing he'd come across from Godric, the long-defunct society that was the Order of the Phoenix (so he'd made the name a bit more decent. That wasn't a crime, was it?).

Well, until he'd been dropped unceremoniously into the deepest depths of Tartarus to suffer for all eternity, and the phoenix, tossing him aside like a used feather, had happily accepted Harry as its new human.

Which brought the whole matter back to the present.

Harry had reactivated them under his Dumbledore guise, mainly so that he could have all of the Dumbledoreans where he could see them, in one place. And boy, there were a lot of these bastards.

Ministry officials, Wizengamot members, businessmen, scholars, the whole collection was rather impressive in its diversity.

Well, the full Dumbledorean faction was impressive, politically and socially. These, 'active' ones, who were supposed to serve as a militia of sorts… were not.

Of course, Harry was now in charge. So that would change right quick.

Speaking of which…

"So, Albus, going to tell them, or should I?" 'Moody' asked.

"Please, Alastor, let me." Harry-as-Dumbledore said, in the usual gentle tones of the old man, always the kindly grandfather full of sage wisdom to dole out to the unwashed masses.

"As everyone in this room is aware, Lord Voldemort-" he directed the Dumbledore patented disappointed look at the worst flinchers- "has returned. He has reassembled his Dark Order once again. The last few weeks have already seen dozens of innocents dead. I have brought us here in this place, so that we could make our own contributions towards stopping him, as we did in the last war." The statement caused several nods in the mass of people around the table, not to mention several sounds of 'hear, hear.'

He continued. "And for that purpose, I am glad to announce that there are quite a few new members joining us today."

LATER

July the 18th, 1995
Gallard Estate

The Marauder kit was a nice enough set, a small, coinbag-like pouch with a prominent 'M' emblazoned on whatever side the owner happened to be looking at at the time. Opening it, there was a wand, an all-book tied to the Marauder library, a key to get into the various rooms that only they could access, and a few other bits and bobs.

And that was just the beginner kit, William Gallard, pureblood, son and heir of Sir Charles Gallard, multi-millionaire, Warlock of the Wizengamot and Chairman of Gallard Investments, thought. He still had trouble believing just how much the school had changed, even though the whole thing, start to finish, was right in front of him.

Just a few months ago, he'd been an excessively talented fourth year, outscoring everyone around by a mile and a half, and, more to the point, being utterly, ridiculously bored while doing it. Now he was a seventh year, about to graduate as soon as school reopened in a month, and he couldn't have been more grateful to the one who had made it all possible.

Speaking of whom, William decided to take yet another look at the letter.

It had arrived three days ago, along with another one meant for his parents. As William opened it, he looked closely at the piece of hardened parchment inside.

It was written in a stylized roman script, shining a rich gold upon a deep purple parchment. It read:

To the Rt. Hon. William Gallard

You are cordially invited to the birthday celebrations of my nephew, His Grace, Duke Henry of Gryphonsworth and Parsellsia, at 5ive o'clock, on the thirty-first of July, at Blackwater Hall, Blackpool.

You are requested to respond to this invite at your earliest convenience, by any means of your choosing.

Yours,
Erebus Sharr
Duke of Shacklegrave

William smiled at the ridiculous level of formality on display, well aware of the reasons. It was a virtual copy of the one his illustrious father had received, sent to be a subtle insult to the man. William may have been offended, were he another, but as things were…

That was what the old bastard deserved, anyway. The last time he'd looked straight at William was before he'd even come to Hogwarts, at the ceremony where William had been officially designated his heir. If he was going to spend all his time with his 'business' friends anyway, then let him be told that he wasn't needed at all.

Gallard twitched his wrist to make his wand jump into his hand. He moved it over the letter, saying the Marauders' universal password "I solemnly swear…"

Sure enough, the ink faded away on the letter, before new writing emerged.

Hey Billy!

Glad that you're seeing this. Anyway, the 31st, seven o' clock, Grimmauld Place. Get there, and let us teach you what partying really means.

Ok Bye!
Harry

XXXXXXXXXXX

"Sir, there is another piece of news."

"Oh, is there? Well, hit me with it, it can't be worse than everything else that's been going on." Harry half-groaned, despite his iron clad control over his emotions.

"Very well, sir. Patching through to the station."

Harry looked at the screen, recognizing the signal as coming from the Istanbul station. If he was right (and he always was), the person in-charge of that particular station was a Sharr vassal named Randolph Karstar.

Sure enough, the old-ish man's face soon filled the screen.

"So, Mr. Karstar, what tidings of doom and gloom do you bring me today?" Harry asked morosely (well, he was acting morose).

The man looked more than a bit hesitant to begin speaking.

"Well, sir, I should point out that this is only a preliminary report, and that the situation may very well change-"

"I do not appreciate being handled with kid gloves, Mr. Karstar, and neither do I appreciate being made to wait." Harry snapped.

"Well, sir, it seems that the 'Desert Walk' contingency is now in effect."

Harry stilled. No, no, no. This couldn't be happening. Desert Walk?! Fucking really?

"How trustworthy is the source?"

"Pretty trustworthy, sir. It's one of the autos that we sneaked in last week.

Which of course, meant that…

Great. Abso-Fucking-lutely brilliant. That was exactly what he needed, after everything he'd done to destabilize Persia.

Harry disconnected the call after a few more words to the man, settling down, trying to come to terms with everything that had been reported in the last six hours.

First, those thirteen blood pits activating throughout the Aztec Empire, reopening access to the locals so that they could do their ancient sacrificial rituals, and create… well, he'd managed to get those contaminated, so that was no matter.

But then there was the Rinnegan brat to be born to the Princess of Whirlpool, and those Archangel Vessels-come-Monks in the Vatican, and then of course, there was the Chandravanshi Empire.

Harry figured that those enemies were going to be absolute hell to deal with when the time came and with good reason.

He remembered the original tale. The princess who had served the sage so well, so thoroughly, that he had granted her the boon of a spell that would allow her to summon gods, and get them to father a child with her. She'd done that six times, and each of the demigods she'd birthed had helped reshape the continent in the war that had come pretty soon after.

The trouble was that the spell had remained in the hands of those princesses, passed along to daughter after daughter.

Again and again they'd used it over the millenia, making regular additions of divinity to their Royal Bloodline, a practice that made the family the single most powerful in the world, for a long time. It'd been only with the rise of Greece and the plethora of Greek demigods that resulted, that their power had been wrenched from them and the spell itself lost to time.

Until a week ago, when Sutras detailing it had blazed to life on the right arms of seven different princesses in the form of their Mehndi. Of course, this being the work of the divine, they were all scattered across the subcontinent, and by now under enough wards to give even the Master of Death pause (Harry had tried).

And if that wasn't bad enough, all of that paled in comparison to Persia.

Harry had well known that knocking Osman off would have consequences, some of which he wouldn't be able to foresee or predict, he'd known that always. That was why he'd arranged the explosion so that most of the man's family got vaporized right along with him.

How had he been supposed to know that the last one of them, Faisal, would be mad enough to, well, to do this?

Harry knew the details of the Desert Walk contingency. He'd written it, after all. And that made the whole thing that much more real.

Harry considered the whole thing. Well, the whole thing, which could be distilled down to pretty much just a single name.

Ahriman. Yes, that was the name. Ahriman, God of the Shadows, Malice, Madness and Power, and of Destruction and Disease and Curses and Misfortune. He was the Sin of the world, the heart of all Madness and Darkness. Well… most of it, anyway.

Once that entity had known a different name, that of Angara Mainyu, eternal adversary of Ahura Mazda. Now it was… what it was.

Angara Mainyu had once known unimaginable power, thriving from everything his descendants did to establish their Empire. Those had been different days, several ages ago, before the age of the Vedas, even.

But then, as time passed and the Persians of the time fell from power, he was reduced to a much weakened form, that of Ahriman. He'd struggled, trying to survive, almost failing, reduced to nearly a specter, till an avenue of survival opened before him, that of the Royal Family. Since then he'd granted his power to any prince whom he deemed worthy, and that ensured that he remained remembered, and so, extant.

But then, there was a prince of a wholly different breed than those before, the Thunderborn called Dastan.

He fought the god, and bound him, away from the realm.

And that was okay, really. But then the descendants of the royal line said that Dastan was stupid for doing what he did, and then did what obnoxious descendants do so well when they're utterly convinced that their ancestors knew jack shit and none of them could match the intelligence of the current generation.

Ever since his second rise, where the magics held enough to bind him to a pool in the middle of the desert, he'd been at work, steadily gaining more power as the ages passed.

Meanwhile, a ritual developed in Persia. Once the Emperor was dead, the crown prince would be anointed in the most magical and divine scents and oils, fed potions and having spells cast on them, before they were pushed off into the unyielding sands.

There they stumbled and wandered, suffering untold cruelties and disasters, till, if they were worthy, they came upon a cave, one occupied by soulless, black-eyed things.

There the priests of Ahriman would treat him, feed him the flesh of those of his predecessors who had failed, further prepare him, and then dunk him into the pool.

Again, those who were unworthy, they remained down, taken into the Black Deity's eternally hungry maw. But those whom it did deem worthy…

There were stripped, cleansed of everything that made them the men that they had been. Each and every one of the chosen princes emerged glamorous, smooth, full of the dark and alien power of the Old God.

They were reborn as gods, Avatars of Ahriman in the human realm.

Eventually, of course, even this practice was discontinued for one reason or the other, but now…

The new prince was going to do it, and Harry had absolutely no doubt as to whether he would be accepted or not. At any other time there might be doubt, but not right now.

Harry knew why this was happening, of course. It was due to him. He had assembled too much near-divine power unto himself, having assumed the Mantles of all the Death Gods, ever. So this was just balance being restored.

But hell if this didn't make everything so, so much more complicated.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Okay… I'm sorry for saying that the chapter would have 22k words. Turns out I ran dry right here.

So… make sure you look this over again in a week or so, 'cause Joe'll probably have done his shtick by then.

Edit 22/06/14(Indian): No, he didn't, the lazy sloth. Anyway, it's done now.

Ciao

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