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.

25. Chapter 25

Edit: 20/1/2015: I apologize to everyone who is reading this and getting disappointed that it's not a new chapter. But I needed to get this out there. So again, sorry. This story is undergoing some problems, and it will be an obscenely long time until the next update. For details, go to the bottom of this page.

Okay! Here we are, with a very, very veeeery late and as-of-yet un-beta-ed chapter (I've sent off a copy to Joe, but I honestly couldn't delay the chapter for even a moment after completing it, so you'll have to endure my raw scribbling for now.)

Now buckle up, because as late as this chapter is, it's also very unsatisfactory, for me at least. And I intend to explain it in detail, so if you're the kind of reader I am, that is, uncaring of the author's self-indulgent whining, you might want to skip to the non-bolded bits about infinity-and-a-half down the page. That's where the story begins.

Now the explanation. See, there are a whole lot of important things that happen in this chapter, such as the shadow war ending, Harry being shown actively working on enhancing his international influence, the birthday party, the whole nevernever scene, and all.

The reason why this took so long, is that I kept trying to perfect it. I'd write a scene, spend hours on it really, develop it all for thousands of words, and then, in one second, select it all, hit delete, and then ctrl+s. All because I felt it could be done better, that it could 'flow' better when I tried again. This went on to ridiculous degrees, until I'd almost lost the drive to write altogether. It was only a week or two ago that thanks to mmayank, and the anonymous guy who keeps praising me till I blush, and one or two other people, that I got it back.

So there I was, with one of the most important chapters of the story in my head, and not having any luck trying to force it down my fingertips. Joe chipped in when I asked him for help and advice, about orgies and stuff, but it was still too much.

So I cut corners. I scrapped pages worth of dialog, where I'd been focusing on 'showing' and instead 'told' it all, to the point where the whole goblin thingy is dealt with in about a thousand chapters. And then I went ahead and scrapped all the pathetic excuses of lemons that I'd put in, and just shored up the resulting holes with cursory effort. It was all very bad.

And therefore here we are. Large sections of this chapter are rushed, have context missing, are ill-developed, and worst of all, have almost no world-building. Hell, I had three thousand words of goblin society description that I cut out.

But all in all, I DON'T CARE! 26 will be a good one, and will be out inside of this year, and that's all I have to say on the matter.

And one last thing. Remember, the Harry of this story is not a nice person. He is not the hero. He does not save kittens and create rainbows. He is the PROTAGONIST. Not the HERO.

He is a cold-blooded, power hungry sociopath with an IQ of over 500 and more magical power than any thousand other wizards put together. Just… remember that when you read the story. That way you should avoid experiencing too much outrage.

"Duke! Your grace!" the voice of the Deputy HS, China, came.

Harry sighed. Of course, China, or 'The Celestial Empire' as they called themselves, was among the only places left where he hadn't yet encountered divine interference. A state of affairs that was about to change, by the looks of it.

"Yes, Officer? The reason for you forgetting all your training, all your decorum, and acting like an overexcited schoolgirl, is?"

Harry waited as the man visibly composed himself, before the words came, much slower and calmer. "Sir… I regret to inform you that 'Critic-6' has just gone into effect."

Well…fuck.

"Confirm."

"Confirming… Critic-6, Critic-9 and Emer-4 are all in effect, sir."

"Acknowledged. Continue normal operations till further notice. Duke out." Harry finished, severing the connection.

With the faraway man left to stare at his screen, Harry let his head fall gently in his palm.

Critical Situation number 6… there was a Dragon Warrior once more. Likely possibilities… Tai-Lung, Jek-Long or Wei-Fun-Jin. There could be others, but these were the three most powerful Arch-possible Grand-mage-level fighters in the realm.

There wasn't much that could be said or done till they had more information, but Harry personally considered the were-tiger as the most likely candidate. Funny thing, given as the other, Jek-Long, actually was a dragon shapeshifter, but that was how such things tended to be. Of course, the Dragon Warrior's return was only one of the problems. Mind-bogglingly powerful as that Mantle was, it was nothing in comparison to that of the Thunderborn.

On the other hand, Critic-9, the re-empowerment of the Imperial Mandala was not a minor situation. For the last several centuries, ever since they used them against the Tibetans, actually, the Occult magic of the destroyed Lamas had defied all attempts to be dispelled, keeping the esoteric constructs more-or-less useless to their owners.

No more, apparently.

In the face of all that, the Emergency situation #4 was barely even worth considering.

The Shaolin Order of China (not to be confused with the twin Xiaolin orders operating in whirlpool) had once been a terrifying force, controlling over fifty separate temples, and hundreds, if not thousands, of monks.

The temples were not just training centers, obviously, as each was dedicated to certain styles, but more importantly, certain gods (the hint was right in the name. Temples.) But then the Khans had come with their Golden Horde, taken over, and gone to work doing what Mongols did, generally.

Well, that story was rather bloody and brutal, but long story short, the Xiaung managed to secure their freedom, kicking the Khan dynasty out. In the process, though, most of the temples were devastated, reduced to worthless ruin.

Till now, that was.

If the news wasn't wrong, and none of Harry's agents could lie to him, thirty-six of the oldest and most powerful temples were now active with all their enchantments, ready to churn out mighty and terrible warriors blessed with the unique powers of their respective gods and animal styles.

So… things had just gotten even worse.

Harry rose from his seat, walking a few steps, before apparating soundlessly.

He appeared in a very special room, one that was among his finest achievements. Settling comfortably on the circular table that dominated it, Harry flared his power, sealing the room completely and truly, in every sense possible. Hexes and curses were now actively running through the walls, lancing through the whole structure, encasing it in a mass of metal and magic, a web of raw power that would allow nothing at all to pass, mortal or divine.

He settled on his seat, looking around the table for a moment, before the decision he'd just made was confirmed as the most prudent.

He had to gather the council.

Harry raised his right hand, focusing at the ring he wore on his index finger. It was mostly a prop nowadays, really, with him having absorbed all of the power. But the stone was still enough of an aid that he kept it on.

"Sun Tzu." He spoke, touching the stone with his right hand.

As the shade appeared in a burst of magic, Harry looked at him for a second, gesturing for him to sit, before he spoke the next name. "Niccolo Machiavelli".

As the Italian materialized, Harry sent a glance his way, telling him, too, to sit down. While Machiavelli acquiesced, Harry continued "Francis Walsingham." He summoned, which was followed by a "sit down, secretary" as the man started to bow.

Chanakya was next, before Tsao Tsao, and then Erwin Rommel, who was himself followed by Agrippa, and then Cyrus the Great, himself followed by Ashoka, as Harry gathered his collection of history's sharpest, most cunning and most ruthless men and women, who had been advising him ever since he bound them for the first time.

Once the last of them, the near mythical figure Shakuni, was around him, Harry released a burst of magic, dispersing the relevant memories in streams of thought-essence.

He gave them several moments to digest the information, and then called for their input.

"Well?" he asked, his tone polite but impatient.

"You are, as your people say, in quite a pickle, aren't you?"

It was the Italian, who cleared his throat at this. "Ah, yes, Dominus. As far as I can see, this is the same problem that you talked with us about, only magnified several times over, yes?"

Harry nodded, already starting to surmise what the man was going to say. "Yes. I realized this disadvantage early on, that aside from my proto-divinity, there is no true pantheon on our side. The Roman-Greek have their own worshippers, and in any case we abandoned them."

"Never mind that that has always been the way of things in the fullness of time," the bald Brahmin, Chanakya, spoke sagely from where he sat.

"Yes, never mind that. In any case, the lack of celestial aid on our side is not as much the issue, as is its presence on the enemies' side."

"Agreed," they all said in unison, even Tzu.

"Well then, gentlemen. This is what I intend to do. In short order, the Persians are going to discover evidence that will not just exonerate Althric from any part in the recent explosion that decimated their royalty, but will also point in a direction that, after several suitably complex web of proxies and false trails, will nevertheless lead fairly simply to the Xiaung as the perpetrators. At the same time, a number of Suryavanshi princes are going to make attempts to murder five of the recently blessed Chandravanshi princesses. They will be caught in the act and killed, of course, and will be found to have been acting directly under the auspices of Meluha."

Moving slightly in his seat, Harry looked his advisors in the eyes, analyzing and judging them. He found exactly what he wanted, a total lack of loyalty to their homelands, before continuing, "Finally, I intend to issue orders for the Horde units to be moved en masse, in preparation for a direct attack on Vatican City, which will be made via sea and air from Spain, once we have the country firmly under control. This will be in aid to the Vampire Host moving in from the north of that country, along with the Giants, Veela and Roma on a blood march, also aimed at the Vatican. Now, please, present your arguments."

Machaivelli was the first, "Attack the Vatican? Are you… sure, milord?"

"Yes, Niccolo. I am. We take the Vatican, all of the Christian artifacts therein, all of the priests and the power, and thus we cut Yahweh off at the knees. Let his angels descend without mortal vessels, and let us see how long it is before they starve, once we cut them off from their leylines."

It took some time, as the cold, calculating minds around the table mulled it over, but in the end a series of nodding heads went around, allowing Harry to call for their opinions and suggested refinements to the overall plan. After all, there were days' worth of concerns to be sorted through, detailed arrangements to be made, and further extrapolations and contingencies developed based on the data the network had managed to further glean.

And that was without accounting for the real purpose of this council. After all, these people weren't number crunchers. These were men and women of vision, and right now, Harry needed that vision to help decide upon on the best possible course of action and how to execute it.

As it happened, Harry ended up summoning several more people, people who knew important things about the countries and clans in question. They had to be interrogated, and in many cases, be 'relieved' of their memories.

It wasn't an easy thing, even with his control over death, to be honest. The touch of a god tended to act as insulation, protecting souls from him, and that greatly limited the options Harry had. Oh, he could break that protection, sure. But doing so would arouse the interest and attention of the gods in question, and that even he couldn't afford just yet. It was why he hadn't eliminated every single enemy of his with his phenomenal powers, after all.

To understand Harry's situation… well, it was like a child having a war wand, or a muggle kid having a gun. The kid had comparatively limitless power over his peers, but actually using that power would call down the kind of attention that would destroy his life. The kid had to fear the all-powerful entities called 'adults,' and similarly Harry had to, well, be wary of the gods (as he was biologically incapable of fear).

But just like the adults in this example, gods tended to be phenomenally lazy, and far too full of themselves to ever bother with observing, or even loosely keeping track of 'insignificant little things' like Harry, unless provoked severely. So therefore, he had a decent amount of latitude in what he could do. It took him an average of three times longer to accomplish what he needed without attracting divine attention, but soon enough he had high-level mages and historians from all the threatening cultures and nations, all explaining just what they were facing.

All in all, Harry had expected at least a ten hour planning and strategy session, even with the thought-speed communications that they were capable of.

It turned out to be roughly twenty-three hours start to finish, without so much as a minute's worth of a break in that whole time.

A good thing no one here had any mortal concerns like eating or drinking, or felt things like fatigue.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

31 July, 1995
Casa De Sharr

"Presenting His Royal Highness, Prince Leteos Olenos, Third Marshal of the Hellenic League, Crown Prince of Argos!" the announcer proclaimed to the hall of full of people.

The prince was a young man barely out of his teens, and frankly, much too young to be 3IC of one of the most powerful armies in Europe. But then, age had never been a very big concern in magical high society.

"Hello, your highness, how are you?" Harry asked his guest, with a polite nod.

"Perfectly well, duke. Many congratulations for the occasion. My father sends his regrets at being unable to attend, along with his best wishes." The royal replied, his English flawless.

Smiling, Harry received the elaborately wrapped present the prince presented to him, and then the other, this one from the King. After all, the prince was a personal friend. Extending his hand, he handed both gifts to the shadow that stepped out of thin air to take it, before disappearing again.

After chatting a little with the prince, he deposited the man with a prominent African Shaman-Lord, beginning the circuit back to the main entrance where the next dignitary was being announced to the room. He ruminated for a moment that mere months ago he would have loathed such events, with their stiff formality and equally fake wishes, but, well, that'd been a different Harry Potter.

Now… he reveled in it. The subtle insults, the quiet undercutting and ever-present competition and gamesmanship, the showing off and sniffing and acting disdainful towards things; it provided endless entertainment to his increasingly disillusioned mind.

Harry paused in his inner monologue for a few minutes, just long enough to receive his next guest, a truly stunning brunette by the name of Leila al-khalifa. He allowed himself a smile when she bowed in a way that showed off just what assets she was here to present him with, and was therefore just a tad too forceful to be polite when he grasped her arm to lead her off to where a gaggle of Russian noble girls were giggling.

Judging by the way her pulse quickened, she didn't exactly mind, anyway.

Leaving her in their tender 'care,' he headed to where the daughter of the Duke of Swabia was entering, figuring that as the high princess of the Sultanate of Uzbekistan, she could easily handle herself in a 'womanly wiles death match.'

While a portion of his mind was occupied with his conversation with the German noble, Harry figured that as far as birthday parties went, this wasn't bad at all. Just about every invitee had attended, and none had done so empty handed. Hey, he liked gifts. So sue him!

Glancing briefly to the side, he could see his 'uncles' entertaining the older guests. He shuddered a bit at that, and specifically at the memories of having done that before using the time turner to be here. The old women, oh magic the old women and their clothes…

Anyway… here he was. The hall was decorated with velvet curtains and silk carpets and gem-studded chandeliers. The millennia old wine was flowing like water, the foods were being inhaled, and everyone below thirty years of age was having a torturous time by their standards.

But not everyone regarded human interaction as torturous, he reckoned.

Of course, another point of interest was the cocktail of drugs and poisons in the air, the wine and the food, along with the copious amounts of spells and enchantments covering every bit of the whole building, seeking to grasp and manipulate everyone and everything, but all of those had been countered pretty decently by the assembled guests.

After all, as said before, that was as much part of the accepted tradition for a party of this nature as the wine or the dancing.

Speaking of traditions… Harry saw the first of the old people make the movements that preceded departure.

Good, good. Once the last of them was gone, the usual procedure would follow. Everyone would dance, drink more and more, until much, much later, after absolutely everyone was utterly shitfaced, the 'fun' bits would begin.

Much, much later

No one noticed exactly when it was that the magic of the building changed.

No one cared.

Earlier, during the formal party, the music had been there, but at a very low volume, barely noticeable. It'd been mermish music, played through globes of water hanging in the air, just permeating the air enough to be pleasant background noise.

Now, well, the songs were blaring, but, again, no one cared.

After all, there were better things to care about.

"Six aces. And I raise. Three hundred thousand."

Harry raised an eyebrow. The speaker was a tall, black-skinned man, dressed in the finest Nundu-skin robes and possessing a breadth of shoulder that combined magnificently with his regal facial features, to make him look like an African prince.

He supposed that fit rather well, since he actually was an African prince.

"You sure, Iggy?"

"Yes, I'm sure, and for the last time, my name is not Iggy! I am Prince Ignosi Kukuana!"

"Yes, yes, I know. I'm just joking." Harry said, a tad apologetically.

The man relented, "I know, too. It's just… well, I don't like it, so don't say it."

"Sure I won't, your highness…Prince Iggy." Harry finished, mischief positively pouring from the tone of his words.

"Oh, very mature," was all the response he got, along with a roll of the eyes.

"Anyway, I match. Four aces." Harry continued, tossing three rectangular cards of black ivory onto the pile. At the same time he also put four cards, face down to the smaller cushion in front of him, from where they disappeared, and then reappeared, on the stack a few feet away.

"I call too, and ten aces." The girl sitting next to him said, before taking a long drag on the cigarette in her hand.

At this point a bit of description is merited. The game was Bluff and its rules were fairly simple. The main unusual element in it was that unlike virtually all other card games, this one could be played with any number of decks. How it was played was that the cards, however many there might be, were divided equally between all players. Then everyone looked for the Ace of Spades in their own cards. Whoever found one first (multiple decks obviously meaning multiple aces of spades), had the first turn. They could play any number of cards they felt like, declaring them to be of one particular rank. The suits didn't matter, only the rank.

This was the 'claim,' and the player was required to back it with any monetary value of their choosing, which was the 'stake.' The player whose turn came next could either 'match,' putting in the same stake along with cards of his own that were purportedly from the same rank, or they could 'raise,' increasing the stake while still putting in cards that they 'claimed' were of the same rank.

The third option was the turn-ender, in which the player could match the stake, and then 'call' the bluff, asking the player to show their cards. If the call failed, that is, if the cards were of the rank claimed, the player added them to his own hand, while forfeiting his or her stake. The turn, once again, went to the original player who'd just won the stake. If the call was successful, and even one of the cards was of a different rank that what had been previously claimed, the original player picked up the cards, and the pot went to the player calling the bluff.

This was the basic gameplay, repeated as many times as the number of players. Any player could 'call' the bluff of the player previous to them in the chain, and claim the pot collected till then, while forcing the bluffer to add the cards of that turn to their own stack, or, as it happened, be the reason why it went to him/her, while they picked up the cards.

One last option was to 'pass,' and not add any stake or cards. If all the players 'passed,' then the victory of the turn, along with the pot, went to the last one to play a card.

There were somewhere between twenty-five to thirty players currently, lying about on the cushions arranged in a loose circle, the center of which was an immense pile of stakes (gambling stakes. Not wooden ones. Although nothing was stopping people from putting those in as well, as long as they had accepted value of any kind, magical or monetary or historical, whatever). Right next to the stakes was the collected pile of the turn, into which the cards were being added.

Speaking of the players, they were a rather interesting group of characters. Sitting at the head was the man of the hour himself, the birthday boy, Harry Potter, arguably the most influential man below the age of sixteen in the whole world. At his right was the newest star of the British wizengamot, young Neville Longbottom, while on the left was the debonair young William Gallard, while further down was a seriously drunk King of Bulgaria.

Right across from Harry was the aforementioned African prince, while sitting next to him was an olive-skinned young Arab called Ahmed al-khalifa, Prince of Uzbekistan. Directly opposite Neville was Vikrant Patil, future brother-in-law to Harry and also future King of Magical Maharashtra, sitting next to fellow Indian Prashant Thakur, already Maharaja of Bihar.

Also playing was Katarina Grendel, daughter of Dieter Grendel of Grendel Mining, Potioneering and Finance, recognized by Tempus magazine as the wealthiest heiress in all of Europe. Then there was also Rustam Hussain, another Arab and protégé of Ali Bashir. Rustam was another monarch already in power, being the sitting Nawab of Baghdad.

Sitting on the right of the Nawab were Olivia and James Crowley, both Heirs of Crowley Holdings, the company that, it was often said, owned half of America, and the good half at that. Right now they were trying to peek at the cards of one Tayuya Liang, daughter of Zhuge Liang the second, King of Wei. She was right now halfway on the road to piss-drunk, and trying rather desperately to put the moves on the blond, blue-eyed Russian next to her, one Dmitri Ulyanich Strassinov the third, Grand Duke of Moscow and personal friend of Tsar Vladislav VII.

All in all, accounting for those both named above and those not, these were members of the ultimate 'cool kid' club of the world, and between them, they controlled more wealth, power and influence than several sovereign countries put together.

And that was just the humans.

Leaning catlike on her cushion, sipping enriched blood from a long crystal flute, was the vampire Princess herself, Sonja Corvinus, daughter of Viktor I, (self-styled)Emperor of the Austro-Hungarian Magical Empire, High Lord of the Corvinus clan of vampires. Older by several centuries she might be to the others here, full voting member of the Ruling Council of the Corvinus clan she might have been, Supreme Commander of the Death Dealers she might be, but by no means was she any more mature than anyone else around here.

Or so, at least, it appeared.

Among the reasons for that appearance was, unfortunately, the way she was smiling coquettishly at Harry, while simultaneously smirking at the repeated attempts of her neighbor to peek at both her cards and the magnificent cleavage she was exhibiting just behind them.

It was, truthfully, an impressive exercise of the facial muscles, but not the best diplomatic move.

That neighbor was the Naga Prince Vishank, Second lord of the Lamia, heir to the Imperial throne of the Island of Nagmani, to which every serpent in the world, except one, paid obeisance.

Said basilisk had long since noticed the not so hidden affections of the vampire, and already had plans underway, not just to bed her, but to deal with the problematic snake.

Next to every player were trays of sweetmeats, salted dry fruits, spiced nuggets of various kinds of rare and delectable meats, and all the usual snacks, along with great bottles and goblets of whisky, the very youngest of which were over a millennium old and iced with ice harvested directly from Himalayan glaciers, maintained for that exact purpose.

In short, it was a fairly typical example of aristocratic excess and decadence, complete with nubile and scantily dressed young maidens next to each player, even the girls, to feed them the snacks, light their various smoking implements, and to fill their glasses for them.

It would only get worse.

"Raise. Half a million." That was the beautiful vampire princess, speaking with a smoldering look aimed directly at Harry that almost had him tackling her then and there, but for the fact that he'd retained some occlumentic barriers in anticipation of going into 'business mode' some time from now. Otherwise he might just have taken her right on top of the money pile, audience be damned.

Magic knew no one would have even raised an eyebrow, here or in her father's courtroom when the news spread.

But no. Good things came to those who waited, and he intended to have more gains than just those of the body from this little gathering.

Speaking of which, Harry went over his thoughts, while keeping an eye on the game. Only when it was his turn did he review just who'd done what, and acted accordingly.

That was how he knew to laugh, when the German girl called the Arab's bluff, only to find that he had, in fact, truly played nineteen aces. To her credit, she didn't even frown at having just lost six million galleons, but, then, that was pocket change to everyone in this group.

Still, he stopped laughing quickly, both to appease her and because he was focusing on whispering the Arab's next move into his ear. Not literally, of course, as the Nawab would've quite possibly tried to kill him for it, but magically.

It wasn't all that hard to get the man to start a round of Kings, in the end, but then again, why should it have been? Harry had been manipulating this game from the very beginning, and by now even the slight kinks he'd had in his technique had been smoothed out.

After all, he hadn't arranged this game for enjoyment. Well, maybe a little, but mostly it was business. Or rather it would be business, when the stakes got more serious. Right now all anyone was betting was petty cash, and he just couldn't be bothered to win big on that, oh no. Not that he was losing, not by a long shot, but he wasn't winning by any attention grabbing amount.

That was how he intended it, of course. Right now he'd just work on enlarging his pile bit by bit, little by little, while most of the money was allowed to go as the game took it, with just a bit extra for Neville. It would be like this for the immediate future, the cash reserves of most of the players increasing and decreasing randomly, until everyone was: a) totally engrossed in the game, and b) piss drunk. Then he would ensure that the large pile drained away to some chosen players, so that they got overconfident, while the others got desperate.

Then, once the people who didn't have interesting things were enriched and the others were left empty-handed, the stakes would gradually start changing. Initially he anticipated boring things would be offered up as stakes, jewels, some land, some company shares, some women, the typical things. These, too, would pass to the uninteresting people, so that those who had the good things would then bring them to the table. Rare books, noble titles, good shares in vital companies, lands, weapons, these were the things that Harry wanted.

Not all of these would go to him, of course. The vast majority of even these things he expected to be lackluster by his lofty standards, or redundant, so they could go wherever the game took them. But some would be the choice bits. Some would be things that simply Could Not Be Had any other way.

Needless to say, he intended to have all of those.

And so it passed, as the hours passed, one after another, until it'd been three hours since the game began.

"Okay, the stake is one point two million galleons."

"12% shares in GMPF." The girl slurred, tossing the certificates on the pile.

"And?"

"And five fives."

"Twelve milliliters of Himalayan Halahal," the snake prince matched, before adding "Nine fives."

"Very well. I toss in a horn of summoning, with twelve hundred demons bound to it. And one five." Harry replied. He didn't need to, as he had more than enough chips, but then he'd been the one to suggest that they freeze the cash stakes as they were, and start dealing exclusively in items and services.

He looked at the American, whose turn it was next. She was a Mayan noble, holding some truly ridiculous amounts of land in North America, with some mines Harry was very interested in, along with a rather… spectacularly curvaceous body, which, as it glinted in the sweat and the oils he knew it'd been massaged with, Harry was also very interested in. He watched, as the young woman took a deep swig of whisky.

He allowed himself a rueful smile, as her lip piercing, an emerald the size of half a pomegranate seed, glowed under his third eye, purging the cocktail of potions and poisons from the scotch. Well, that was as expected. The way his magical sense informed him that a certain Slytherin family potion had not been purged was also as expected.

But when she said "I bet…myself," it was not as expected.

He could have cursed. While betting oneself into slavery was only too common for such events, this was not the right time for it to begin. The other players were not yet intoxicated to that degree! And she still had… oh bloody hell that look…

Still, gift horse… mouth… she didn't have brothers… her father and the locals practically worshipped Harry for getting rid of those Lethifolds…hell, all that was needed was to step the spells up a little. The counters each player were employing were excellent, but, well… hewas, in the end, Harry Potter.

Not that he'd get all the girls to bind themselves to him. Well, maybe a little.

"And…"

"And I call your bluff, your grace. No way you have any fives left."

"Well…" Harry trailed off, flipping the topmost card on the pile.

It was when the girl utterly failed to show any horror, or, for that matter, any surprise, at the five of diamonds that was revealed, that Harry realized just how desperate old lord Kazeuaclt must be. The girl had been ordered to bind herself.

Oh well, he couldn't expect to be the only one trying to conduct profitable business under the guise of gambling and fun, not in this group of cunning sharks. This was how these things were done, after all, and had been since time immemorial. To those who could manage it, high society gatherings like these tended to yield more profit than decades of negotiations and trades.

Still… the show, as they say, must go on.

"Okay… now a mil, and…eleven kings." Harry languidly spoke, before turning his gaze to the player next to the Mayan. Well… his Mayan now.

The player, a young man by the name of Prowling Wolf, fifth prince of the United Cheyenne-Sioux Kingdom, was by now badly drunk, and more importantly, had had his protective potions fail a while back. So Harry's finger puppet slurred out "pass," and the turn went to the German heiress.

She called it, and handed him his mix of twos and threes back. On the board above them, the counter added a million galleons to her winnings.

And so the game went on.

Of course, it was just one game, the fifth, to be exact. Once it ended, they shifted to Poker, before going on to its Indian version, Teen Patti, before splitting up for a while to play whist.

It was in the last, when magically enriched alcohol ruled their minds and Harry had won just about everything and everyone that he had intended to, that the fun parts began.

It started with the American tribal prince catching hold of the veela that was serving him his drink, before making a very specific sign, one that had her stripping totally bare in a record two seconds. Then Harry watched with an amused smile as, amid the catcalls and the hoots, the real fun of the party began.

Before long the games had been abandoned completely, and the stakes and stacks had been cleared away to make way for a huge, roaring fire, with the floor turning to the sand of the desert, which, strangely, did not stick, or cause itching, or do any of the annoying things normal sand does.

Then the professional belly dancers moved in, and no one cared anymore.

To make a long story short, there was much thrusting, much moaning and much screaming, and a merry, sticky and traditional time was had by all.

There were close calls, such as when Harry had let loose some of his aura and the whole thing had started becoming frenzied to the point of actual harm, but then Harry kicked all the male guests out into their own marquee with most of the serving girls and several of the belly dancers, and the whole female population left with him experienced an entirely different level of…ahem, 'adventure.'

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The London 'Alleys' Marketing Complex
A week later

"Are you sure this is safe, Julie? The attacks have gotten a lot worse, you know." The young woman called Augustine Montague said to the girl walking alongside her.

"Oh come on, 'Tine. Don't be such a wet blanket. Who knows, we might even see some action!" Julia Morrigan replied with a light gesture.

They were shopping in Fashionab Alley*, having already blown over a thousand galleons, and quite a bit into the second.

"It's called being cautious, Julie! I am certainly not a wet blanket!" Augustine Montague replied hotly. Honestly, she loved her friend to death, but she could be so… stupid, sometimes.

"Oh sure you aren't, 'Tine. Anyway, let's go in there, I heard they just got a new batch of shoes!" the other girl said brightly, pointing to a shop a few lots down the street, a behemoth of a building that completely dominated the whole alley, it's marble façade sparkling in the sunlight, while the windows shone with strange, rainbow tints.

It was a building she knew well. After all, her entire wardrobe had come from here, completely for free.

Just to reassure herself, she threw a glance at the seven-foot silver letters circling the building some 100 feet from the ground, forming the name 'Grand Althric Emporium' like the ultimate advertising merry-go-round.

"But that's an Althric shop, Julie. Your father told you to avoid them, remember."

At this, the Morrigan heiress' face twisted into an ugly look. "Yeah, well, I told him to avoid marrying that bitch. Didn't listen, did he? Brought her right into the manor and put her in the room next to mom's. I alone know how much she was hurt by that. But he's Lord Morrigan and he's got the right to marry however many women he wants." The girl's voice was ugly by the time she was done, with how much hatred she put into it.

Augustine quietly reached into her purse and dialed down the 'anger' bar on the emotional manipulator in there by a few notches. Her lord had told her that the girl was to be made to hate her father just as much as the old fool loved her, but The Duke had also told Operative Drywine that the process had to be very, very slow.

In any case, after increasing the 'trust' and 'naivety' bars by a few carefully chosen notches, she withdrew her hand, putting it on the girl's shoulder. "There, there, Julia. Don't think about that now. Let's just waste lots of his money."

Morrigan gave a grim smile at that. "Yeah. If he's Lord Morrigan then I'm also Heiress Morrigan. Let's go waste all his money!" she finished giddily.

It was then that the explosions began.

The shop front just ahead of them exploded with the force of what looked like a dozen reductors, transforming from pretty window to deadly shrapnel in a millionth of a second, some of it missing them by less than an inch.

*I know how awful the name is. Trust me, I do.

Montague looked around, bewildered. This hadn't been part of the plan. Had her lord betrayed her?

And then she saw them, a sight that made her face go the color of ash.

Death Eaters.

At least a dozen death eaters were sauntering their way out of the destroyed shop, brandishing wands in both hands, the tips glowing that familiar, dreadful green.

"Kill everyone you see! Let them all know the force of our lord's wrath!" the one that appeared to be the leader yelled at the others, before they all started to split up into groups of three.

Seeing one of the groups coming towards them, Augustine did as she had been trained. Her first spells were two disillusionments, one on herself and one on her friend. Those were followed by scent-masking, sound absorbing and Homenum Revelio blocking curses, all done in a scant few moments, while everyone around her was just beginning to panic.

Speaking of panic, Augustine let a stunner loose at the dead weight next to her, prissy little 'Heiress Morrigan' who'd gone totally blank already. Then she rushed them both into a nearby alleyway, cast a series of layered wards, and pulled out a phone.

Opening it, she realized what she'd already half-suspected. No signal. A mere few months ago these had been unblockable, but now, as they became commonplace, people had worked out ways to prevent their use.

Nonetheless, the company was better at anticipating and disabling those ways. Augustine tapped the phone with her wand, murmuring a few words as she did so. This particular piece of magic would make this the last usage of the device, but that last use could reach anyone, anywhere that wasn't shielded by Omega-grade wards.

While she waited for the call to connect, Augustine saw another twenty Death Eaters materialize into the ruins of the shop they'd just destroyed, these ones looking much more disciplined than the previous ones.

Sure enough, the terrorists didn't even come out of the building, before they started talking in low tones. She strained her ears, and could just hear "-action force is doing its work. We need to get to ours. You three, the cash exchange." She assumed he pointed at some of them, but daren't look. Anyway, the man continued talking. "The five of you, Althric. You, keep the exit open. And everyone else, split up."

Split up, why were they- "Find the girls. Remember, Morrigan's life is vital. Have as much fun as you want, but she mustn't die."

"What about the other one, Montague. I mean, if she's on our side…"

"For the last time, she's not. Actually, I want you to find her and kill her. Axtros Montague needs to be taught a lesson." The leader finished, before the lot of them marched out.

Her insides feeling like jelly, Augustine started to go back the few steps she'd crawled to hear all this. Halfway through, she almost jumped out of her skin when a voice came, "Is anyone there? Montague?"

She looked around wildly for a few seconds, before realizing that it was coming from her phone.

"Y-yes. I'm here. Listen-" she started to say, before being cut off.

"Don't bother. I heard most of that. A team is being briefed-" the voice paused for a few horrible, terrifying seconds, before returning, this time just a bit breathless. Montague waited for a moment as the woman on the other side collected herself, before speaking in a formal tone, "Augustine Montague, please hold for the Duke of Gryphonsworth. This call is being rerouted as I speak."

It was as if the earth had opened up and swallowed her into a vat of warm water. For a moment, all of her worries disappeared at those words, and the images associated with it. Then they returned, but this time there was just a bit of anticipation mixed with the fear.

And then, with a few tiny clicks, the familiar slight buzz that preceded a conversation on this network came back, seconds before the voice followed.

And Montague was lost. If the mention of the man had been like being immersed in a warm bath, hearing his voice could only be described as the best, most soothing massage in the world. All worries were irrelevant now, no concerns mattered. The only thing that meant anything was this voice and its owner, the man who'd taken a worthless, empty-headed bimbo and transformed her into someone worth something.

He was the most wonderful, most caring, most awesome and coolest- Augustine focused herself, concentrating on the words rather than the voice. It was something of an effort, and took more than a few moments before she could hear "-and a team of Aurors is already underway, with myself in the lead. All we need is your exact location, so that you can be secured."

"Oh, okay sir. I'm in the alleyway two shops down from the emporium, along with target designation Royal Parrot."

"Acknowledged. Keep RP secure, and remember, destroy the phone the moment you disconnect."

"Understood, sir."

"All right. Over and out." Harry finished.

Disconnecting the call, he made a second one. This time the agent at the end had no phone, and would receive the call straight in his mask. In the few microseconds that it took the call the connect, his throat went through some interesting hula hoops, modulating his voice into a cold, high thing, very much similar to that sound which came when you rubbed a balled up bit of paper on a blackboard. (A.N. Try it. It's disgusting.)

When the connection was secure, he heard the voice come through, "And who the hell is this? I am on a mission!"

"Interesting, Saxon. Do tell me what sort of mission you are on?"

"M-my lord! This-I apologize my lord- but this is such an unexpected honour-"

"Silence, fool! I, Lord Voldemort, have not demeaned myself by directly conversing with you just so I could hear your pointless blathering!"

That shut the inner-circle death eater up.

"Now listen to these instructions, and follow them to the letter. You are to…"

Harry continued for just over twenty seconds or so, outlining the course of action the teams raiding Fashionab Alley were to pursue. It was only after this, that he apparated to the rendezvous point, where his team of Aurors, his own indentures or vassals all, were waiting.

They apparated.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Ten Minutes Later

Augustine was getting frightened pretty seriously now. The roving teams that had orders to kill her were getting closer and closer, and the only signs of Aurors she'd seen were the sounds and flashes of fierce combat going on about half a kilometer up the alley. She'd heard someone saying that Lord Potter was here, but why hadn't he saved her?

Even Julia had woken up a few minutes ago, and to her credit, had not screamed out, listening fairly calmly to Augustine's explanation of things, only breaking out in a (muted) wail when she learned of what the death eaters had planned for them.

But Augustine had calmed her down, telling her to keep a lookout for anyone approaching, much as she herself was.

Speaking of which…

"Julia? Anything?"

"No, 'tine. Nothing."

"Good. That's very good. Keep watching." She finished, returning her attention to the street, only to step back with a start as a giant flew through the air mere meters ahead of her, before crashing into the Althric Emporium's shop front. Or, to be exact, it almost crashed into the Emporium's front, because as soon as it came close, a shimmering wall of energy materialized, causing it to come to a dead stop.

Once the giant had slid down the ward-wall, Augustine looked at it properly.

That was when she realized that it hadn't been flying. No, it'd been punched all that distance, as was evident from the fact that its chest was caved in, looking for all the world like, well, like it'd been punched in by the hand of an angry god.

But that wasn't important, she reminded herself. Looking in the direction it'd come from, she saw just what the 'combat' she'd seen earlier had actually been.

Huge corpses lay there, some perfectly intact, others baring the marks of vicious savaging. More than four in number, and that was just the giants. As far as she could see, there was carnage, Acromantula corpses littering the street, mixed among troll limbs, huge piles of what she was sure was vampire dust, and quite a few werewolf carcasses.

And of course, there were, by the looks of it, over fifty corpses, most, thankfully, in black robes.

So the teams she'd seen were only a small fraction of the raiding party then.

And that brought her to a realization. She was not looking out for their survival and protection. She was not casting the spells and the charms that she'd been for the last ten minutes, to detect and observe any intruders.

And Julia Morrigan had never been so quiet before.

Unfortunately, before she could act on these brilliant realizations, she felt a spell bind her hands, just before a voice spoke, dangerously close to her ears, "Well, well, look who we just found."

Recognizing the voice of the leader of the second team, the man who'd given the order to kill her, she did what months of relentless and sophisticated training had instilled in her to do.

Well, not.

"AAH! LET ME GO!" she screamed, even as she was hoisted up to a burly shoulder. She hammered her hands on the man's back, scratching some for good measure.

And then she saw just what was happening in front of her, she stopped.

Julia Morrigan was lying, spread eagle, on the ground. Her face, on even a cursory look, showed absolute terror and helplessness, frozen in that expression by the same spell that was holding her limbs in place, Augustine would guess.

Over her was a man who was slowly taking off his trousers, pausing every few moments to just revel in the fear on her face.

Put simply, it wasn't a difficult proposition to realize just what was going to happen.

It was as if she'd been hit with a sledgehammer right to the face. Everything, her fear of death, her anger, her terror, it all disappeared, as the disgusting, horrifying implications of her situation set in.

She went blank. She felt it, dumbly, as the man carrying her laid her down, and froze her limbs.

She moved slightly, as he went to work on her clothing, trying to yank her robes off, and succeeding partly.

She moved a lot, when she was covered head to toe in the blood that rushed out in a jet of crimson, as a jaw closed around the throat of the man in front of her. It was an animal's jaw, a direwolf, if she was accurate.

Somewhere in her mind she made the connection, and all of a sudden hope rekindled in her heart, hope that was only strengthened when the spell holding her in place vanished, even as the wolf pounced with a growl.

Before she knew it, there was a horrible, painful scream. She turned her head to look at the source, and sure enough, Julia Morrigan's would-be rapist was lying on the ground, wailing, while trying to staunch, with his left arm, the blood that was pouring out of where his right arm used to be.

She looked further and saw the direwolf toss the missing arm at the ground with a shake of its, no, his, she corrected herself, head.

She waited for a few seconds, as the direwolf bounded over to the man and thrust a foreleg into his chest. She watched in morbid fascination as the leg surrounded with bits of lung and heart wiggled a bit, before, with a small growl, the wolf tore its forearm out of the man, sideways, killing him surer and deader than a hundred Avada Kedavras ever could.

Then she rushed to her friend, helping her stand up. Of course, that was easier said than done, given that in her state of shock, Julia just refused to move, to the point that even Augustine was pulled down alongside her.

She saw the wolf stare at her a bit, before he stood on two legs, shrank and removed his fur. Harry Potter then spoke to her, "Sorry for being so late, Lady Montague. Are you harmed?"

As the magic of the voice started dulling her shock, Augustine managed to respond, "No, your grace. You arrived just in the nick of time. She's alright too, I should think."

"Good, good." He said, before snapping his fingers.

"Snappy, if you would take the ladies to my office in the Emporium?" the Duke ordered his elf, looking at her to confirm.

She nodded slightly, glad for the offer of a place of safety and rest, not to mention that when he asked her, it was just courtesy that made it a request.

"I need to take care of the stragglers here, Lady Montague. I should be along in half an hour or so. Do feel free to help yourself to anything you need. The whole Emporium is at your disposal.

With those reassuring words the young man turned again, the wolf bounding away, clearing a hundred meters in a single jump.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

One Hour Later

"Shh… girl. It's alright. You're safe now."

"B-but he, he was going to-"

"Calm down, calm down. He's gone, remember? You've still got some of his heart blood on your face."

Julia Morrigan nodded slowly. Her mind was still awash in terror, but she could feel its hold slackening, bit by bit.

They were in the baths attached to the suite at the top floor of the Grand Althric Emporium, belonging to one Harry Potter himself. The same person who she'd seen kill two men in cold blood, for having touched her and 'tine.

The same Harry Potter that her father said was nothing more than a puppet, a 'pretty face' that was controlled by his three powerful uncles. Well, her faith in her father had been shaken rather badly today. Because these were not the actions of a mere pretty face. And speaking of her father, where had the guards been, the ones he'd said were going to give their very lives to protect her? The ones that the old man had said would 'die a thousand times before she was so much as scratched?'

These, and a lot other thoughts, were swirling around her mind, making the girl's whole worldview go haywire over and over again.

Harry Potter was supposed to be an empty shell of a celebrity, just someone to look good in front of the cameras. Her father had reiterated that more times than she cared to count, and the best she'd been able to find out at Hogwarts was that he couldn't even do that very well until this year.

But then, what was that? Even though she'd been in shock, that didn't make her blind, and one would have to be in order to miss the sheer force of personality the man exuded at every moment. The look in his eyes when he looked at that, that creature, the change that came when he looked at her, fierce bloodlust suddenly becoming tender protectiveness, what was that?

Her thoughts were interrupted, however, by the gentle, but firm knocks that came from the door. She asked from her bathtub, "What is it?"

"A thousand apologies, Lady Morrigan. But if you would be so kind as to please come out? The duke has returned, ma'am, and he's asked me to request you and Lady Montague to please come see him in his office."

"Oh… okay." She said, remembering that he had said that he would be along in an hour or so.

Finishing up her washing, she dried herself and went into the bedroom next door, where she'd left her clothes.

And gaped.

And then gaped some more.

"What is this?" she finally asked, gesturing to the sight in front of her.

"Oh, the duke felt that you and Lady Montague might wish for a change of clothes and accessories. So these were sent over."

The tone with which the elf said it, the sheer ease of it, made the whole thing all the more stupendous to Julia, when she compared that tone with the sight before her. Dresses hung in the air, dresses of every style and fashion imaginable. There were ball gowns, simple gowns, robes, everyday clothes, Arabian outfits, any and every form of clothing she could name. That, by itself, was no big deal; her own wardrobe had a collection that included every form of clothing out there.

No, what mattered was the sheer quality of it all. Julia Morrigan prided herself on her knowledge of everything related to fashion, and all her instincts were screaming at her that she had entered fashion nirvana. Even the everyday robes were of refined Acromantula silk, and to go into the more high-end outfits before her… well, there was a national budget here, represented just in clothes.

And then there were the so-called accessories. Yeah, if you wanted to refer to jewelry that could make sitting Queens jealous as mere 'accessories,' well… there were brooches, delicately worked little things that she would have been proud to own, and necklaces and earrings that could make a farm girl look like a diva.

So… yeah, Nirvana.

Anyway, because the author can literally feel his fingers refuse to type any more fashion or girly bullshit (immersion, schwimmersion. Fuck it.), the two girls got dressed and went to the office.

An hour later

"And then- and then you came." Julia Morrigan's voice came to a sobbing halt. In the past half hour, she'd told the whole story of what had happened to her, and what had almost happened to her. Even the experience of telling her story had not been kind to her mental status. All the relief and calm that had enveloped her was long gone, like dust in the wind. But that was inevitable. After all, this was that dreaded superweapon every parent and most boyfriends dreaded, even while under the assault of its inferior version.

Indeed, the angst of a young woman was a terrifying thing, but when it was justified… all the gods would cower when faced with it.

Harry, though, endured, mainly because, having been utterly and entirely responsible for causing every single bit of it, he'd been prepared ahead of time.

"There, there, Julia. Calm down. Here, drink some water." He said, handing over the (third) glass full of the Essence of Obsession. He watched as she gulped it down in huge mouthfuls, thereby finally securing her fate.

Of course, there remained the activation of the Essence. If he tried to activate now it would be detected, and more to the point, purged, by the protective magics of the Morrigan family that flowed within the girl's core. Successful activation and binding would require those magics to acknowledge Harry as having the right to activate that potion, which could only come with… well, guess?

And so Harry continued to do something he generally despised. They talked of the girl's father, and how useless he was. They talked of how different she found Harry from the caricature her family had presented to her. They discussed the latest things, and the events that had happened at Hogwarts, and about Voldemort and how much of a fucking bastard he was, and how the first part of that epithet had never been true for him.

Somewhere in all that the talk had turned to Harry's parents, and to how much of an injustice it had been for Lily to have gone through her life being believed a muggleborn, and finally, to Harry's father, before it turned to the first iteration of the Marauders, of whom she'd heard much about from her aunt.

They talked of friendship, and comradeship, and adventures, and just how much of a bordello James and Sirius had turned Hogwarts into, before, taking that track, the topic came back to Hogwarts, specifically, how much of a bordello Harry had turned it into.

The three of them having switched from water to firewhisky and thence to Ice-Vodka sometime while they talked, none of them really remembered just when the first clothes came off. Well, Harry could've remembered if he wanted to, but he didn't.

He did remember the… exertions, that came afterwards, at least to the part where he said, "Is that the best you can do?" before being proved very, very wrong.

It was fun.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"I hope the journey wasn't much trouble, your grace?" The man was short, with a surly face, rather dull brown eyes, and a voice that made even this pleasant inquiry sound like a troll's wet fart.

Nonetheless, he was still the Deputy Foreign Minister of Magical Bulgaria, so Harry responded with a charming smile. "Of course not, Lord Kalinin. I'm used to long distance portkeys by now.

The minister nodded. Harry continued then, "How is the king, by the way? The missive didn't say much, just that there was something he wanted me to take a look at."

"I'm afraid I can't say, Duke. You'll have to ask him directly."

"Oh well." Harry finished, putting on a slightly sullen impression.

It lasted the few minutes that it took for the two of them to walk across the lawns to the palace proper, where Harry broke out into a big grin, seeing who was standing there.

Still, he knew he would have to be careful to observe proper diplomatic procedure and protocols, aware as he was that there were rules for these kinds of things, and those rules simply Could Not Be Flouted. Nations had gone to war for far lesser breaches of protocol.

Well… he would've had to be careful about all that, had he actually cared.

"Hey Fedor! How are you, you ugly sucker?" he said, running across the distance and shaking the Monarch's hand vigorously, before slapping him on the back.

To his credit the man took it in good cheer, responding just as vigorously, much to the visible consternation of his security detail.

For a moment Harry wondered how they'd react if they knew about the potions that were passing even now into their king's bloodstream from where his bare skin was touching Harry's. Or, for that matter, the scentless ones that they were breathing right into their own bloodstreams at the same time.

Then, as his face threatened to break out into a manic grin, he shoved the ideas into the appropriate compartments of his mind and sealed the metaphorical gates.

This was business, after all.

An hour later

Finally, the meaningless chatter was over, the snacks and drinks done with.

They were down to business. Well… politics, but business for them.

The first thing the King of Magical Bulgaria did was to pass a certain document into Harry's hands. Harry opened it, and looked at the report that his serpent-sworn had passed to him over three hours before it'd even reached the king.

He made a show out of going through it, reading the whole thing seven times, calculating the thirty-five most prominent personality traits exhibited both in the handwriting and the content, then extrapolating his conclusions into a full character sketch that, when he checked with the relevant section of his memory bank, matched almost completely the one he already had, going over his plans for this meeting, putting names to all the faces he'd seen so far, and fantasizing a bit about that lovely veela maid who'd brought the champagne in.

Two minutes after he'd been given it, he handed the dossier back.

"Fairly interesting stuff, that. Understated in most places and inaccurate in certain others, but interesting nonetheless. Anyway, I suppose you want to elicit my… expertise?"

"Yes-wait, hang on. What do you mean, understatements and inaccuracies? The man who wrote this report is one of my most trusted advisors."

"Oh, no doubt. The report is brilliant. The brilliance of the man who wrote it is self-evident. I'm not contesting that. All I'm saying is that most of it is also… wrong."

"Explain, Harry." The king spoke firmly, looking ready to make a really angry face.

"Well, if you insist…"

"I do."

"And if I don't have a choice…"

"You don't."

"Very well then. There isn't an 'odd silence' among the vampires. They're preparing for war against the Vatican. The French Veela aren't 'on the verge of open rebellion.' They've made contact with the Roma, the British Werewolf community, and the Alps giant tribe. All three have agreed on a joint blood march. I've got agents working to destabilize the British side of that alliance, because the Werewolves are the mediators in this and the veela and the giants will happily tear each other apart without them.

Then you've got India. The Chandravanshi Grand Emperor isn't 'worried' about the Patils, he's fucking terrified. And then there's the…" Harry paused, because Fedor's face had gone kinda chalky and blank.

For a moment or two, he pretended to be thinking about what he'd said, until… "Oh. The Roma being on the blood march. You've got a pretty… huge community over here, don't you?"

All the king could do was slowly nod.

Harry pondered over it. To tell the truth, he hadn't wanted to use the Roma card so early in the game. The Gypsies of Europe were a powerful community, and would be useful, but taking another title so soon… not a very good idea. It would require even more splitting of his attention, more things to take care of, more paperwork… etcetera, etcetera. But the divine actions that'd been going on had forced his hand. He needed all of his resources rounded up and consolidated, ASAP.

Hence this.

In a couple of seconds, the King recovered. "Those bastards. A blood march, when we've already given them everything they've asked for?"

"Well, those are gypsies for you." Harry helpfully supplied.

"In any case, we'll deal with the gypsies later. Carry on, Harry."

"Um… you sure? It's more bad news, mostly."

"Yes, yes. Well, the good part is that although this last bit is the worst of it, it is, well, the last bit of actual understatement. Then I can get to the plain inaccuracies."

Fedor just closed his eyes and nodded, his faith in his country's intelligence apparatus already irrevocably destroyed.

Just as Harry wanted.

"Well… Russia. And the vampires again."

"What about them?"

"They surround you, don't they?"

"Yes."

"This guy, Drach, he says to 'implement measures to generate hostility' between the two, doesn't he?"

"…Yes?"

"Won't be happening this time of ever. Sorry."

"What, why?"

Harry looked around, just a bit surprised.

The one to speak this time hadn't been Fedor, rather it'd been… oh, the boss of the guy who'd been escorting Harry. The foreign minister.

"Because, Foreign Minister, even I haven't yet succeeded in weaponizing MPD."

"What, sir?"

"Harry, please. I've had enough shocks. If you could please explain this simply and slowly."

Not a chance, moron, thought Harry. "Of course, mate." He said.

"See, the trouble is, they're the same."

"Harry…"

"Hey, this is me being simple! The two most recently ascended monarchs of Europe are the same!"

Ah, there it was, the dawning look of utter dread.

"You mean…"

"Oh, for heavens' sake. You lot are thick. Prince Vladimir Yevgeny Velkan Aliyanov Drakul, also known as Vlad IV of Romania, is the same person as one Vladislav Miroslav Illyich Vissarionovich Tremelinsky, the guy you know as Vladislav VII, Tsar of all the Magical Russias. That clear enough?"

"Quite." The recovered voice of the king offered in response.

More expressive, however, was the Head of Intelligence, Baron Davidov Manos. "With all due respect, your grace, you say all this very casually. How far can your sources be trusted?"

"Oh, just about as far as myself, I'd say." He answered, firmly cutting off any doubts anyone could have expressed. After all, when the King's BFF said something was so, then it was so.

At this point, Harry had to admit that he'd underestimated the slightly older young man whom he'd thrashed at the Prague dueling championship. King Fedor (prince then), had appeared to be a rather feckless, cowardly brat at the time. This monarch in front of him, however, was holding up pretty well under the circumstances.

"So, I am to understand that a substantial group of my people will be in open rebellion very soon, that the two powers surrounding my country, which we could have only headed off by getting them to turn on each other, are in fact the same power, and that said power is gearing up for war against one of the most powerful entities in Europe, a war that Bulgaria is sure to be dragged into."

"Pretty much."

"And none of my own people had any clue?!" the king seethed the last words, a vein pulsing at his forehead.

"Majesty, we-"

"No excuses, Baron Manos! There certainly have already been enough!" the young king barked out.

Harry spoke then, "Calm down, Fedor. Relax a bit. Remember, it's not their fault."

"Oh, I suppose it's mine, then?" the other young man was in no mood to listen to reason.

"No, it's not. And if you think a bit, I'm sure you will quickly realize whose fault it is."

The king went silent at this, considering Harry's words, until the energy just drained away from his frame. Sagging, he sighed, "Damn you, father. Damn you to the deepest pits of the hells."

'Granted,' thought Harry, although his mind soon switched to another track. It really was the old king's fault, after all. He'd been the one to reduce all government ranks in Bulgaria to basically a collection of his cronies, the one who'd blown away huge parts of his own information sources in return for cheap favors.

Still, nothing could be gained by dwelling on the past.

He said as much to the collected court, to which the answer was a series of weary nods.

"You know, that's not even the worst of the things that are happening."

"What now?" someone asked.

"Well, all those things are the worst things for Bulgaria, but there's plenty of disturbing things heading everyone else's way too, y'know. Voldemort's back, the Greeks are making noises, the goblins are getting a bit too uppity… you name it. It's all going wrong."

"Yes, well, the wise man looks to his own house first." Fedor said, cutting off any questions before they came. A sideways glance at Harry told him that the King wanted explanations later, but for now he wanted to get a few solutions through, at the very least.

Fedor said as much, next. "Well, people? Any answers?"

"We will need to act fast, your majesty. The rights and privileges of the Roma should be reduced, so that they do less damage when they rebel. We need to get a proper standing army ready, as well. Then we need to…"

And it was on. Harry went silent, as one after the other the courtiers tripped over themselves in proposing harsher and harsher methods, all meant to 'restrict the threat.'

He'd known it'd be simple. After all, Europe had never really recovered from the distrust and fear of the gypsies, who, as all the legends said, were among the most powerful experts of divination and fortune-manipulation. It'd all just lain there, that sick, coiling fear, dormant, but waiting.

And a Blood March was just the sort of thing that would cause it to come back in full force.

Exactly as he wanted.

It took several hours, before the Court of King Fedor had finished with digging themselves into a pit (of doom), but soon enough, the discussion turned to other matters.

"So, by what you're telling me, the Russians and the Romanians are going to be a quite significant problem, yes?" Harry was asked by the king.

"Yup. I know for a fact that while the vamps deal with the Vatican, the Russians will be sharpening all their swords and spears for you. They don't like that you hold so much land, see?"

"But, your majesty, please. Russia has barely recovered from a civil war, how likely is it that they'll start on another one so soon?"

"Very likely, actually. See, they need resources, land, gold, mythril, metals, etcetera, etcetera. You have them all, and plenty of them, and more to the point, you've been flaunting it, rubbing it in everyone's faces. Well… they got angry at that, I guess."

"But-but, the ICW!"

"Won't do a thing. Russia's not a member. Pretty stupid way they tried to become one, actually, trying to use British contacts. They ain't got it yet, and won't anytime soon, if I have anything to do about it."

"So that leaves the Conclave."

"Ha. Please. That group? I wish you luck."

"Please, your grace. A bit of positive thinking would be appreciated."

"No. He's right. The Conclave is a bit too…" the young monarch moaned, his head in his hands.

"Soft? Stupid? Fat and weak?" Harry suggested.

Here the king even managed a weak grin, "I believe you wrote a paper on them for your political science mastery? 'Peaceful to the point of indolence' indeed.'"

Harry shrugged non-commitally.

"But that leaves us in the quandary of deciding what we can do. We need to find allies, and fast. Or maybe we could just… surrender?"

The monarch had said that lightly, only as something to say, but Harry didn't like it anyway. Such talk couldn't be allowed. He needed the Bulgarians to commit to this.

And so Harry's voice grew harder, his face acquiring several levels of firmness.

"What you need to do, my friend, is to take action. Secure your borders. Sound out your allies, undercut your enemies. Lead."

"But-but how can-"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Fedor!" exploded Harry. Ignoring the scandalized looks, he continued. "Look, yours is not the only country in trouble. France is going to be rife with a lot of angry Veela pretty soon, and there's a whole can of vampiric worms opening in South America in a couple of months, when the Libishomen go to war on the Mayan Empire."

"What? Why?"

"Someone destroyed several of their ancient birthing chambers."

"What?"

"You know about the old blood pits, of course, used to birth Trueblood vamps? They activated again. But someone got to them first, contaminated them. Evidence shows it was someone from the Venezuelan Department of Mysteries."

"Whoever it was, they did the world a favor. Damn… the old blood pits active again… I can't even imagine. But wait, how exactly do you know, Harry? I mean the Venezuelans don't talk to anyone."

"Oh, you know… I have a few estates there, Protectorate of Bahamas. Spent a few weeks there, made some friends… you know how it is, don't you?"

"Well, of course…sure you can't tell me?"

"Sorry, mate. Need to know. I'd like to, but them's the rules!"

"Yes, yes. But that means jack to Bulgaria! I need to defend this country!"

'Stupid, stupid, stupid! That's what I get for adding too much Ambrosia of Apprehension.' Harry chided himself internally. He'd wanted the guy nervous and pliable, but this was getting ridiculous. Still, he had a plan for this. He planned for everything.

It'd require postponing a few things he'd long planned for this meeting, mainly the reconciliatory and guiding bits, but, oh well.

"Please, Fedor. Yes, your country is in peril. Yes, the wolves are circling. But that doesn't matter! You're still king of one of the wealthiest and most powerful magical countries in Europe, and you're still one of the most capable fighters in the world!"

"So just tell me, are you going to whine and bitch, or will you do something? I can help you if you act, do some good, but if you're going to be like this, well, I can just go back. I can sit back, and I will tell them not to bother, that no one here has the balls. Let it happen. Let them do what they like. Let night descend."

And with that, defying over a hundred rules of international convention and dozens of wards and plain laws of magic and physics, Harry apparated.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"So, how's it going?"

"It's halfway through, your grace. The counters are ordering everyone to move out, as it is time to finish the last steps."

"Okay… so, is it in our favor, then?"

"Looks so, duke."

"Very well, keep an eye." Harry finished, before moving on. The elections for the seats of the Warlocks who'd died in the initial attack were over, and the votes were being counted. Pretty much as he'd expected, most of the seats looked to be going to the opposition, given the overwhelming influence they possessed in those regions. But the 17 seats he'd identified as 'possible' were still in the balance, waiting for the counting to be finished before the results were announced.

Truth be told, he'd revised that thought, having discovered hidden factors that could've swung several seats out of the grasp of the Ouroboros. They'd been countered as far as could be managed, but, well, democracy was just too unpredictable at times.

Still, he wasn't going to have to face it very often. After this election was over, the Ministerial polls would ensue, and once Lockhart was in the chair… well… that would be seen to then.

Harry rose from where he was sitting, strolling into the portal standing a couple of meters away, appearing at Diagon Alley.

Walking to Althric Artificers, he was about to enter his office when he heard a ruckus starting at the door.

"You can't enter here! He's busy!"

Oh… someone who made his staff raise their voices? This was… interesting.

"Open it, idiot. Your big boss is going to learn a few things about this town now."

Oh, good lords… it was Bones' pet. What was her name? Priscilla Williams?

Before the ruckus could rise to undesirable levels, Harry appeared. "What seems to be the matter here, Johnston?"

"They're saying, your grace, that-that-"

"You're under arrest, Mister Potter. You've been running wild too long! Time someone threw you in a prison!"

Well, well, well… it seemed Morrigan could bear a lot of things, but he exploded at the bedding of his precious daughter… Harry could just about picture the scene, the man getting the news, screaming himself hoarse at a defiant Julia, and then calling in every favor he had with the DMLE against Harry… 'You really outdid yourself with that particular masterstroke, Harry old boy.'

Oh, this was gonna be fun.

"I suppose it would be a tad too cliché to tell you that you have no idea just who and what you're dealing with?"

"Excuse me?"

"Thought as much. Well, Ms. Williams, trust me when I say that you really don't. Still, your instructions weren't to chat with me. C'mon, let's go." Harry said, walking out of the store like he didn't have a care in the world."

"Right. Um…" it took several moments for the woman to compose herself, Harry having blasted her with a rather heavy dose of the good ol' charisma and charm.

"Harry James Potter of Castle Potter, Isle of Cardigan, you are under arrest for forty-four counts of murder, twenty-four counts of unauthorized paramilitary action, and seven counts of high treason. Anything you say may and will be used against you in your trial."

"Okay!"

They popped off.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Harry could bear any torture in the world. With him having taken steps after killing Dumbledore, it wasn't actually possible anymore to inflict enough pain to incapacitate him by any means. But this, what his captors were doing to him now, this came close. He was so, so, unimaginably close to breaking, that if any of them had known, they'd practically start salivating.

You see, he could bear pain. He could ignore bribes, and he didn't really care enough about anyone or anything to bend to threats. But this… this was pure hell. Well, no it wasn't (he'd been there), but it was close. It was pure agony, a level of torment that transcended anything that was possible to experience, by anyone living or dead.

He was bored, you see. So very, very bored.

The cell he was in had been specifically designed for him, by the looks of it. Lethifold skin shielding, alpha-level triple-shored seals to suppress internal talents, psychic locks to scramble coherent brain activity, preventing high levels of concentration or astral projection, transplanar bindings to prevent access to the further planes, and about fifty-nine gazillion other things. It was exactly what a group of high-level, paranoid and resourceful people would use to imprison their worst enemy inside.

It took the best parts from all previous prisons anyone had ever used, and then perfected them and combined them over and over again, creating layers upon layers of blocks that acted like interconnected prisons, all strengthening themselves through the others, like a Matryoshka doll from hell.

It did everything. It damped all mental and magical powers of the prisoner, made the air denser by about two million degrees, kept them in constant pain to prevent concentration, and more than that, it made them feel utterly, mind-numbingly bored.

Less than five people in the world knew how to build one, barely three of them could explain it to others, and none of them could ever, ever escape after getting imprisoned in one.

It'd taken Harry about ten minutes to find the first method of escape, and about five minutes per separate way for the next half hour.

But coming back to the crux of the matter, he was bored!

Harry's musings (and boredom, don't ever forget the boredom) were interrupted a few seconds later, when the feminine, strict voice came out of the very walls, "Hello, Mister Potter."

Ignoring the slight, Harry replied. "Oh, just swell, Madam Bones. I was going to have an… assignation, that is what you fossils refer to dates as, isn't it, with a certain charming young lady, but being thrown in a cell with no food or water is fine too."

If she was perturbed, the Director didn't show it.

"I do hope you are aware of why you've been arrested, and what it will mean for your immediate future?"

"Of course I do. I slept with your dear partner's daughter, y'know. Again and again. That must've made him really mad. The question to be asked is, why are you asking me this?"

Harry paused for an answer, but when only silence was to be had, he let a big grin slowly spread across his face, "Or did he not tell you?"

The silence was deafening in its continuation.

"Oh this is rich!" he was full-on guffawing now, leaning on one of the walls for support.

"Let me guess, you arrested me because he said he'd found 'unimpeachable evidence' of some crime that you could use to cut a deal, presumably one where you lot retained at least some of your power, yes?"

Again, silence, was the only thing he heard.

At least for the first few seconds, that was, until Bones spoke again, "You seem to be under a terribly mistaken impression, Mister Potter. Your arrest has nothing to do with Julia Morrigan, nor with any pressure that her father could have wielded in this department. You are here because you're responsible for the murder of more than thirty of this nation's best and finest citizens."

Harry nodded somberly, appearing to accept that grave pronouncement… for ten seconds or so.

Then he spoke. "Okay… I can accept that. I can believe for the moment that this is a genuine arrest, and that you actually intend to try me and sentence me. I can do that, but for that, I would have to make a rather glaring mistake."

"What mistake, Potter?"

"Well… you see, I never said a word about any member of the Morrigan family. So, the interesting thing is, how did you know that it was Julia I was talking about?"

Aaaand, again, there was only silence.

It lasted for about half an hour this time, before a door materialized on one of the walls of the cell.

Harry smiled wide, as the two figures so recognizable to him walked in. Julius Morrigan was thin, thin to the point of cadaverous, with a hawk-like nose and a mostly bald head that nonetheless had a few tufts bravely holding on here and there. His face was dour, and when, looking at Harry, he smiled viciously, it resembled less a grin than a rictus on a corpse's face.

By contrast, Amelia Bones was a woman barely in her sixties, with the appearance and figure of a muggle slightly more than a third her age. To unaware eyes they might have appeared to be father and daughter.

None of that mattered any, when, coming close to where he was sitting, they conjured seats and sat down.

"So…" Harry began.

"Yes, so…" Amelia responded.

"I cannot tell you how great a pleasure it is to finally meet you, Madam Bones. I've followed your writings on the proper integration of forensic magic into the day-to-day functioning of law enforcement with great interest, and I'm also a huge fan of how you completely botch up any investigation you touch." Harry said, his voice as high-pitched and excited as if he'd just met a rock star or a famous celebrity.

A grin grew on his face, as the woman actually took a step back, trying to wrap her head around the insult he'd just delivered.

"Well, Mister Potter, I hope not to botch this investigation."

"Ah… too late, I'm afraid. Anyway, try and try again. Right, Bonesy dear?"

And again, he grinned, as the woman's face grew taut with anger.

Morrigan, on the other hand, was nowhere near as restrained, "Silence, whelp. You will treat her with respect!"

Harry, at that, did a huge double take, widening his eyes, before a few internal adjustments recalibrated his voice to be several octaves higher. "Daddy-in-law! I didn't see you there! How are you? Julia's told me so much about you! Well, she tried to, but she was too busy moaning and screaming my name in ecstasy- why are you getting red?"

"Y-you… you absolute-"

"Calm down, Julius. The boy's trying to make fools of us." Amelia Bones admonished her partner.

Harry's "Oh, magic knows there's not much needed in that field" went unanswered.

Having recovered her composure, Bones looked to be on the warpath now. "So we're fools, are we, Potter? Well, let me tell you, these fools know quite a bit about you."

Harry wasn't sure he liked the tone in which those words were said. Looking to Morrigan, he saw his doubts confirmed.

Well, well… this could prove intriguing.

"Let's see, aiding and abetting the grandson of Gellert Grindelwald usurp the throne of a sovereign country, using British citizens as a paramilitary force for said actions, placing unauthorized mind-spells on Boris Yeltsin, Slobodan Milosevic, Jean Kimba, Sokobuti Okoye, Vladimir Bout, Pyotr Dolgoruki, William Gates, Pablo Escobar, Fidel Castro, John Major, Evelyn De Rothschild, Saul Nathanson,…"

Harry was glad she had decided to list out all his targets, as it gave him the time he needed to get his thoughts in order.

Immediately, magic surged through his mind. He could feel the familiar coolness returning, as adamantine walls descended, partitioning off all emotions and feelings away from his thought centers. The amusement disappeared, the mirth ended, and the same cold, calculating ruthlessness that had made him what he was resurfaced, ready to lay waste to anyone and anything that entertained the notion of standing in his way.

And then, he decided a very simple thing. He needed to get the fuck out of here. Not because of the charges being arrayed against him, oh no. Those didn't come anywhere close to mattering. No, the thing was, he now understood some things that had been bothering him for some time now.

He'd always suspected that he was having far too easy a time in this shadow war. Even accounting for his overwhelming advantages, the opposition had simply not been fighting back.

And this was the reason. All this time, they'd been gathering information. Information on his and his network's deeds, in both the magical as well as the muggle worlds.

And that meant… well, they must have massive resources. If all of those resources had been dedicated to penetrating his multiple layers of secrecy… somewhere between levels three to five, he decided. They had to have penetrated level five at least, but simply couldn't have gone above level three. The data there was just protected too heavily, and everyone who had access to it was screened every single day.

Not to mention that if they'd known anything above that, then they could literally have ripped him apart in the street and then been able to fully justify themselves afterwards. Given that they hadn't, and weren't the type to hesitate because of pesky morals, the most vital secrets were still seemingly safe.

But even what little they did know was very, very dirty, and therein was the problem. If they were reading it all to him like this, in other words, blowing away their advantage, then that could only mean that they had a viable endgame ready to execute.

And Harry needed to be free to pre-empt that.

So Harry uttered a few words, exerted his magic, and all of a sudden, all that was left of the oh so fancy prison were a few solid walls. And walls had never been much of a challenge to a competent wizard.

Then, he apparated.

(A.N: And the laziest writer of the year award goes to…)

An Hour Later

"We've checked, sir. There are no goblins moving through the tunnels. All bases report completely intact security and 100% efficiency."

"Acknowledged." Was all Harry said, before ending the connection.

What the fuck was this supposed to mean? The two ringleaders blowing away all their secrets, and then launching no attacks… that was not logical. He considered, yet again, the idea that they could have just been posturing before they put forward a peace proposal. And then he discounted it yet again. They knew just what kind of peace they would get from him. He'd made that very clear. They weren't that stupid … unless, of course, they'd discovered the truth of their military force.

Hmm… it was just about possible. Harry had ordered his agents to encourage a 'friendly and cute' image of the goblins among the neutrals, and the agents involved were good. Of course, a more important fact was that they came from the so called 'light' faction of the Alliance, which was the part he didn't outright control (only mostly), so he'd allowed them to work without too much overarching supervision as a bone for their masters.

If he found out now that they'd failed…they'd pay in blood, he would see to it. Harry could tolerate just about anything from his people, even treachery, if only to some slight degree, but incompetence…now that was one thing that simply could not be accepted.

Of course, if that was what had happened, well… he had a plan for that too.

"Arrange a full plenary meeting. I want everyone, every single assembly member present. Tell them it's about the conclusion of the whole shadow war, and the elections."

"When, sir?"

"Yesterday."

"Point taken, your grace. The time is set for three hours from now." The ultra-efficient AI called Selene responded.

"Excellent. Triple all the usual protections, and activate systems 4 through 11. After all, we wouldn't want the end of the war to be just like the beginning, now would we?"

The computer didn't respond.

In the end it was rather anticlimactic, how the whole thing turned out.

The meeting was held at one of the many Slytherin family castles that dotted the archipelago in the Atlantic Ocean at the 'foot' of Britain, barely a few hundred or so miles from the Penzance coast. It began with the assemblymen impatient and some of the 'light' members, people who had some trifling degree of autonomy left, were even arguing outright, claiming that he'd 'taken things far too far' and how he 'couldn't run unchecked anymore.'

Then he talked, and as he did so, he allowed himself some enjoyment as complexions paled all around, followed by some of them hyperventilating and even a guy or two fainting.

Of course, as amused as he was, he didn't really begrudge them their softness. It was just what they were, and the news really was of the kind to cause such reactions. He talked about everything that had been revealed to his agents over the course of months, via regular intercepts of the messages exchanged between the goblins and Morrigan. He told them of the network of tunnels that now stretched under the interconnected Alleys of London that comprised the largest commercial district in Britain, and of the portals that had been setup to carry heavily armed goblin troops to the Ministry, St. Mungo's, Hogsmeade, Boadicea Avenue in Ireland, and all the other vital sites of magical Britain.

Being the kind of person he was, he left out the terribly deadly traps that he had arranged to be placed at each of these places, and the number of operatives on 40-second alert to respond to any strike. After all, there was no point mentioning them.

It was only in the end, once they were all terrified out of their wits, that he revealed that the alliance might not even be able to capitalize on the opposition's reliance, because pussyfooting by the 'Light' members and their agents had fluffed that arrangement rather badly. It was a statement that would take some days to verify, even for him, but he couldn't care less. It just didn't matter. Whether the goblins and Morrigan were allied or not was, now, inconsequential.

Neville had Susan well in hand, a careful diet of potions and spells having made the two besotted with each other while utterly loyal to Harry, and Julia was already his.

So again, whether the Morrigan faction and the Goblin nation were smitten with each other or at loggerheads was irrelevant. They were both marked for annihilation regardless, the humans immediately, the goblins later.

Harry ended his 'explanation,' having finally achieved a level of fear and panic among his audience that would ensure that they were utterly incapable of thinking rationally about what they were doing or saying with any depth.

Then he sprung his trap, a renewal of the original oath of allegiance to the Alliance, only this time, without any mentions of restraint, reasonableness or rights. And once they had sworn that oath… well, that was it, wasn't it?

Ninety percent of the second phase was now complete.

For you see, Harry had long since made a rough plan about just what he wanted from his life. It was an early age, fourteen years, for such long-term decisions to be made, but then he'd done a lot of things he was too young to do. If asked, he wouldn't put it in poetic or flowery terms, like 'having the world bend their knee,' or 'establish a new era' or 'carve out an empire.'

No, not at all. What Harry wanted was simple. He wanted to be an entity on the world stage, an entity entirely in his own league. He didn't want the throne of the world; what he wanted was to be a true geopolitical power unto himself, subject to none, able to direct the course of history at will. Maybe the two were one and the same, maybe they were not, but ever since becoming free of the magic that had clouded his mind for such a long time, that was the one driving ambition in his mind.

If he were to be asked why, he didn't think he could have responded properly, at least if he was trying to be truthful. After all, a psychopath though he'd turned himself into, he knew enough that the real, totally honest answer was deeply terrifying.

Namely, it was that he 'could.' He could defy every law he felt like, break international boundaries, reshape maps and redefine world markets and power blocks, because he could.

Well aware of the sheer insanity of that, and attempting to impose some sort of structure on it, he'd identified 'phases,' stages that everything would need to be carried out in.

In short, phase one was 'national-scale influence.' Phase two was 'national-scale power.' Three was 'international-scale influence,' and fourth was 'international scale power.'

It wasn't that clear or cut-and-dried, of course. Real life wasn't cut-and-dried after all. But it was something. A roadmap to the future.

In the first phase, he'd set about activating all his vassal populations, setting up sources of massive capital, and other raw resources, like precious metals, gemstones, potions supplies, other raw ingredients. Simply reacquainting himself with his inheritance had done all that, other than the capital, for which he'd raided the muggle world wholesale.

Then, he'd gone about turning all of that raw material into commercial and financial power, setting up first Althric, and then the other companies, like Blackfyre Enterprises and Shacklegrave Holdings, and the like. All in all, that had served him well, establishing a substantial income in the magical world, getting his name known in a business context, and all that.

Well that would continue for a long time, of course, but he'd started on the next phase even so, by the act of forming the Alliance of the Ouroboros. That had started the process, of getting his voice heard, and heard well, in the halls of power, sending tentacles of his influence to root deep into the infrastructure of the British Magical Establishment.

Of course, the whole process was easier said than done. Opposition was inevitable, and indeed, necessary, so that he could have an enemy to point to and say, "See! They'll destroy you without my help!" And indeed, first Julius Morrigan, and then by allying with him, Amelia Bones, had dutifully provided the looming threat he'd needed to keep the Alliance united, and also to keep it distracted while he systematically suborned its members piecemeal into becoming his vassals and subordinates, rather than his allies.

And then, once things were relatively secure, the final bits of the second phase had been put into effect, when he secured himself within the Government at vitally important, but invisible positions, thereby ensuring that he could act to make policy rather than just shaping it.

And, now, it was done. Phase two, the establishment of a powerful, entrenched powerbase at a national level, 'National-scale power,' was mostly complete, even though the last bits would take quite some time. Meanwhile, having the ear of a king, alliances with several other rulers, and having become the heir of several others, he'd also made significant inroads into Phase 3.

And that was when he forced himself to come back to the present, back to the real world. Really, what was this? Why was he going over the past like this? It was as if some idiot was using his though processes to do some very crude exposition, to provide an overarching framework for his actions, to put everything into a proper context.

The last thought brought a small, sardonic smile to his lips. Indeed, he could imagine it, some moron of a college student typing away at a tiny laptop, trying to pull words out of nowhere to flesh out this world, failing miserably, and so just putting down anything that came into his mind.

Again, the sheer ludicrousness of that thought amused him enough to achieve yet another tiny smile.

But enough daydreaming.

Harry snapped himself out of it, just in time to be ready when the first klaxons started blaring.

One look at the monitor, and he knew what was happening down to every detail. The alarms screaming were from Althric's Diagon Alley HQ, along with the Island Complex of Kermull-Narth, which was the largest of Althric Aritificers' warehouses. The little green buggers wanted wands.

Well… if they could get through what was around that place, they were welcome to the dummies he'd filled the complex with back when he'd first leaked the information about the huge consignment being stored there.

'Still, better activate the submerging system.' Harry thought, before sending the appropriate orders to Selene. Once the building was chock full with goblins, and once there were no more of them in the immediate vicinity, the whole island would take a dip, resurfacing an hour later. That was for any goblins who actually managed to get through.

After all, two or three raiding parties' worth of dead goblin warriors was better than one.

Harry paid even less mind to the attack at Head office. Everyone there, down to the last filing clerk, was at least a level-two 'White Lightning' commando, Harry's not-totally-fit-for-war-but-mostly Special Forces group. Each and every one was a full master in one magical art, at least, with all the appropriate combat specialties, and between the 120 staff members present, they covered just about every form of magic the west and most of the east knew.

He pitied the goblins, really, because most of these extremely deadly and proficient operatives had been deeply frustrated at being denied any real action, and now that they were getting it… well, Harry himself had a hard time with the concept of restraint normally, and he was pretty certain he was far better at it than them. So… yeah.

Still, he touched his ring, causing a dozen columns of flame to surround him out of nowhere. Addressing the Afrits as they stepped out of the fires, he told them to go and watch, and step in if there was any need.

And now… the fun part began. You see, while self-defense was perfectly fine, all magical people of Britain were forbidden, by ministerial decree, from actually invading the goblins on their home turf. Given as this 'Ministerial Decree' was backed by the power of ten major leylines, that made things difficult for a wizard army to hammer down the doors of Gringotts and take the stalactite city underneath.

Now Harry could probably have defied it, but even if he'd managed it, an outcome not at all assured by any means, it would still mean revealing to the world that he had that capability.

And so the idea of calling one of the legions down there and marching it into the underground goblin city was rendered bunk.

But that was fine, because it meant that the other, more fun idea could be used.

Simply put, the idea was that Harry had a really, really intense urge to go and see what the underground goblin city actually looked there were hundreds of thousands of angry goblins standing in between, well… it was a really intense urge, you see. So they would just have to die.

Harry had already had the hundred tons of enriched magical iron brought to Britain. Currently, it was hot and bubbling in one of the underwater volcanoes that were part of the Gryphonsworth lands near the Protectorate of the Bahamas. After all, he'd promised Ragnok and his clan a drink.

The only pity was that whatever he did here, it wouldn't be lasting. The same stipulations that restricted him from bringing along an army also prohibited genocide, meaning that the goblins had to be allowed to remain relatively undamaged. Well, unless they were rising in rebellion, and this, given as they were only attacking select targets and not going for mass terror or taking control of the leylines, didn't count.

Still, there was enough to do anyway.

Harry apparated.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

He reappeared in a marble atrium, Zar'roc glinting beautifully in the light from the torches on the walls. As the first goblin pike-bearer rushed at him, Harry let loose a series of crimson bolts that collided with it, throwing it back into the crowd which, in turn, turned into red mist as the goblin turned red and then simply exploded.

Honestly… he wasn't going to enjoy this even one bit. Goblin magic was of the deep kind, present in their metal-work mostly, allowing them to forge weapons of almost unmatched magnificence, not to mention allowing them to turn any building that employed metal in its construction into a fortress almost impossible to penetrate.

The key word in both cases, however, was almost. Zar'roc was a sword forged with the best techniques the world had ever known, including those from the forge of Hephaestus himself. The goblins were good, damned good, but not that damned good. And as far as the protections on the building were concerned, they were certainly formidable, enough to stop several armies in their tracks, at least.

Hell, they were good enough that they stopped him for three whole minutes. That was like, some sort of record.

Truth be told, Harry could have probably just sat back at Hogwarts and slaughtered the goblin nation via its remote-control features alone.

As he strolled through the building, raining casual slaughter with every move he made, Harry let his mind wander freely. Once this was over, things would be simple enough. With their military force gone, Morrigan and Bones were defanged, and once he was done here, he was heading over to be done with them once and for all, now that their usefulness was at an end. By this time tomorrow Julia would be lady of Morrigan, and Susan would be of Bones. Neither would dream of opposing Harry.

The last real resistance against Harry in the wizengamot gone, the election in a few weeks could be moved to tomorrow, ensuring that the Alliance had their chosen Minister, Gilderoy Lockhart.

Then, Harry mused, as his shields stopped the lancing bolts of magical lightning erupting from the tips of the goblin lord's bodyguards, the visible 'reshuffle' in magical Britain's government would begin, entrenching the Ouroboros' grip over total power.

And then… and then they'd see.

It took over two hours in the end to ensure the total extermination of the entire goblin faction that had allied with Morrigan. Standing next to the throne in which Grithlauk the Greedy was being enthroned as the new ruler of the British goblins, Harry mused that things were going to switch to the fast track now.

(A.N: Before you all tear my head off, this is not the promised 'revenge against the goblins.' That will come later. Not very much later, but later.)

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

"And with the final votes counted… the new Minister for Magic for the Magical Realm of Great Britain is Gilderoy Lockhart!" The officer's voice droned, before it was drowned out entirely by the celebratory whoops and cheers that erupted.

At the head of the crowd waiting outside the headquarters of the Office of Elections, Gilderoy Lockhart was raised on the shoulders of the crowd, which was still loudly cheering his name.

Standing off to the side, Harry allowed himself a smile.

So… Morrigan and Bones were dead, he and Julia were (sigh…) betrothed, as were Neville and Susan, the last of the neutral faction's wizengamot supporters had come crawling to his office only yesterday, and now the Ouroboros Alliance's chosen nominee was Minister for Magic.

Why, then, did everything still seem doomed to failure.

Oh right, the very gods of the world were against him. That was why.

Still, Harry allowed, it was a victory, to have secured control of ten of the primary veins that controlled the magical lifeblood of the planet. It was conditional control, mind you, but a degree of control nonetheless, and that meant raw, naked power, even over the divine.

Speaking of which, Harry needed to get to work actually using that power for his own ends. Doing it formally would have to wait, of course, until Lockhart could be sworn in and sign letters of authorization, but that was fine. All of that was only for the people and the new, ordered magic of the ministry anyway.

As far as the Olde Magick of the Isles of Albion was concerned, Lockhart was an extension of his will, and thus his will controlled those leylines. Not in any substantial sense, mind you, since the Olde Magick didn't really have all that power, but enough for the relatively minor ritual he had in mind.

Well… if the summoning of a goddess could be regarded as minor, and yes it could.

Disapparating and appearing instantly in a hollow inside the Morrigan estate's forests (he had been keyed into, and indeed, taken control of every single ward and enchantment the House of Morrigan had, needless to say), Harry set about his work. It would be exhausting, to say the least, trying to open a window into the further planes and reaching out to the old goddess he needed, but, well, needs must.

It was hours later that Harry was able to stand back, hours of measuring incense and putting it into neat piles on the forest floor, of carefully spreading about blood from the numerous containers he had floating around, painting specific portions of the nine-pointed star design on the floor with a tincture made out of his own, Julia's, and the Patil twins' blood, sacrificing the numerous animals the ritual required, such as the lion, the snake, the muggle and the wolf, tying things to himself and to the attributes required… it was grueling and exacting work, let that be all said.

But now it was over, and all that was required was for Harry to stand tall, take a deep breath, colour his face with the blood of nine innocents, and cry out passionately "Appear, oh goddess! Come to the call of this unworthy one! Grace this land with your presence! Grant us extra favor!"

Once he said and did all that, the goddess would appear, a vision of supernatural, haunting beauty, who would then require a certain sacrifice, which would have to be granted.

Harry stood tall, took a deep breath… and then let it out, before lighting a cigarette and smoking it for a bit, and then throwing it to the ground. As soon as it hit, the smoke seemed to disappear, while the stick itself seemed to glow a hot red, like it was iron in a furnace, instead of paper on the ground.

Once the glow faded, and all that was left was a pile of ash, Harry called out. "Now that you've had your sacrifice, if you would be so kind, great one?"

Okay, so maybe the dumbass author exaggerated a bit to increase the drama. He doesn't have any idea how to write well, anyway.

"Hello, young one. I must say, it is quite something to meet you, after seeing the reverberations your actions have sent across the divine realms." The voice was alluring, full of a terrible and kind beauty, one that ensnared the senses and left men gasping just by hearing a single word. Even Harry felt the effect, and had to fight it off using some of his divine memories, using them to fortify his mind against the intrusive aura of the goddess.

"Oh? That is strange, because this meeting was brought about by the effects your actions have had on my organizations. You see, I like it when production of magical crystals at my factories suddenly quadruples. I love it, when every single beast of war I have gets pregnant and delivers healthy babies in record time."

Here he gave her a sharp look, before continuing, "Even the male ones. See, I like all that, along with the dozen-odd favors you were so kind to do for me."

Having finished the last of his protections (there wasn't really any point trying to enforce magical bindings on a goddess, even a minor one, so personal protections were all he had to give himself any security at all), and stepped outside of the circle.

At that, the goddess followed him immediately, before folding her legs and sitting down.

On thin air.

Harry shrugged a bit, before continuing, "But while I like it, while it certainly benefits me, it also makes me very, very curious. So, the question that needs to be asked is, given as I've paid no worship or obeisance to the Celtic pantheon at all, why exactly are you being so favorable to me, and that against who I was fighting, Lady Morrigan?"

The war goddess only smiled, before speaking. "Ah, young one. People your age are ever so curious. Couldn't I have done it out of the goodness of my heart?"

Harry raised an eyebrow.

"I suppose you could, yes. After all, you've certainly eaten enough raw hearts, eh Lady Sharr?" Harry said to the legendary Ekaterina Sharr, aka Baba Yaga, progenitor, clan goddess, and first lady of the House of Morrigan.

The goddess only smiled in return, a rueful smile, one that only served to enhance her awe-inspiringly haunting beauty. Then she spoke, "Fair enough. The real reason I acted the way I did, was because I was sending a message, to you and to your relatives."

"Oh?" Harry replied, hiding the shock he felt upon realizing that she had no idea that his 'uncles' did not, in fact, exist (his shields were completely dropped right now, as emotions were necessary to converse with the divine).

Well, that was one aspect of Thunderborn powers confirmed. Guises he crafted using those powers could fool anyone and anything, even the divine. That was good to know and see confirmed.

"And the message is…" Harry trailed off. He had an idea, but he dare not hope that it was the right one.

"That you are not alone. Arrayed against you, as the entirety of divinity is right now, there nevertheless exist interests, powerful interests, that are intent on seeing you to achieving all your goals."

"Are there now?" Harry managed to say somewhat passively, keeping up the charade of urbanity, while inwardly he was feeling as if someone had set off a 'happy-bomb' in his mind. This… was quite possibly the best news he'd had in his life!

"Oh yes. Gods and goddesses, immortals and demigods, all of which intend to see you achieve all that you have set your mind to, no matter what."

"But… why? If all my plans proceed as they are, every single pantheon will-"

"Die, regardless of who or what helps you, yes?" the male voice finished, causing Harry to almost jump fifty feet in the air. He whirled around, to see the figure that he had not once noticed come across his wards, not even with all of the many measures that were active right now on his person.

The man, if he was a man (a highly unlikely prospect), was over six feet tall, clad in casual dress, simple shirt and trousers, and sitting, casual as you like, on thin air, some ten feet from where Harry was.

As he looked at the entity, Harry became very, very wary. Every thought he'd had in his mind fled, and every single emotion in his mind was suddenly trying to overpower every other thought, but dominant throughout all of that was a grim sense of comprehension, an extreme wariness, and after a very, very long time, a slight trickle of fear.

It was all well warranted, of course. As casual as Harry had seemed while talking to Morrigan, he'd still been more alert than he'd ever been before, and she was just a minor goddess, an entity of war and discord in a pantheon already rife with them.

But this guy… if Harry was correct about his identity, and he would bet everything he had that he was, well… he might just be in over his head.

Because you see, there in the man's left pocket, shining a bright gold amongst the black trousers, was the tip of a flute. Even from the inch or so that was visible of it Harry could tell that it was a magnificent, beautiful flute, decorated elaborately with gold and silver filigree, displaying well-known scenes in delicate artwork.

That was not worrying. Lots of gods liked music, and a god carrying something in one's pocket did not, despite what one might believe, make it a symbol of their power.

In this case though… the small peacock leaf present at the tip of the flute was enough to tell him just who this god was, and as said before, enough to make him seriously wary and more than just a bit afraid.

His thoughts were interrupted, as the major divinity continued, "Yes, Harry Potter. We know that. Only too well, if I were to say."

"Then why, and why you, of all of them? Why would you be interested in helping me destroy everything you have helped build for so long?"

"Because that is what should happen, youngling. Because the pantheons have been in power too long. They have bloated in their reign, become weak, vacillating and corrupt in the extreme. No longer does the call of the devotee have any meaning to them, and no longer are great disruptions worthy of their concern or assistance. They all hide behind the so-called celestial laws, concealing their indolence and laziness with it like a shield."

Harry could see that the Great God was passionate about this matter, evident by the anger that started to show plainly on his face. "I have tried to act in gentler ways. I have told them the error of their ways, time and again, and they ignore me, citing ridiculous excuses like non-interference and 'humanity should grow at its own pace.' I have talked to them all, and I have been disappointed by them all."

Krishna was in a proper temper now, obvious from how his voice had grown sharp. "Indeed, it is only the Great Three that remain worth anything, and they have agreed to my course of action, even at the heavy cost. The rest are only concerned with their pleasures and their power. Well, I say enough is enough!" the god finished, spent. He looked rather shocked at his outburst, which did more to tell Harry just how tired the god was than anything else could have.

In a calmer voice, the deity continued, "I have seen what they have become, how they have so lovingly embraced the very things they were supposed to lead man away from. I have seen it all, and this I decree: No More. No more will the excesses of the divine be allowed to run unchecked. No more will they waste the power they have. It is time for a change! Old traditions will end, new cultures will ascend. The powers shall pass to new hands, worlds will alter their course. All of that is my will, and to make that will a reality…"

Here the blue-skinned god looked Harry directly in the eye, seeming to gauge him in his own mind, before he spoke again. "And for that to happen, your victory is essential, Harry Potter. You will be the flood that will wash away the filth of the divine. You will be the fire that will purge a forest that is far too dark, with an underbelly just too corrupt to be saved. And if, for that to happen, I and several others have to perish, then so be it. We shall pay that price."

As the god, done with his 'explanation,' relaxed in his chair, Harry's mind blazed with possibilities. This… was beyond anything he had ever envisioned or prepared for, and that was saying something. As the permutations whirled within his brain, setting alight every thought with the spark of sheer, raw possibility, he just… lost himself.

Only to return moments later, when the two divine entities asked, "So, do you want to hear some of our plans?"

Harry smiled.

They smiled back.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Harry cursed. That is, he cursed twice, once metaphorically, at his ill fortune, and once literally, as part of the combat. Well, technically he cursed thrice, one lethal magical curse for each of his two opponents, but who was counting?

It had been a simple, clean job. Get into nevernever, at the very edge of the twilight realms, where Summer and Winter met, and start summoning the beings he needed, about a few dozen or so phoenixes, some ice-spirits, some dryads, and the like. It was a fairly even selection from both realms, hence the choice in neutral territory.

How was he to know that summoning a few insignificant beings would result in both bloody motherfucking queens teaming up to attack him? I mean come on! They never teamed up!

'Well, Potter, they damn well have teamed up!' Harry thought, as he used his magic to reduce fucking icicles made of fire to nothing. He ignored the sheer impossibility of the attack, having become used to such things in the…time he'd been fighting.

Yes, things were bad enough that he had no idea just when he'd started on this. It could have been five minutes ago, or it could have been fifty decades. All he remembered was that he'd realized within moments that this was a fight far, far beyond him, at least while the queens remained in their own element. Since then he'd tried to slowly manipulate the fight out of the area and into the untamed warp, only to realize that to manipulate the fight he needed to control it to any degree, and that was simply not possible.

So… yes. Harry was deep in the heart of the nevernever, being attacked by ancient eldritch beings who were intent on utterly destroying him for reasons that escaped him, and who were both every bit as powerful as minor gods in their own right.

Well, so was he, and therefore he might have been able to take on one of them. Unlikely, given the sheer gulf in experience, but it would've been possible, at least on paper.

As he was, it was all he could do to get the odd hit in between blocking, dodging and taking truly horrendous injuries. Hits that his opponents casually blocked, even as they continually analyzed his powers and came up with countermeasures and strategies to destroy him.

Well, to be totally honest, Harry wasn't quite at 100% just yet, having released more and more of his bonds over the last… bit of time, but still having quite a few to go. Not that it mattered all that much. The wild energies of the nevernever were flowing freely into him, so he didn't really have any shortage of juice, and skill… well, that didn't depend on raw power.

Still, he thought, as he released yet another burst of raw chaos magic, there could be worse ways to go than in an all-out fight against the Queens of the Fay. And unfortunately, go he would. If this'd been earth then there wouldn't even have been any concern of him facing any significant loss in defeat. First he wouldn't have been overpowered, and second, even if he did die, despite the many, many protections he had against it, the least of which was being-actually-motherfucking immortal, all that would happen was that he'd wake up in one of his auxiliary bodies once his enchantments working within the void brought his soul back.

Here, in this place… the very concept of him was in danger of being destroyed. The two eldritch entities he'd somehow made enemies of were capable of threatening his entire existence.

So…yeah. He was so fucking fucked.

'Well, Harry old boy, the only thing to do is to go all out.'

And so he did. Harry dropped even the last of his limiters, unleashing everything he had, except for his mental and emotional bindings. Those he tightened beyond anything he'd ever done before.

And so Harry Potter fought. He cast spells that rent the very Earth, spells that froze fire and burned ice. Chaos erupted around him over and over again, twisting everything that was and everything that could be. He clashed with the enemies he was facing, losing all restraint and all concern for anything and everything, including his own existence. Zar'roc flashed, tearing apart ideas and concepts, unleashing nightmares and slashing imaginations, all with a single move.

And as the Master of Death fought, as the Thunderborn, the Heir and Successor of every God associated with Chaos and Thunder freely unleashed the very depths of his power and reveled in their unrestricted use, something happened.

She was, all modesty aside, quite possibly the most beautiful being in all the cosmos. The finest mortal women were but hags to her, and even Aphrodite herself was a mere shadow of her loveliness. But then, given as she was the Lady of Light, Life and Earth, it was only fitting.

Titania grit her teeth, raising a fresh mountain out of nowhere just in time to stop the onslaught of a thousand lances of magically enriched cold iron bearing down at her. She relaxed for a microsecond, as one after another the projectiles buried themselves into the depths of the mountain, releasing great sounds like, well, a thousand iron lances burrowing deeply into a mountain. As it was, she relaxed a microsecond too much, which was evident from the lance that erupted out of her shield, digging deep into her left shoulder.

She collapsed into a pile of dandelions, reforming a few feet away, before turning around and casting a bolt of energy at her mountain, which caused it to explode into individual boulders, all heading towards her assailant at supersonic speeds.

While the man she was fighting, the Youngest of Immortals, was busy snapping his fingers to release a pulse that reduced all the boulders to powder, she took a look at her injury. As the weapon had been enriched cold iron, the wound would resist all attempts at healing, she knew, but she thanked the Creator that it was only a flesh wound.

After all, great she may be, a being of terrifying might she may have been, but she had beencreated in the image of humanity by The Desolate One, and so, there did exist a bone that could have been broken. Shrugging a bit to get an idea of how it would affect her movements, she noticed when the young man used the crushed powder of her boulders to conceal himself as he burst into shadow, which rapidly coalesced around Mab when she sought to entomb the demigod in ice.

Jumping back into the fray, Titania cursed inwardly. This was utter madness! No one had ever succeeded in holding off one of them to such an extent! Gods, eldritch forces, mantle holders, demons had all tried, and they had all failed! And this one, this half-grown-barely-ascended immortal was matching, blow-by-blow, the both of them!

Well, quite a few had trounced them both thoroughly in the past, such as elder gods and so (Zeus, whenever he was feeling horny, came to mind), but even that was preferable! She was a creature of summer, she preferred order, to have an understanding of things, even if they weren't in her favor. But this, it drove her crazy!

Just who was this one, who refused to end? She had to admit, that despite what this man had done, she had to admire that sort of power. After all, she'd always admired power. But if he had power, then why didn't he have enough to finish this once and for all?

And that fighting style! She'd been combating supernatural beings since before the world was young. By now she'd encountered them all.

And indeed, it appeared that the immortal was intent on making her encounter most of them, all over again. She watched as Mab was frozen in midair, then hit with several thunderbolts she could've sworn were the exact style Zeus used. She herself had, just moments ago, beaten into dust bony hands rising out of the ground in exactly the same manner that Hades' attacks came out. Harry Potter had, in the skirmish they'd had just before this one, summoned beings of the shadow, powerful ones, which had to be the same ones that belonged to Hela.

What exactly was this Harry Potter?

But she didn't know, and wasn't very likely to find out until she beat him bloody and forced it all out of the young immortal's mouth.

And so Titania fought. So they all fought. They clashed and clashed, unleashing waves of power that set the entirety of the nevernever shaking, hits and strikes that took apart entire mini-universes present in the chaotic realm's ether.

They fought and fought, two of the eldest and mightiest women of the entire cosmos on one side. And the Youngest, and quite possibly the strongest of immortals, on the other. It was a clash that set the realms ablaze, that sent smaller beings scurrying by the millions in abject terror.

Mab, Titania and Hadrian were three names etched onto the very soul of the universe that day, such was the endless combat. And yet, no one, not any of the queens, nor the duke, would even entertain the idea of giving up.

And while the realms burned, something great and terrible laughed. An entity older than time itself, far, far away from that realm and all others, watching the combat with utter glee, as it did all things in the life of Harry Potter. It was a formless thing, although any who were unfortunate enough to lay eyes on it would each have seen something different.

Sammael, the Great One, the Terrible One, Changer of Ways, The Crawling Chaos, the Dreaming Sultan, all these and many other names it had, but Harry Potter would simply have called him great, greeeeeeeeeat grandpa. He watched his heir, saw him as he clashed relentlessly and endlessly with two of Sammael's finest and oldest creations, and as he did, he laughed.

Because you see, none of the three combatants knew exactly what was happening. As they fought, they were releasing burst after burst of energy across the whole of the nevernever. The energies were many and varied, symbolic of the magics used, but one thing they all had in common was the phenomenal amounts of raw, unadulterated chaos.

Chaos energy that did not stay there. It filtered away, guided away subtly and slowly from the realm. Its path was revealed on the very soul of Harry Potter, etched in letters of spectral flame, and it drained into the path, pouring away until it reached the other end.

The other end, where it turned out to have a certain purpose.

This chaos energy entered the realm that was Sammael's prison, and once it was there, it acted. It funneled itself through the ethereal folds of the prison universe, bending under Sammael's will to eat away at the multitude of bindings that restrained and limited the Great God's power.

And as, bit by bit, the power of the bindings faded, Sammael's laughter only grew louder.

Oh, he knew he wasn't getting out. He was too well restrained, and in any case he had no desire to, having tired of existence a long, long time ago. But mischief was an integral part of his nature, and he would work the very greatest of mischief before he ceased to be.

Nor would that be now. As momentous as these energies were, the effect on his prison was still like making a rat chew a rope made of steel threads. It would work, eventually, but eons would pass before it did.

No, this was just to get a touch more breathing space.

And so he watched and watched, laughing at the developments he was witness to in this fight, especially a rather interesting one in particular. All the while his bindings kept weakening ever so little.

Until…

"Enough."

The voice was steady, and low, as if the speaker was being perfectly quiet as well as being relatively comfortable.

Nevertheless it froze all three of them where they were, because all three of them recognized it, because all three were, technically speaking in one case, its creations. And it also might have had something to do with the way their limbs seized up before its power.

"I see that you still recognize my voice," Sammael spoke, voice oozing with a mixture of charm and mockery that left the listener rather undecided as to the entity's mood.

"Well, cover up, why don't you?" the Eldritch god suggested.

He was not referring to any wounds.

Because you see, at some point during the fight, (oh very well, battle) things had gotten…strange.

Mab would argue till the end of time that it was Titania's 'fiery passion,' and the Seelie monarch would, in turn, keep on insisting that it was Mab's 'icy composure' failing. In the middle of the two, Harry Potter would keep on thinking that it was something either on Sammael's part or an act of whimsy by Magic herself. The author and reader will know that it was because of the author's (AND his beta's, Looking right at you, Joe) filthy, filthy mind.

Regardless, what mattered was that at some point in the middle of the two lovely and lethal ladies trying their damndest to murder Harry, two of the three faces had come into contact.

That is, they'd kissed. And for the lives of them, neither could identify just which two of the three it'd been.

Anyway, they had kissed, certain magics had reacted and meshed to yield unforeseen effects, and the wise reader doesn't really need more than that to connect the dots.

Sufficed to say, the three resembled bunnies more than fighters when Sammael's voice broke over them.

Speaking of which, none of the three made any move to cover up so much as an inch, familiar enough with the eldritch god to know just how much he cared about that kind of thing.

Indeed, "Oh very well. Be like that. Ignore your creator. In any case, I have a command for you."

Now all three acted. In a second they were upright, ready for anything he might ask of them.

"Your will is our command, Creator." The two queens spoke in perfect unison.

"What they said." Harry followed up.

"Oh it's nothing that bad or onerous. Indeed, looking at you, you will enjoy it, I should say."Sammael could tell right then that at least the two Queens had guessed what he was about to say. It was pretty much the only possibility, after all. And even without his command, it had been a long time, too long really, since Oberon passed into oblivion.

And best of all, if the looks of absolute delight were any indication, they'd enjoy it very, very much.

He asked as much. "From your faces… you've guessed, I believe."

Titania hesitated, "We would never dare to presume we knew your thoughts, Creator."

"Nevertheless, something leapt to mind?"

"Yes, lord."

"And do you believe it to be a good idea?" the voice was not, by any imagination, asking for permission or approval. It was just…inquiring.

It took her a few seconds, and a silent, mental conversation with Mab, but the Summer Queen nodded. "He is worthy. And indeed, very ready for it."

"Are you sure? Doesn't he have too…hard a character?" the charm was all gone now, leaving only a faint mockery.

The queen rolled her eyes, "With all due respect, Creator, that was terrible."

"Was it? But seriously, won't he rule too…long?"

"Really?"

A voice broke in here, full of impatience and more than a slight touch of anger.

"Will anyone tell this poor, young, lesser being what is going on?" Harry Potter yelled, more than asked, frustratedly.

It was Mab who spoke now, her voice a lilting litany of smugness, "How ironic you should call yourself that."

"And why's that?"

"Because, young Lord Thunderborn, in a few moments you will be anything but."

"What?"

"He is right, you know. You are going to have everything you need. And indeed, everything you want."

"What?"

"Indeed, Harry Potter. All that remains of the matter is for you to choose a name. A regal name that can be hailed."

"WHAT?"

"Hail to the King, young one. Hail to the King. All hail…Henry should do. All Hail Henry, King of the Fay!"

While comprehension dawned on Harry, he watched, dumbfounded, as the queens knelt, before joining the chorus. He was still as dumbfounded when thousands upon thousands of fay appeared, of all types and breeds, all on their knees, all crying out the same words.

"All hail Henry, King of the Fay!"

As the cries drowned out his world and as his exhaustion of however-bloody-long-that-had-been rushed to overpower him, all Harry could think was, 'All that, for a bloody succession test?"

Aaaand that's bloody it! Done, done and done. Doooonnnne! Again, anything you want to talk about, however minor, don't hesitate to review/PM!

The chapter is, as said before, raw, so check back in after a few days for the beta-ed product. Edit: Betaed, as of 20/1/15

Oh, and REVIEW! REVIEW! REVIEW!

A.N: 20/1/2015-

Okay, everybody. Listen up. I've got decent news, bad news, and good news.

The decent news is, that despite what it might have appeared in the last few months, I'm not dead, and neither are any of my stories.

The bad news is, the UP Technical University murdered Chronicles. I mean, I had exams, and then more exams, and then practicals…you get the point. I have no idea what to write in that story. Now before you get angry, relax. The whole things had gotten too out of control anyway, there were mistakes galore, I was putting my notes to self in the final versions of the chapters, even Joe was not being enough to curb my typos, and you know, all that.

But for all of that, the story is not, I repeat NOT, abandoned, dead, up for adoption, or any such thing. All that's happened is, that it's slid a couple notches down the totem pole of updating priority. I mean, you gotta understand me, guys!

I would sit down in front of a computer, and tell my brain 'Okay brain, tell me what to write in Camelot' and it would say 'Oh you know, this would be great in Overlord! You could add this, remove that, and it'd make a good scene!'

It was maddening, I tell you.

So this is what'll happen. From now on, Overlord is the regularly scheduled story, while I put Camelot on a meat grinder. Once I go through every chapter, every line, and add and remove things until I rekindle my muse and/or the story is in shape, then…well, you what'll happen then!

And the good news, obviously, is that Overlord will now be updated quicker! I tell you' I've got a whole brain stuffed full of Overlord ideas just itching to come out, and I am going to let them all out! Even the rewrite is almost complete!