Candlelight flickered to the lurching motions of the vessel, groaning and straining through the high waves. A heavy patter of stormy rain filled the Captain's Cabin with unsettling background noise. From beneath its oaken bowels, there came the reassuring hum of the engine, purring like a snoring dragon as Barnak had always known it to do on its speedy voyage.

The Gringotts Galleon was no doubt the most impressive ship of its kind, one of its minor feats being able to cross the Atlantic in naught but a day even in this kind of tempestuous weather. Yet storms always had Barnak on edge. The fickle winds always brought back uncomfortable memories. He put down his journal and returned to the charting table, precisely calculating their course through the equatorial streams yet again.

Perfectly on schedule. They should be passing three hundred miles from Barbados in just an hour. He looked through the port window, knowing there would be nothing to see, except maybe their escorts, which were navigating by the Galleon's light beacon. This beacon was invisible to everyone else. Even marine magical creatures were oblivious to the ship's passage. What a safe and cushy job, Barnak thought.

He shivered at the flashes of lightning through the porthole, shaking his head, looking on idly through the window. Waves churned by at dazzling speeds. Another crackle of light extended several miles over the horizon. Paranoia suddenly gripped Barnak. The silhouette of their escort hadn't been visible in the flash, come to think of it he hadn't spotted it earlier either. In a storm like this they wouldn't be far off, wanting to stay close to the beacon of light. As if to answer his suspicion, the Cor Draconis roared from deep within the ship.

Barnak took his tricorne and his coat off his chair and donned it, opening the door to his cabin and rushing to the Navigation Bridge. Inside, a circular room on the starboard side allowed easy communication to the whole ship. Chief Navigator Erog turned to him. "Captain."

"Have we had word from the escorts?" Barnak asked.

"They signaled twenty or so minutes ago. They had no trouble following."

"Contact them now," he said urgently.

Erog turned the communications lever on the left side and a horn sounded, followed by the bright flashes of the Galleon's beacon signaling the escort to reveal its presence to the Main Ship. Barnak took the periscope himself, being presented with a panoramic view of the seas. It was confusing to the untrained eye, but he could see everything. The light of the Galleon's beacon dimmed. There was no response from the escorts.

"Again!" Barnak urged, not taking his eye off the periscope.

The horn sounded again and the beacon's pulsing lit the seas around them, but they were alone on the waves. Barnak stilled for but an instant before sounding the emergency alarm. He took the horn off the hook and spoke into it. "This is the Captain. All men to their posts, all cannons armed. Prepare for battle!" He turned to Erog. "Keep looking for the escorts, keep me appraised."

Without losing a second, he made his way to the aft castle's exit. In a matter of minutes, First Mate Kredor arrived with his Sabermen, armed and ready.

The voice of the First Artillery Officer came through the pipes. "Cannons ready. Cor Draconis fully engaged."

"Who is the enemy?" Kredor asked, one hand on his scabbard.

"We don't know," Barnak answered. "Our escorts went missing. Follow me on deck."

They went out the aft castle into the open stormy skies, Kredor barking at his Sabermen as they did. The ship cut steadfast through the waves, the bow keeping away water, wind and gusts from the passengers. The air was filled with salt water mist and Barnak looked around for any answer as to why their escorts had disappeared.

He took out his enchanted telescope and scoured the jagged horizon for a clue. A minute passed as he carefully scoped out the waves. Until he spotted a mere dot of black on the background of a lightning strike. "Contact port side!"

"Contact port side!" a seaman shouted in the voice pipe.

He kept looking as it became clearer, two miles away magnified many times magically. It was a person on a broom.

"A wizard."

"Is he coming our way?" Kredor asked.

"Chance encounters don't happen on the open seas," Barnak said with a frown. "Fire one shot, aim to kill."

The Cor Draconis revved up beneath the hold, channelling its power into one of the port cannons. A shiver went up Barnak's spine. He'd only seen it shot once, and never had to give the order himself.

There was a moment of quiet like a heaved breath, and then a flash of hellish fire shot from the ship's port side. The ship lurched sideways, the less experienced crew holding onto the mast's holds. The bead of light of the cannon's shot sped up towards the dot on the horizon. Through his telescope he saw the projectile hone in on the interloper and collide with it, bursting apart in a bright explosion. He kept watching, his vision adjusting to the receding light. It crossed his mind that it might have been useful to know who had assailed them, but shrugged off the thought. He'd become Captain because he was careful, not subtle.

Looking to his men, he saw them satisfied, laughing at seeing the power of the Galleon put into practice. Save for Kredor, who had taken out his own telescope.

"Captain," he said, his sharp teeth glinting in the scant moonlight. "It's still there."

Barnak took up his telescope again and saw that the target was still coming closer, the broom now clearer, the robes fluttering in the wind, seemingly unharmed.

"Fire in sequence! Second cannon now!"

The Sabermen's glee turned to worry as the ship unleashed a steady barrage of fire upon the target. FWOOM — FWOOM — FWOOM. It came to a mile in distance and Barnak could finally see what was happening. A moment before the incandescent projectile struck the target, a shadow erupted from it, tearing the magical ball of fire asunder.

Barnak realised that soon whatever it was would be upon them, and he would not take any risks. "Deploy the shell," he said to the sailor standing next to the voice pipe, who repeated his order.

With a sound of claxons, a metal shell started to rise out of the sides of the ship. The masts descended and the sails folded up. The target was getting closer, faster. It struck him how surreal it was for the ship to even be found, much less attacked.

"Sabermen, ready!" Kredor shouted. His men responded with a roaring battle-cry.

But there was hesitance in their voice. Kredor thought the shell wouldn't close quickly enough.

Kredor was right.

The cannons stopped firing, their hatches having been closed and between the two halves of the shell, now an opening of only several feet, came a man wreathed in shadow.

With the shell raised, the last droplets of rain ceased as it closed above them, their target now trapped inside with them. Black mist rose from beneath him as the men readied themselves. The wizard seemed disturbingly calm. He looked on beyond them to the aft castle and his gaze lowered—to the engine room. Barnak reached for his pistol, knowing full well how dire the situation was. However, as the man brushed a dark lock of hair from his forehead, Barnak froze.

"Him!" he cried in surprise.

From the corner of his eye he could see Kredor come to the same realisation. And the gears must be turning similarly in his head. Everyone thought he was dead, and if that secret was such an important thing, they wouldn't be left alive to tell the tale.

"Fire!" he commanded, defensively drawing his gun.

His finger was quick on the trigger and he heard the guns of the Sabermen loosen, faster even. Magical bullets rang through the air and soon after, a curse came from Kredor. There was nothing standing behind the smoke of the gunpowder. It was too late for him. His neck was being lopped off like a ripe vegetable by a limb of swirling shadow. The men drew their swords, but in want of a target found only darkness.

Confusion and disbelief. Barnak saw his men torn to shreds by the inky mass surrounding them. Their body parts fell to the deck like sacks of raw meat, splashing with leaking blood. He fell backwards, swinging his sword at an enemy he couldn't perceive. He closed his eyes, his heart thumping in his chest. When his mind stilled, all he could hear was the shaking steel in his hand and the dripping of water from the shell above. Sound was muffled from outside. They'd started their dive. There was no way out now.

To his infinite surprise, he didn't die right away. As he opened his eyes, he saw the wizard that had torn his men to shreds putting up some sort of spire made out of metal. How or why was immaterial now, all he could do was watch. Still, seeing none other than Harry Potter, alive, had him in shock.

Moments later, three pops sounded and more wizards and one witch appeared.

"It looked close," said one with flaming red hair.

"You took care of the escorts," Potter said. "It went well enough."

"Easy enough once we got the tip. Marlene, I believe we need you for the engine."

"Yes, yes," she replied. "I can't believe this weather."

A third wizard with dark brown hair shrugged at this. "Couldn't have done it without the weather."

Potter, his green eyes boring through Barnak, then frowned.

"The Captain?" the redhead asked.

"Yeah," Potter said, and came closer. "Any last words?"

"How?"

Potter frowned back at him. "How? Is that really what you want to know? You don't want to know why we're taking your ship?"

"The Cor Draconis?"

"Correct. The only thing more valuable than any amount of galleons this ship can carry, that is why we're here."

Even though his last moments were at hand, Barnak felt his curiosity flicker. He couldn't go to the grave without knowing the purpose of his ship and crew's downfall. "What will you do with it?" he asked.

"Well, if it's any consolation, it'll serve a seafaring vessel all the same," Potter said with a dry laugh. "We'll be taking it home, and to take back what's ours."

"An inspiring call to arms," the brown haired wizard said.

"I thought so," Potter replied. "Fair voyage, Captain."

#

"There's a lot of paperwork for you to catch up on—here, the trainee's performance reports—and there's the budget to review. And Overseer Berkley sent a message about a possible training cooperative, which I know you've rejected in the past, but it might be beneficial if only to get her off our back. It would put you in Karsis' good graces too, and you know how much pull he has…"

"Go on."

Mary flipped through some parchment. "Headmistress McGonagall rejected Overseer intervention again, but I'm sure you know that. They went behind Kingsley's back this time."

"Bastards…"

"I have a feeling this is the one thing Kingsley won't budge on."

"Clearly he doesn't have much to say if they're going behind his back."

"But they can't just—"

"Fighting a losing battle."

Mary sighed, which Mathilda was getting used to. Her protege getting aggravated at her attitude. Maybe it was warranted. She looked over the budget, her mind numbing at the meaningless reviewing and administrative superfluousness. She couldn't remember the last time she felt herself challenged, the blood pump in her veins or that tingling in her skull. Only mindless custodian duties and a failing grip on autonomy.

Mary came to behind her desk, looking at her with purposeful blue eyes. "You can't keep putting yourself down like that. How will you achieve anything?"

"Achieve what?"

"Anything."

Time had a way of just slipping by like a rapid stream. She felt like she was in maintenance mode, and maybe she was, waiting for something, anything. A sign? There hadn't been a sign since Harry left. Maybe her age was over. Maybe, she would just shrivel and rot in the decrepit cesspool this country had become.

Mary's annoyance was interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Mr. Fuller?"

The new Minister's aide.

"Yes. I—eh—if Chief Greshaw isn't too busy, the Minister asked if you would meet with him."

"Now?" Mathilda asked without looking up.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"It's confidential, I'm afraid," he said with a smile towards Mary.

This had her curious, but not too hopeful. "Must be urgent."

"It is."

Glad to have anything to take her mind off her duties, she stood up to follow Andrew Fuller. "Will it be long?"

"No more than an hour I believe."

"Good," she said with a nod to Mary.

Andrew nodded to her as well. "Good day, Auror Borgin."

"We'll finish this later, then, Chief?"

"Sure."

Fuller led her to the elevators, maintaining his proper posture. Somehow Kingsley had found another idealist to serve him after his two aides had died. Idly, she ran a finger over the golden pin on her cloak. Getting to be Head Auror hadn't been all she'd hoped it to be. Maybe some things were only enjoyed in good company.

The Bluecloaks had set up in a wing of the Minister's offices, which suited her well enough. Better that her Aurors and them had as little contact as possible, which is why she turned down Karsis' offer for joint training. Many times the thought had slipped through her mind to drive them all out. But to what end? Alone, a fight would be meaningless. One of them looked her way and quickly averted his gaze as she turned to him. She still had the power to make them fear her, but for how long, she didn't know.

"Thank you," Andrew said as they neared the Minister's office. "I know the Minister is thankful for how helpful you and your department have been through these difficult times."

"No trouble," she answered. It really wasn't. What better did she have to do? At the very least she'd like to know what Kingsley was up to.

"No, truly. Things have been… well, not great, and they don't look to be getting better."

"How do you mean?"

"You must know about the—well, the gatherings? They say there's some secret society, if you believe it," he said with a chuckle.

"The protests aren't what I'd call secret."

"No. I guess not," Andrew answered. "It's just a rumour, but more and more people are losing faith—in the Minister, I mean—but he's doing his best, as you know."

"I'm sure he is."

Kingsley's best hadn't amounted to much, save for preventing Overseer presence at Hogwarts, and now even that was slipping him by. With such weak representation, it was no wonder people were uneasy, and if rumours were to be believed, the new Wizengamot had plenty of unruly members as well. It truly was a mess, one she was partially responsible for.

Andrew gave a nod as he opened the door for her. He didn't enter. Inside, she was surprised to see a goblin at Kingsley's desk with an irascible look about him. His suit was made of fine black cloth and lined with silver. If Mathilda knew anything about goblin cultural trends, he was quite important.

"Minister," she greeted.

Kingsley stood and shook her hand. "Thank you for coming, Head Auror Greshaw." He cleared his throat and looked to the goblin. "Very well, Lorek, this is Captain Greshaw; Captain Greshaw, this is Lorek."

"Lorek?" she said, her brow furrowing in surprise. "That's the name of…"

"I am indeed the Head Chairman of Gringotts Bank," Lorek answered.

She nodded, waiting for an explanation.

"The Head Chairman of Gringotts hasn't visited with Wizard Administration since—" Kingsley started.

"In thirty-three years," Lorek answered, "which should give you an idea of how serious this matter is."

Lorek sat down on a chair and motioned for the both of them to do the same, which they did.

"As I have already explained to the Minister, my coming here pertains to a most sensitive matter to Gringotts Bank and its clients and Chairmen. I will ask you the same question I asked the Minister. What do you know of the Gringotts Galleon?"

"You mean gold?"

Lorek raised his hands. "It is a well-guarded secret, although the coinage does get its name from it. I am referring to Gringotts' seafaring vessel, the Gringotts Galleon. Aside from the bank itself and its subsidiaries, it is by far the most important holding of our bank—or should I say, it used to be."

"A vessel?" she repeated.

"A ship—a three-master, built some centuries ago to facilitate trade of Goblin Gold between Britain and the Colonies. We became aware of its disappearance three days ago, when it failed to dock at its destination port."

Mathilda relaxed into the chair, her interest piqued. "And it was carrying gold?"

"As grave as the loss of gold is to Gringotts Bank, Captain Greshaw, the loss of the vessel is far greater."

"What's so special about it?"

Lorek looked displeased with her question, throwing a glare at Kingsley.

"More information would be useful," Kingsley answered. "You did want our help, did you not?"

"Very well," Lorek said, after deliberating. "The ship is powered by the Cor Draconis, an ancient artefact. While only those who built the Gringotts Galleon truly know what it does, it essentially brings the ship to life. The Cor Draconis had its own will, it is vastly powerful and critical to Gringotts operations. Without it, we are forced to ask for Wizard intervention in our trade. Now you know why the situation is so dire."

"Wizard and Goblin relations rely on segregation," Kingsley said.

"And with the political situation as it is," Lorek added, "there would be only one governmental body we could turn to for aid."

"The MCUSA," Mathilda said.

"Precisely."

If she were to guess what would come of that, it would be one more asset in the MCUSA and the Overseer Government's control. It could potentially lead to disaster, or at the very least terrible unrest. She had the sneaking feeling that a manipulating hand was pulling strings behind that incident.

"A ship lost at sea isn't an easy thing to find," she said.

"Someone had to take it," Lorek said, "except we have no idea who. The last logs we received from the Galleon were sent at 1 AM British time, in the middle of its run. It went safely past Cape Verde and was due to send logs once they entered the Caribbean Sea, meaning it was most likely lost on its approach to the Americas."

"Around Central America?" Mathilda asked.

"Yes, that is the assumption."

While her pulse quickened at what she was imagining, her mind told her she was just grasping at straws. A ship disappearing near to the equator was just too juicy a morsel of hope to ignore. But in two years and nearly eight months time there had been no message. For all she knew they were really dead, betrayed by their hosts, or lost. There was only one way to know.

"So can I count on your cooperation in this matter?" Lorek asked.

Mathilda looked towards Kingsley, who was putting on an air of conciliation. "Of course you can, Chairman," he said, rising. "Whatever we can do to help."

Lorek nodded, and looked over them a last time before bidding them goodbye and leaving the office in the care of his goblin guards. She was glad for the information, but had the impression she'd just been subjected to a useless performance.

"What do you think?" Kingsley asked.

"I'm certain he was just telling us Magical Britain lost the support of Gringotts. He was justifying his position, there's no chance we'll ever get a whiff of that ship, if what he said is true. Or, best case scenario, he's hedging his bets."

"Yes," Kingsley said grimly, "they've been looking for a way out since the takeover happened. It pains me to say it but Magical Britain is a chained dog, and my influence has been waning."

"Well, if I find out anything, I'll let you know, but I wouldn't get my hopes up."

"Thank you," Kingsley said with a sigh. "I wish I knew where this was headed, I almost wish someone would take the reigns instead of me."

As she left the office, she wondered how true that wish of Kingsley was. Compromise wasn't in his nature. She headed for the Auror Department, but only to tell Mary she would be out for the rest of the day.

While she had no trouble making her way there by other means, she still filed her portkey for Blackmoor Castle. These days she had to be careful. The girl at the portkey desk handed it to her, an armband which had become the preferred way of doling out the enchantment these days.

Activating it, she arrived on the hills overlooking the prison. It had only been fully opened a year ago, and many of its plans had been delayed to make sure there were no tricks involved with it. It was rather monolithic, a wide structure leading to a single tower above its incarceration wings. It was a stark contrast with Azkaban, the blooming flowers in the hills making it look almost peaceful. But then its location had never been meant for a prison, even if no one was aware of that fact.

She ascended the steps leading to the entry hall. The two guards posted greeted her, their black uniforms having become a habitual sight these days. She made her way to the Lead Warden staffing the entrance. "I'm here to see the Chief Warden."

"He's in his office, Chief, sir."

A few more steps ascended, and two guard posts later, she came to the heavy walnut door leading to the Chief Warden's Office. She knocked, and was quickly asked inside. There, above a similarly heavy desk was seated Alfred Baxter, Chief Warden of Blackmoor, previously Master of the Azkaban Guard, but that name had too heavy a co-notation these days to be uttered freely.

"Rare for you to come by," he said, rising from his desk.

"Yeah, it is."

She hadn't reached out to him in months.

"And?"

"And we need to talk."

"So, talk."

"Below."

Alfred frowned at this, and it was only natural he did. She'd never asked to go back to that place.

"What's going on? You've…"

"I'll tell you on the way there."

He left the office with her and raised a hand for his Guards not to follow. They descended back to the lobby and through the east side of the castle. "We're visiting the archive," he said to both guards posted there. "No escort."

As they entered the lonely wing of the prison, his pace slowed and he turned to her, asking for an explanation.

"Maybe it's nothing," she said hastily. "Kingsley called me into his office. Just, basically Gringotts giving him the boot, so to speak. But, it's the reason he did so—the Chairman. Three days ago they lost a ship, a fairly important one, right around the Caribbean Sea."

"That's a stretch," Alfred said. "You get the irony of me saying that."

"I know. Call it a hunch, a feeling."

"Well, here we are," he said, opening the door to one of the storage rooms.

Right in the middle of the room, was an iron hatch, a hatch only they were aware of, covered in a thick layer of dust.

"You haven't been here either," she noted.

"Not in a while," Alfred answered with a shrug. "I thought about visiting this winter, but… it'll happen when it happens, I'm keeping myself busy."

She tugged at the ring of the hatch and pulled it open. It creaked as it did, revealing the hole below. They descended the ladder, Mathilda going first, and she lit her wand to see ahead.

Against the back wall of the hallway, she could see the Potter crest, a stag on a background of a forest beckoning her.

"I thought you didn't believe any more," Alfred said with a note of bitterness in his voice. "You didn't exactly back me up against Ginny."

"That's neither here nor there. Let's go ahead and check."

She still remembered their argument after the inquiry. Alfred wanted to take a heavier hand in things, and he had, but neither Mathilda nor Ginny had backed him up in his endeavour. They'd gone their separate ways, the glue that bound them together having dissolved.

To the right was the room with the altar, and looking over them as they entered stood the portrait of Peverell and his wife. But what really got her attention was the rune inscribed over the altar, a circle cut by a line, gleaming in gold.

Alfred turned her around with a hand on her shoulder. "Are you seeing the same thing I'm seeing?" he said in a hushed tone, looking back to the altar.

Her throat felt very dry as she tried to swallow. "Yeah. It's a message."

Alfred let her go and his shoulders slumped. "It's a message for you."

"I mean…"

"That's how it was set up," he said with a note of finality. "Whatever it is, is for your eyes only. But it means they're alive." He let out a deep breath and waved his hand. "Not that I doubted, but at least now I can tell Ginny I wasn't crazy for doing what I'm doing."

"I don't think she'll react the way you think she will."

"Maybe… Anyway, I'll leave you to it. You know the way out."

Alfred left, and perhaps there was a tinge of jealousy in his voice. As for Mathilda, she was sure she hadn't felt so alive at any moment in the past two years. The simple act of presence Harry Potter had made was enough to light the fuse of her very soul. A little bit of chaos promised into her life once again. She stepped towards the altar, the golden symbol shining ominously.

She took out the knife in her back pocket and flipped it open, holding her thumb over the symbol. With the blade, she made a small cut. The red liquid dripped onto the altar and pooled into the grooves of the rune. It vaporised into a smattering of dust and part of the altar opened up to let something slide into view: a delicate wooden box framed with gold, small enough to fit into the palm of her hand, and attached to it, a small piece of parchment.

Unfurling the note, it read:

Something you were promised a long time ago, to use in the fight soon to come.

As short as the note was, she knew who had written it, and more importantly what it implied was inside the box. She could not, not open it. Holding it still with one hand, she gently lifted the lid. Cold sweat ran down her spine. It felt like she'd been woken up from a torpid nightmare, like she'd been asleep ever since their departure. Not only had they been obviously busy, but he'd seemingly not hesitated at entrusting her with such boundless power.

She knew what it was meant for, the crystal held within the golden plate in her chest: 'incomplete'. They'd achieved the impossible. She felt impatient now, irritable at having to wait for his return. But it was a good feeling, being childishly unreasonable. Soon, he said.

She put the box in her pocket and incinerated the note.

#

Alfred flipped a pen between his fingers, his mind still mulling over what had happened. He couldn't help but feel envious. Two years he had toiled to prepare for their arrival. He had gathered every advantage possible, every edge for their return, yet Mathilda had been the one to receive a message and no doubt another boon. Was Harry even aware of what was happening in Britain? After all, those left here had no idea what was happening on their end.

Time seemed to have gone by in a flash. Ever since the inquiry, and the surprise of their celebration of Harry Potter's capture, things had just opened up in front of him in such a straightforward manner. Captain of the Guard in 2005, and just six months later Chief Warden of the Blackmoor. His Order of Merlin, Second Class, had done a lot of work for him. Compared to him, Mathilda had stuck with her promotion to Head Auror. She'd never looked beyond that.

There was a knock at his door and Wiltorf came in, his deep-set eyes as expressionless as when he first met him as a rookie in the Guard.

"She just left," he informed Alfred.

Alfred sighed in response. Maybe he should've engaged more with her, maybe she would change her mind about attending the meetings. But he was too busy to lose too much sleep over it. The more pressing matter was the Overseer Government's try at infringing on Hogwarts. He would have to discuss it with Rowle sooner rather than later.

"Should we be worried about her, sir?" Wiltorf asked, bringing him out of his thoughts.

He thought of Harry's words proclaiming her a better Auror than himself. The idea of going up against her was unpleasant to say the least, but their interests weren't aligned as they were back then. He dismissed the thought, shaking his head. "Leave the Auror Department be."

"They laugh behind our backs."

"Then let them laugh," Alfred said. "It'll become clear soon enough that you can't fight unless you have the people behind your back."

That had been their mistake before. Azkaban, their escapades abroad. They should have focused on gaining support at home, and they could have pushed back the MCUSA before they got in.

A knock came at the door again and he checked his watch. Too early for any of his meetings.

Wiltorf opened the door for one of the section leaders, Wilson, he remembered. "Yes?"

"Miss Greengrass got in trouble again, I thought you should know."

Wiltorf groaned, voicing Alfred's frustration.

"What is it this time?"

"The protest at Hogsmeade. Things got violent again, she hexed a UAD and got arrested, but the charges were too light to incarcerate her. She has a hearing in two weeks."

Alfred rubbed his face and got up. "Her father?"

"He's already here… waiting in the lobby."

"I'll be down in a moment."

Wilson nodded and closed the door behind her. Alfred took his coat and took his time gathering his things. Daphne was the only one who saw things the same way he did, but her repeated clashes with the UAD were getting to be too much to handle. One more thing to ask Rowle.

"Does that mean Lady Greengrass will miss this evening's meeting?" Wiltorf asked.

"It's a shame, but yes, it's better she doesn't come."

"We're all behind her," Wiltorf said with a frown. "Those American dogs don't know what's good for them."

"I know," Alfred said, leaving the office.

Wiltorf followed dutifully behind, and when they got to the lobby, waited a respectable distance behind him for his meeting with Greengrass.

"Mr. Baxter," he greeted, his eyes weary with doubt.

"Lord Greengrass."

"You heard what happened?"

"Yes. You didn't have to come, I'll handle things."

Alpharius Greengrass took a deep breath and slicked back his uncombed hair. "She needs to stop putting herself in danger like that."

"She knows what she's doing," Alfred stated. "She's well aware of the trouble her actions could get her into, yet she chooses to do so anyway." Greengrass made to protest, but Alfred put up a hand. "Having you come here every time something happens does no one any good. She will have her hearing, and the judges will dismiss the charges, as they have last time."

"It can't go on like this," Greengrass said. "Whatever you have her caught up in is reckless and doomed to fail. I hear the whispers. But Potter is dead. I don't know what this cult is but—"

"You shouldn't talk of things you don't know anything about," Alfred said, "but you're right, this won't last. If it puts you at ease, I don't intend for Daphne to get into trouble like this again."

Greengrass looked away, dissatisfied and out of options. A far cry from the Chief Warlock from before, he too had fallen quite low.

"I'll get things sorted," Alfred reaffirmed. "I still have some more meetings today, if you don't mind, Lord Greengrass."

He went through the rest of the afternoon with a sense of impending doom hanging over him. It hadn't really gotten through to him that a message meant Harry Potter was coming back to Britain. He couldn't fathom how he would do it, seeing they had no way to coordinate. It was frustrating not knowing when to prepare—and for what. How would he be judged? Did he do well, so far?

Evening came and he left Blackmoor Castle in the good hands of the night shift. It was nearing seven when he changed into his black cloak and apparated into Knockturn Alley.

The Bluecloaks were present everywhere these days, doubly so with the protests, but they wouldn't bother him. He found the entrance to the old supply shop and went inside. It was Lester Borgin's place and he had graciously given them use of his facilities. With a cursory greeting, he entered the door to the back room. There, two dozen people in black cloaks were already assembled. As he entered, conversation died down and they looked towards him.

Wiltorf was there already as were some other Guards. There was one potential new initiate today, being introduced by Lansing. The new face looked up to him nervously.

Alfred frowned. Beside Lansing was another person, a woman with red hair, her black cloak hanging loosely around her shoulders. She looked and waved at him.

Lansing brought the two forward.

"Cal Uther," the new face said. "So good to meet you."

"You tend the pub in Hollyhead, right?"

"Yes," Cal answered, nodding repeatedly.

The woman stepped forwards and extended a hand too. "My name's Fiona. Fiona Ennings. Nice to meet you, Mr. Baxter."

Alfred looked at Lansing for an answer.

"Sorry, Alfred. We met a few days ago. She's new in London and when I told her we help people out she was very interested."

"Sorry 'bout barging on your meeting like that," Fiona said apologetically. "I understand if you want to keep your distance, with the Yanks 'n everything. Mr. Lansing told me you were helping people, and I'd love to do so myself."

Alfred considered the woman. She seemed honest in wanting to help out, and it wasn't as if their Order was sworn to secrecy. Perhaps it was best to keep those who took the initiative especially close.

"We'll do Cal's initiation today. Please talk to people and get something to drink. See if you're interested."

"Thank you, Mr. Baxter," she said with a small curtsy that felt very out of place.

"About Ms. Greengrass?" Lansing asked.

"She won't be coming," Alfred said.

"Ah—it's not bad is it?" Lansing asked. "I told Cal all about the Lady, so it's a shame she can't be here for his initiation."

"She'll be here next time," Alfred said, wondering if he was playing second fiddle to Daphne as well.

His eyes landed on the corner table where drinks were set up. He was slightly surprised to see Gerund Rowle had come. Too glad to escape the awkward introduction, he excused himself.

"Didn't expect to see you come any time soon," he said to Rowle, who was sipping from a glass of wine.

"Seeing people is part of the job description."

"It's about the protest, isn't it?"

Rowle shrugged. "This and that. Yes, we can discuss it if you want."

Alfred crossed his arms, hoping Rowle wouldn't make things difficult. "Can you get the charges dismissed?"

"That's not the problem," he said with a wave. "The problem is my position is getting weaker by the day. The circus is getting queasy, a lot of Lords are considering switching sides. Yaxley, Slughorn… I don't want to be fatalistic, but I have my doubts on Lithewell and a few others. I won't be able to keep a majority the way things are headed. So, my help might become less valuable." With a sigh, he chomped on a piece of garnished toast. "Any thoughts?"

Alfred doubted how much he should say, but he couldn't just stand by and pretend nothing was going on. "Things will be looking up. I don't know how soon, but I'd like you to hold out on a majority as long as you can. If we lose any more ground—"

"We?" Rowle interrupted. "I'm the one losing any ground here, you're quite fine leading your nocturnal revolution."

"I'm just trying to prevent them from taking anything more," Alfred said, growing irritated.

"I know… I know—look, I'll do what I can, but it's like I said. It's all because Bones got Malfoy recently and…" He shuddered. "That lad gives me the creeps, but it's working. There's a rumour Kingsley will sign off on opening up seats. It doesn't bode well."

"Keep your head above water," Alfred said. "Things like this won't matter for long anyway…"

#

"And as such, the panel of judges deems the hexing of Auror McConnaughy to be proportional force, and charges are to be dismissed. Any appeals should be filed within a week's time."

Rowle banged his gavel, sparing a glance at the prosecution throwing him angry glares.

"They want your blood," Prewett whispered.

"My blood, my bones, and my skin, I figure by now. They're a greedy bunch."

"I'm serious. If things go on as it is, we'll be lucky to be in a minority position when Kingsley finally signs off on the new seats."

"Kinglsey always did thumb his nose at us. I wouldn't be surprised."

Rowle looked over the courtroom. Daphne Greengrass was talking with Macmillan.

"They're still a thing?" Prewett asked.

"Not sure, but Macmillan looks downright awful. Maybe his trouble-making girlfriend is finally becoming too much."

Prewett laughed. "Well, anyway, you have a meeting with the Overseers in about ten minutes if I remember. Try not to get yourself into trouble."

"You know me, Jaques. I'm the model for good behaviour."

"I'll see you later, then."

Rowle exited the courtroom and made his way to the main floor. He'd always seen himself as a survivor, a deft political mind. But as Prewett pointed out, things were getting a bit too chaotic as of late. If it wasn't Baxter's gang of troublemakers, it was the Overseers, and if it wasn't the Overseers, it was Bones' new alliance of freaks and opportunists making his life hell.

When the majority of their governmental body went up in smoke, he found himself in the interesting position of taking up leadership. Lord Greengrass had soon shown to be little more than a soufflé fallen flat and there were no others with as much experience as him to take up the spot of Chief Warlock. Slughorn, Yaxley and many others had rallied behind him in a bid to resist the scandalous occupation by the MCUSA. Rowle, of course, had done so with a light hand, making promises and picking up the pieces where Potter's blackmail scheme had left a void.

If it hadn't been for Potter's fiery demise, Rowle might have been looking at charges of collusion. After all, there was little to stop Kingsley from extending the law on use of Veritaserum to suspects in the debacle. But to everyone's great surprise, the opposite had happened instead. Kingsley, in the chaos of the inquiry, had repealed Potter's bill, and as such the use of Veritaserum was once again illegal.

He would never understand the puppet Minister's mind. Maybe he'd lost it long ago.

In front of the office, Rowle waited for the Bluecloak standing at Kingsley's door to acknowledge his presence.

"Yes?" the daft man said.

"Lord Rowle, here for Minister Shacklebolt."

After turning to his colleague, he nodded and let Rowle inside.

Weasley was standing next to the woman Overseer, Carlize Berkley. A shameless wretch, Rowle thought. If his sources were right, she'd left her cripple husband to sleep with the turncoat Weasley. But then what could you expect from a bunch of colonial ruffians?

"Seems I made the meeting in time, despite my prior arrangements, Minister," Rowle said.

"Thank you for taking the time," Kingsley said. His expression though, betrayed the fact he wanted to be here as little as Rowle.

"We heard about your verdict," Berkley said.

"Yes, serving justice," Rowle said. "Miss…"

"Mrs. Berkley."

"Oh! Pardon me. I didn't know you were still married," Rowle said with a smirk. "About the verdict?"

"We know you're playing favourites, that you're being impartial," Weasley said.

"That's quite an accusation."

"I looked over the charges," Kingsley said. "Miss Greengrass hexed an officer of the law."

"As I understand it," Rowle explained, "the Overseer forces are not part of the country's Law Enforcement, legally speaking. At least not yet. Aside from that, you will find, Minister, that the evidence was lacking. We had a witness statement that the Auror in question used force against Miss Greengrass—"

"The witness was part of the protesters, and there were witnesses to the contrary," Berkley said.

"He said, she said," Rowle answered, narrowing his eyes. "I don't know if you're familiar with the legal terminology, Miss—Mrs. Berkley. But I'm sure anyone will agree that the case was cut and dried, as they say. Then again," Rowle laughed, "perhaps law is prosecuted differently where you're from."

"You're a slimy bastard," Weasley cursed, his face turning red.

"That's enough!" Kingsley bellowed. He was cracking at the seams, but to be perfectly honest, Rowle preferred the Minister that way.

"There's the matter of who made the arrest," Berkley said, giving Rowle the most derisive look.

"Senior Auror Faich, if I remember correctly. We should be glad we have such paragons among us."

"They interfered, taking over the arrest from the UAD."

"And?" Rowle asked. "British Aurors have precedence when it comes to arrests."

"She came in after the arrest was already made."

"Partially," Rowle explained. "As I heard it, your Aurors were being quite rough with Miss Greengrass before Auror Faich came on the scene. I'm sure the situation was defused as a result."

It seemed Berkley was getting fed up, giving even the Minister the stink-eye.

"Leave me with Lord Rowle," Kingsley said.

They were hesitant, especially Weasley, but they left.

"Something you couldn't say in good company?" Rowle asked.

"They're right and you know it. You're playing favourites, and as much as I hate the idea, I find that I approve. Imagine that, me agreeing with you on something."

"I'm touched, Minister. Are we feeling quite rebellious these days?"

"Perhaps," Kingsley said. "And yet I know I'm not popular. Let me be clear: I don't like you, I never have. I have no doubt you'd sell me out if it suited you, but I find myself short of allies when it comes to keeping the MCUSA out of our business. Unfortunately, every move I make to oppose them brands me as 'uncooperative', and the International Commission might judge me to be unfit."

"You worry too much, Minister. We do what we can, don't we?"

Kingsley shook his head. "Keep doing what you're doing. And I'll keep burying my head in the sand for as long as I can."

"As always, I serve at the pleasure of the people," Rowle said with a small bow.

It was impossible for Rowle not to throw a smug glance in the direction of Berkely and her Weasley pet. To have the Minister defer to him in such a way was encouraging, even if the walls were crumbling around him.

He stopped by home to freshen up and change. "Krastor, my jacket," he called out to his house elf. The helpful little creature brought it to him and he fixed his hair in the mirror before floo'ing to Prewett's home. Liara was there to greet him, looking radiant as always.

"Gerund, old boy. Right on time too."

"Always a pleasure," Rowle said, kissing her cheek.

"Why don't you go have a drink with Jaques in the parlour. I'll get everything ready."

He joined Prewett for a drink. He kept his 60 year old Ogden's ready and handed him a glass.

"How did it go?"

"The Minister praised my belligerence if you can believe it."

"Did he now?"

"Yes. Can't say I enjoyed seeing Weasley and that Berkley woman, but it was a pleasant surprise. He did warn me that the sky was falling down though. He's afraid they'll replace him."

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'd rather not see him go."

"Can't you?" Rowle laughed. "Well, me neither. I wouldn't worry too much about it," he said swirling his glass.

"How's that?"

"Have you given much thought to what happened?"

"What do you mean?" Prewett said with a frown.

"I mean Potter's little disappearing act," Rowle said, returning a knowing smile.

Prewett laughed in disbelief. "You… still believe he made it out."

"Believe? Jaques, my friend, think for just a second. Our dear Lord Potter gets arrested by two of his close colleagues and his ex-wife, only to blow up in what ended up as a very politically beneficial conflagration. This is the man who took down Burke, who devoured the Wizengamot in a single year. Besides, I'm almost certain Baxter is of the same mind."

Rowle drained his glass and held it out for Prewett to refill. "Don't you remember the trials after the Dark Lord met his demise? They were all celebrating their newfound freedom. But not us."

"Not us," Jaques agreed.

"Because we knew it was not the end. No, we kept well away from all that nonsense. And look at us, we're still here."

"So we are."

"And when he does come back, well…" Rowle admired his refilled glass of Ogden's. "Potter is the kind of man who looks after his friends, is he not?"

#

Author's Note: If I fuck up secondary character names, you can blame me.