The art of answering or A truthful observation on the nature of verity

Daphne awoke to the caress of the warm and – more pressingly – bright sun as well as the sprightly serenade of songbirds. She moaned, turning around and pressing against her pillow to shut out the light that stung even through her eyelids. Her head felt like a thick, inflated, pulsating bomb just seconds – very brief, agonising seconds – from inevitable self-destruction. Each chipper chirping from outside created violent and extremely graphic fantasies in Daphne to strangle those thrice-cursed abominations roistering just on the other side of the window.

Her stomach, she soon discovered, was even worse off; it kept sloshing and gurgling angrily. She moaned again, attempting to bury her head underneath the pillow and draw the blanket closer. The blanket resisted. The pillow, too, remained strangely firm.

Stranger still, it appeared to be moving.

With strenuous – nay, heroic – effort, she pried one crusty eye open. Her pillow, it turned out, was another person. Another quite naked person. She blinked – slowly. Hectic movements were the enemy. The blanket she had attempted to draw up to her chin, it was now revealed, was – in fact – a pair of black men's underpants. Slowly, she blinked again, conceding that – right now – intense thinking failed to produce either meaningful results or help with the pain. She limited herself to goggling instead. Glacially, like the dance of continents, one neuron lazily nudged another. She was still in Wales, wasn't she? Otherwise, either her own or Tracey's mum would presumably have murdered her already. And even though that might explain the excruciating agony that was her head, she was relatively sure even a dressing down of righteous anger couldn't feel this bad …

'Minnie?' she croaked, her voice strangely garbled because she couldn't bring herself to raise her head.

There was a plop. 'Good morning, Mistress,' whispered the elf.

Daphne winced. Despite the elf's thoughtful choice of low volume speech, sound did weird, unpleasant things to her head and vision. 'Where am I?!' she groaned.

'Mistress is currently in Master Harry's room, lyings on top of Master,' whispered the elf diligently. 'Clutchings his pants.'

'Oh.' Daphne stared with fascination. Another lazily stretching neuron came to her help. 'Nice.'

The adorable elf waited dutifully. Eventually, urged by some sense of decency, Minnie asked, 'Would Mistress like Minnie to helps her lie down normally?'

Daphne considered this. 'Er … no. No, I think I'm good, thanks.'

'As Mistress wishes.'

Daphne took a deep breath – and coughed. 'What smells so rotten, Minnie? Like a drain filled with cold ash and … sticky stuff?!'

'That woulds be Mistress' robes, Mistress.'

Daphne lowered her gaze as far as possible. The smoke that had been ubiquitous throughout the ball, as well as some of the colourful stains she couldn't quite remember acquiring, hadn't improved the getup she was wearing. Mostly wearing, she corrected herself. Viewed from another perspective, she might as well be dressed in a textile lifebuoy; her robes had ridden up so high that her knickers were in clear view.

'Oh.'

'Would Mistress like Minnie to helps her undress or to clean her clothes?'

'You can clean them without me taking them off first?' asked Daphne, slightly scared of the implications.

'Oh, yes!' said the elf, swelling with pride.

Daphne bought herself some time with another reptile blink. By some magical force of hitherto scientifically undiscovered para-magnetism, her gaze was again drawn to Harry's black pants she couldn't seem to let go of. 'Just take them off already – er, my robes, I mean – and put them in the laundry, please,' she mumbled. 'Without any movement on my part involved.'

'As Mistress wishes!'

The elf flipped her fingers, and the offending remainders of last night's revelry disappeared. Daphne quivered, burrowing her second hand underneath Harry's back to crawl some elusive nanometres closer.

'Can you kill those bloody birds for me?' she grumbled.

'Is Mistress … sure?' asked the elf with that special polite inflexion servants used to tactfully indicate that they, at least, weren't sure at all.

'Fine – just make them go away or something. But they better not come back!'

She didn't look up, but whatever the elf had done – the noise had ceased. She sighed. 'The light, Minnie,' she mumbled.

'Yes, Mistress!'

Another click of the elf's little fingers and the room was doused with soothing darkness. This, however, presented a certain conundrum.

'Er …'

'Yes, Mistress?'

'Is there any way you can … erm … you know … make just enough light to … er …'

'Just enough light for Mistress to, for example, continue staring at the outlines of Master Harry's pants?' suggested the elf helpfully.

In the darkness, Daphne felt her ears redden. 'Erm … yes. Something like that. For example.'

As the faintest of shadows crept back into the gloom, Daphne sighed contentedly. 'Nice …'

She must have fallen asleep again at some point though because the next time she opened her eyes, she was lying on her side, snuggled against Harry's shoulder with one hand slung possessively across his lithe chest. Someone had also spread a blanket over both of them. Daphne – in her now considerably less befuddled state of mind aware that she was only in her lingerie – had trouble deciding if that was cause to feel cheated or relieved.

In any case, most of her newly rejuvenated synapses were currently attempting to compute that Harry was tenderly running his hand over the length of her spine. She didn't dare breathe as his fingers brushed against the lace of her undies and moved back up, enjoying a playful detour over her waist, drawing circles and spirals on their way towards her shoulder. As his fingers traced along the edge of her bra, Daphne gave an involuntary shiver, and Harry retracted his hand immediately.

'Don't,' she whimpered, crestfallen. 'Don't stop!'

'Daphne, I –'

She bit into his shoulder to shut him up. 'If you've got the nerve when you think I'm asleep, then don't be the kind of coward to stop when I'm telling you to go on …'

She could feel him tense, but after a second, he placed his hand on the small of her back, drawing her ever so slightly closer, this thumb resuming his caressing in a more innocent manner.

But Daphne's mood soared, flying on wings of exaltation as she relaxed into his touch. She rested her head on his chest, listening to the brisk beating of his heart.

It was, without a doubt, a perfect moment – the best. She could feel herself dissolve, dwindle, melt away in Harry's warm presence. She lifted her head again, risking a quick peek at his face. His hair was almost ludicrously tousled, suggesting he had waded through a hurricane or two on his odyssey to bed. His eyes, those piercing, unplumbable orbs of striking emerald, stared right back at her. Smiling, she playfully dotted Harry's jawline with a chaste kiss. Harry's entire body became as stiff as a poker.

She desisted, giggling. 'How can you be embarrassed about something like that when you're in bed with a beautiful girl in her underwear?'

'Maybe because I'm in bed with a beautiful girl in her underwear?' he muttered, his voice as rough and husky as if he'd had a cold for a week or two.

Daphne laughed, unburdened by some heretofore unknown weight of uncertainty – until a sharp twinge caused her to wince. With a groan, she brought one hand to her temple. 'What happened last night?!'

'You drank too much,' said Harry, poking her waist with his finger.

'Hey!' Daphne laughed, playfully biting into his shoulder again. 'How did I get up here? I don't remember … much.'

'I carried you.'

'Do you often abduct drunken girls into your chambers?' she whispered teasingly.

'Can't say I do. Then again, not many drunken girls punch me when I drop them off anywhere else.'

'I don't see you complaining now.'

'I'm … not.'

Daphne couldn't have kept the grin from her face even had she wanted to. She closed her eyes, enjoying the feeling of Harry's touch as his fingers wandered about her waist, drawing tingly figures. 'What about the others?' she mumbled after a few heavenly moments of indulgence.

'They got drunk – badly.'

'You don't seem drunk.'

'I'm still kind of afraid of getting up. Make of that whatever you will.'

Daphne closed her eyes, sending silent prayers of gratitude to any deity of inebriation that may or may not feel responsible. 'Even Hermione got smashed?!'

'Yes, even Hermione.'

'And Tracey?'

'Especially Tracey.'

'Did something … happen?' asked Daphne, apprehension rippling the still waters of her bliss like the head of some prehistoric monster. She knew from experience that Tracey had roughly three stages when drinking: companionable, adventurous, and complicated.

'Tracey got a bit … enthusiastic.'

'Enthusiastic as in …?'

'Enthusiastic as in: completely out of her tree.'

'How so?' Daphne asked with mounting dread.

Harry lay still.

'Harry?'

He cleared his throat. 'Well, er, Tracey may or may not have gone to second base with Hermione last night.'

Daphne's eyes bulged. 'May or may not have?!'

'I was a bit distracted, suturing Amy's foot, all right?' That thought sobered Harry up considerably. In almost chameleon-like fashion, he paled against the background of his white pillow. 'Merlin, I hope I didn't mess that up.'

Daphne groaned, attempting to hide her head between Harry's shoulder and neck. Had she really been outdone, after all this, by her best friend with another girl?! 'What the devil happened last night? How did it get out of hand like that?!'

'Tracey had the ingenious idea to play drinking games.' He hesitated. 'It got weird from there.'

'Why didn't you get me?!'

'Daphne, you couldn't even stand on your own at some point. Anyway, chances are nobody but I will remember what exactly happened – hopefully.'

'You didn't do anything with them,' asked Daphne sweetly, drawing her nails along his chest. 'Or to them. Did you, Harry, dearest?'

'No! I think I've lost my shirt somewhere down there, and Amy bullied me to sit in her lap for a while and call her "big sis", but that doesn't count … right?'

Daphne, under the pretext of struggling with their blanket, teasingly brushed the back of her hand from Harry's knee all the way over his thigh to his belly button, cherishing his sharp intake of breath as she ran smoothly over the side of his pants. 'I'll think about it.'

'Tracey, er,' he began anew, 'she's not really into Hermione … is she?'

Daphne raised an eyebrow, recognising his insistence to discuss Tracey for what it was but deciding to let it pass. 'Maybe? But I don't think so. She can get a bit … quirky, I suppose, but I've caught her staring at plenty male arses. Why not ask her?'

'Yes, because that would be a totally natural conversation. "Hey, Tracey! Say, do you like girls, guys, both, or do you simply get off making out with a girl whilst guys are watching?"'

'So you did watch!'

'Oh, come on! What am I supposed to do when one girl suddenly straddles another right in front of me?!'

Daphne gave this some thought. 'Take pictures?'

'Maybe I should have,' he replied dryly.

'Hey!' Daphne propped herself on her elbow, bringing her face closer to his than ever. 'Don't get cheeky now,' she breathed, her gaze flickering between his intoxicating eyes and his lips.

'I think we both know exactly who the cheeky one is,' he muttered lowly, easily capturing her gaze with his unflinching eyes. And yet Daphne was sure this was as far as he would allow things to go. She could see it in his eyes. Finally, or so it would appear, she would need to resort to the last and most terribly drastic of weapons she had prepared in advance: unflinching honesty.

'Say, Harry …'

'Mm-hmm?'

Taking heart, Daphne braced herself. 'Why are you always running away from me? From this?' She yearningly ran her hand up his throat.

His brow knit, and the movement of his eyes grew frantic, searching hers. She could see he hadn't expected the question, hadn't expected her to ask what she hadn't ever dared to ask. To her surprise, something like turmoil swirled in those deep eyes of his. Slowly, he brought his hand to her face, running it over her own chin in turn. Daphne closed her eyes, leaning into his touch.

'It's because of your blood,' he murmured, his voice as fleeting as night air.

Her eyes snapped open. 'What?!'

Her blood? They were cousins in name only – mostly. Genetically, they were second cousins once removed by their closest shared relation, Harry's great-grandfather Cygnus II, who was Daphne's great great-grandparent per her grandmother Walburga's side of the family. Maybe not as distantly related as polite society would prefer but certainly not an issue … not for their families in any case. Or was it? But … why blood? Why did it have to be blood?! She had vowed to do anything, anything whatsoever to make this happen – but how was she supposed to do anything about her blood?!

'I don't understand!'

He ran his thumb over the skin under her eyes. 'Your father.'

Daphne tried to calm down. A cold, steely knot was expanding in her chest and making it difficult to breathe. 'What?' she whispered. 'What about him?'

'Your father was a pure-born Black of the main family. You, that is to say you and Astoria both, have inherited the curse the ancient Blacks cast upon their own progeny in times long past. I did tell you, remember? I told you that the direct offspring of any Black will never be able to betray the family.'

'I still don't understand,' she whispered desperately. 'What does that mean?'

'While what I said is true, you might not have appreciated the … implications. The Blacks have maintained peace, order, and obedience for hundreds of years because their offspring, subconsciously, will always strive to please, to obey, to adhere to their elders' wishes. You, Daphne, are as susceptible to this as anyone else. You may not be aware, but you will always subliminally strive to please our family, to obey. There is no possible conflict of interest between your strongest personal desires and whatever the family demands of you because – in the end – you will always convince yourself that our wish is your own.'

Daphne stared through watery eyes. 'What do you mean? That I'm enslaved?!'

'Not exactly true … but not entirely wrong either. Do you, perhaps, remember that you used to behave differently around me back when we were children? You thought I was annoying, didn't you? You tired of how withdrawn I was, how I never completely warmed up to you except during those thunderstorms we used to watch together, how I flinched at even the slightest gesture you made. Don't you think your feelings changed a bit too drastically after my initiation into the family? Don't you think your … focus on me has been a bit too single-minded, too unnatural all these years?'

'So what?! You think I'm forced to follow you around like a starstruck puppy because you became the heir, and I'm unable to refuse your surpassing charm?!'

His face twisted into a pained grimace. 'I could never do this to you, Daphne. Never. In the end, would it be any different than if I pointed my wand and –'

'You're wrong!' she snapped, ramming her forehead against his. She bit her lip, cursing her tears, cursing all those countless bastards that had come before her and Harry, those power-hungry, paranoid lunatics that had done this to them. 'You're wrong,' she breathed. 'I remember. I remember perfectly. Yes, I was annoyed. I was impatient. I thought you were dull. I'm not denying any of it!'

She lowered her head again, resting her forehead softly against his, her eyes mere inches from his. 'But you're wrong. I remember perfectly, crystal clear. I remember the second, the fraction of a moment it all began to change. And it wasn't your stupid initiation. It wasn't any bloody curse that may or may not flow through my veins. It was when we were back, back from … from where Father died. I raged at you. I insulted you. I hit you. I cried, pummelling away at you. And you took it all without a word of complaint, without even raising your hands to shield yourself. You sat there and took it all. And when I snapped and demanded why you'd bothered to help me and Tori in the first place, do you remember what you said? Because I do. I remember. I remember every word. I remember every muscle in your face moving. I remember your eyes, so uncharacteristically full of emotion. I remember it all.'

Harry froze, staring up at her.

'You said, "I don't want to be alone again". You said my family was important to you. Didn't you? Didn't you?!' she demanded, shaking Harry's shoulder.

'I did but –'

Daphne raised her voice, speaking over Harry's feeble interruption. 'I cried my heart out at the funeral service. I refused to leave, kneeling in the mud, soaked from top to toe. The others had already left, do you remember? It was just us. But I was refusing to leave, fully prepared to keep vigil for however long I had to for some sort of miracle I knew wasn't going to happen. Mum was heavily injured, and we weren't allowed to visit. We didn't even know if she'd make it – like I even understood what that meant. And Father was just … gone, leaving me to feel like the last living person on earth. But you were there – quiet, subdued, yes – but you were there with me through it all. The scene is so vivid, I feel like I could describe every single raindrop that fell that day. You told me – promised me – that you wouldn't leave. That you would always be there. That's what you said, isn't it?!'

'… it is.'

'And that,' she said, her voice breaking, tears dripping from her own face down at Harry, 'was when I began to see you in a different light, you thick moron. The rest … you know …' Daphne had said so much already, and she would be damned if she skipped out on the last few bumpy bits now. 'The rest sort of … came over the years. Respect, a feeling of security and belonging … admiration … a-and love. I have been wondering about my and especially Tori's behaviour every once in a while. But never – not once – have I doubted the sincerity of my feelings.'

She took his hand, bringing his unresisting palm to the place above her heart. 'And neither should you.'

He gave another tortured smile. 'I … it's not that easy, Daphne. I can't make up my mind just like that! I can barely keep my mind straight these days with all the things happening around me.'

'I know! I know. I never expected an answer right away but … but promise that you won't pretend anymore. Promise you won't hide behind all that unimportant stuff. This isn't about family … or curses … or the past in any other way. This isn't about any of that! This is between us. Only us. Promise me that it won't be about anything else.'

She faltered, horribly aware how insurmountable those last few inches were, feeling the most nervous, the most anxious, the most exposed she'd felt in her entire life. Agonising moments trickled by and then, almost imperceptibly, Harry nodded, and it was as if all the wounds were mended, all the pain soothed – as if a million suns had risen just for her.

She beamed down at him, liberated, her heart hammering a primal beat of rapturous triumph.

'Here's a little something to encourage you,' she whispered, closing in.

When their lips met, it wasn't like any of the innocent pecks before. Fire roared inside of her as she greedily deepened their kiss. Answers could wait for another day; she hadn't dared to even raise the question for the better part of a year or two. Important was that – right here and now – it was just him and her, and she was more than willing to give herself to this momentary comfort. Answers, she thought with her last coherent thought, were overrated.

Memory Lane

'Ahuja, you did take care of Muggle surveillance, didn't you?!' asked Antonius, eyeing the monstrous, otherworldly cloud of smouldering hot ash that pierced the clouds above them. Endless electric discharge tore the heavens in half, setting a rumbling background for the pitch black, sulphur infested, foul rain that fell like grimy chunks of tar all around them. If ever there was a reckoning to punish humankind for its innumerable sins, this was what it would look like.

'Yes, sir.'

'How long until the cloud dissipates, Glücksburg?'

Antonius' loremaster shrugged. 'The last suspected use of this curse dates back to an era before contemporary calculations of time –' He paused, glancing at Boris. 'Pardon me. Let me put it this way for our less educated appendages. It – is – old. Really – old. It's hard to gauge the exact effects based on oral traditions.'

'And yet you just happen to know of it?' snarled Boris. 'Like I'd believe any of that hogwash, you smarmy charlatan!'

'It's my job to know things. Yours, my muscle-brained friend, is carrying my books and doing as you're told. And just like that, we all do what we're best at, don't you think?'

'Enough! How long, Glücksburg?' repeated Antonius in a strained voice.

His loremaster shrugged. 'A week at least.'

'The blast would have vaporised us all if Glücksburg hadn't warned us at the last second,' said Sterling, staring with disbelief at the crimson glow that ominously ruptured the dark smokestack. 'Look at the size of that monster column!'

Mao, too, glowered at the blazing tower of soot. 'We got lucky – this time. Good work with the barrier, lass.'

Ahuja nodded absent-mindedly. Though she outranked the ancient Chinese wizard, it was an unwritten rule within the squad not to pull rank on someone about a hundred years older than their second most experienced teammate.

'Your quick reaction was most impressive, Lieutenant, though I have to confess that I'm unfamiliar with the spell you used,' said Fujiwara, bowing gracefully.

'I wrote a thesis proposing research on defensive magic for containment purposes in case of natural catastrophes. This one I personally developed at the crater of the Nyiragongo … though I never considered that I'd need to pit it against the effects of someone's actual magic. Incredible!'

'You mean that barrier can hold back a volcanic eruption?' asked Sterling, awed.

'Theoretically, yes. A better witch or wizard than me would undoubtedly produce a more stable effect, but it's not meant for use in combat; even the accidental magic of a toddler could disrupt the barrier and lead to its collapse.'

'A better wizard?' repeated Sterling with a crooked smile. 'Jesus! Knock, knock, Lieutenant: reality calling! But talk about using a sledgehammer to crack a nut! Who the hell uses a spell that could level cities against one or two unwanted visitors?!'

'You know who,' said Antonius darkly. 'All right, show's over. Since we can't go back to work like this, check your gear, rations, and status. Ahuja, double check with the Muggle authorities to make sure they remain oblivious to our presence. Fujiwara, inspect our wards and the adjacent plots of land for signs of magic. Boris, keep an eye on Ahuja's containment barrier. Sterling and Mao, you catch up on sleep. Yes, that's an order. We'll reassemble at dusk. Dismissed!'

'What about me?' asked Glücksburg, watching Fujiwara leave with a sigh of disappointment.

Antonius waved him off. 'Just stay out of my way and don't harass the squad.'

It wasn't until later that evening that Antonius' task force reassembled. The fiery glow within the column had, at this point, dimmed to mere occasional glimmers of angry orange that blinked through the spire of ash like the eyes of a demon glimpsing through the dark veil of the unknown. The barrier thankfully held, imperfect as it was. It lost strength the further up the cloud of ash rose, and bits of it – like shreds of clouds – had disentangled themselves, drifting over the horizon. In the twilight of dusk, it was difficult to discern them for what they really were. A bit of unaccustomed luck.

'… and we're currently three weeks behind in our estimated schedule, having overcome 62 of 87 currently identified wards,' continued Ahuja dutifully. 'Having consulted Major von Glücksburg, I'm forced to assume that we won't be able to return to work before next Wednesday at the earliest. Fujiwara, the Major, and I have already discussed several possible modifications to the barrier to temper it against future eruptions until the cloud dissipates naturally.'

'Can't we just do something about the ash and get on with it?' suggested Boris, yawning.

'Vanishing, perhaps?' added Sterling.

Ahuja shook her head. 'Inadvisable. It's possible even the smallest Transfiguration could negatively impact the structural integrity of the barrier.'

'Unless, of course,' said Glücksburg with a patronising smirk, 'you can vanish the entire cloud in one go?'

Boris turned to stare at the cloud of ash that rose kilometres from the ground. '… objection withdrawn. I've been wondering,' he continued, his scarred face furiously wrinkled. 'I think we need to discuss why we're here again. Seems as good a time as any, given that we can't continue our little burglary.'

'Are you barking?!' yelled Sterling heatedly. 'You know why we're here!'

Fujiwara cleared her throat. 'I don't think Boris was suggesting,' she said in a gentle tone, 'that we shouldn't hunt down the Dark Lord. I take it you're more concerned about the circumstances that led us here?'

'Yeah – that. Thinking back, it all seems too fishy. Is there any guarantee that we're on a hot trail?'

For once, Glücksburg turned to stare at Boris, his expression devoid of any of his usual antics. 'As much as it hurts me to admit, I've been beset by similar doubts.'

'What is it?' demanded Antonius.

'Listen,' said Boris, 'we came here because we found that magical etching at the British Ministry, an etching that's somehow loosely connected to Grindelwald. But all of our "evidence" is so incredibly suspicious! How come we've never talked about that?! Like, we haven't even got a bloody clue who gave it to us – much less if it's real. Or why they did it!'

Antonius shrugged. 'Go on.'

'And we're sure Grindelwald escaped from his gilded cage, right? I mean, the Lieutenant already said that a normal person wouldn't have been able to cast all those wards during one lifetime.'

'As long as we're talking European wizards,' explained Second Lieutenant Ahuja, 'I think it's safe to assume that either Grindelwald or Dumbledore cast these wards. And Dumbledore, no matter his eccentricities, has always refrained from Dark Magic.'

'Yeah, it's not his style, is it?' continued Boris. 'Blood Boiling Curses, Bone Rot, bloody doomsday magic – that's not him, is it? I reckon we can safely assume Grindelwald – at some point – cast these wards after escaping Nurmengard. But for what purpose?!'

Fujiwara tilted her head. 'What do you mean?'

'Grindelwald's supposed to be smart, right? Why the hell would he fortify his old prison?! It's way too conspicuous! Turning his old fortress-turned-nick into his new holiday home is beyond arrogant. And – let's not forget – someone wanted us to come here! Isn't it equally likely they meant harm as it was that they wanted to help?!'

Antonius had considered this previously, but he was interested in his squad's opinions.

'Does it matter?' said Sterling with a shrug. 'Either they wanted to help or they didn't. If it's the former, good. If it's the latter, we'll just have to crush this place and be done with it. We'll learn something either way, won't we?'

'That sounds dangerously foolhardy, lad,' muttered Mao. 'Vigilance is key – and it's too late for that once you're buried under a million tons of ash.'

'Hah,' sighed Glücksburg dramatically. 'It's one of those pesky predicaments, to be sure. But what do you propose we do instead?'

'Return to civilisation, pick up the trace,' said Boris.

'What trace?!' Sterling snorted indignantly. 'I thought we were here because nobody even knows the Dark Lord ditched this place.'

'Come off it! Some people have to know. The ICW. The one who sent us on this trail. A wizard of Grindelwald's calibre can't just … disappear. There has to be something!'

'I think you meant to say the ones that sent us on his trail,' said Glücksburg absent-mindedly.

'What?!'

'Upon reflection, I have concluded that there were two different parties involved with what transpired at the Department of Mysteries.'

Antonius raised an eyebrow. This was new. 'Your evidence?'

'It's rather tiresome to explain …' He sighed dramatically, but seeing Antonius narrowing his eyes dangerously, he went on. 'All right, all right … Let's see. First, someone involved with the attack on the Ministry leaves a trail that references some minor detail in Grindelwald's campaign.'

'What does it reference, if you permit the interruption, Major?' asked Fujiwara. 'The book never said.'

'Oh, it's of no terrible significance, but I suppose it might shed some light on Grindelwald's personality. For you see, Grindelwald was always fond of metaphors and, during his early days and, ironically, shortly before his imprisonment, he occasionally expressed his frustrations with the perceived oppression of wizardkind with the imagery of a caged bird. But not just any bird: it was always a magpie, a bird cursed by Muggles in medieval Europe, who associated it with thievery, witchcraft, and bad luck, a bird – in short – closely linked to the perceived stigma wizards and witches suffered at the hands of non-magicals. Nothing of this is common knowledge; most of his early, highly idealistic works and treatises – school reports, diaries, letters, et cetera – ended up with sympathisers, private collectors, or families deadly ashamed of having associated with what would become a monster to haunt their nightmares. Similarly, the letters he wrote during his trial were confiscated and sealed by the ICW due to …' He threw Antonius a glance. 'Circumstances. In summary, you might translate the magpie to "I shall break free!"'

'So you're saying only someone closely linked to either the ICW or someone who had close contact to – at the very least – the young Grindelwald would have been aware of this?' asked Ahuja.

'Precisely. Now, considering that our lovely Fujiwara … and Boris, I suppose … survived their ordeal, I think it is safe to assume that Grindelwald wasn't personally involved at the Ministry.'

Fujiwara shuddered. 'Don't even say such things, Major.'

'I apologise, but given my understanding of the Dark Lord's personality, he wouldn't have allowed both of you to live.'

'I'm afraid he's right,' said Antonius. 'As I said, Grindelwald is not exactly mad. Then again, it doesn't make sense for him to butcher so many and then arbitrarily spare the rest. The obliviations also fit what we found in London, meaning someone else has been studying the Lethifolds whilst attempting to hide their own involvement.'

'Quite right,' agreed Glücksburg cheerfully. 'Which, of course, also explains the magnificent barrier. The person, likely the one resorting to the imperfect obliviation, was more than likely trying to fix the matter in their own way.'

'Magnificent Barrier?' repeated Boris, glowering. 'That was bloody witchcraft at its worst! Need I remind you, Major, that Blood Magic is illegal?! And for bloody good reason, too!'

'Speak for yourself, brute,' continued Glücksburg, unperturbed. 'Despite the crude means which brought about the barrier, it is still a beautiful solution to the problem at hand. A solution, I might add, which you and your squad failed to think of. Might I be permitted to remark that the use of Blood Magic is sanctioned if an officer of sufficient rank deems it necessary to prevent a larger evil? But be that as it may, this leaves, as Ahuja so splendidly summarised, the ICW and old contacts of Grindelwald as suspects. But here is what doesn't make sense if we assume that only one party was involved. The etched symbol was for all the world to see, even though it eventually disappeared with the waning magic. It was, in essence, a rather droll challenge. A declaration. It was bold, indiscriminate. The perpetrator simply did not care if the British Unspeakables – and by extension their Ministry – figured it out. It was, essentially, an extremely supercilious statement of narcissistic strength.

'The slipping of the book, on the other hand, was the action of someone deliberate. It was planned. It had one target only: us. It had one goal: to explain the historical background of the etching. And it had one clear and predictable consequence: being the starting point for our hunt of Grindelwald. Frankly, given the drastically different methods and slightly misaligned effects both actions elicited, it makes me wonder if the two parties might be at odds.'

'It could still have been one party,' said Sterling, unconvinced. 'Maybe they didn't have enough time during their raid and decided to help out a bit more later on?'

'No. No, I'm afraid that doesn't make any sense whatsoever. If they had the means to contact us directly, within the Ministry at that, if they knew what we were after and how to give it to us, why didn't they do that from the very start? Just to rouse our curiosity? I don't think so. Too negligent! Besides, it's all but common knowledge that our famed colonel hates the Dark Lord with a passion; there would have been hundreds of ways to put us on his trail. By contrast, the first party or person, I hope you realise by now, was emotional – invested you might say.'

'You speak of a grudge, don't you?' asked Mao in his rumbling voice. 'You're trying to say that their bullheaded way of doing things was because they despise the ICW?'

Glücksburg shrugged. 'It's my preferred theory. It's entirely possible I'm dead wrong and the person wanted to throw us off their trace, of course. I just couldn't think of a reason why they'd pick such an obscure reference to do so.'

'You're convinced, Major, that the party involved in the raid on the Ministry holds some personal connection to Grindelwald?' asked Fujiwara.

'Probably, yes. If they are, we can also infer that they're relatively young, have a strong sense of superiority, are academically inclined, and at least grudgingly admire the Dark Arts or Grindelwald, meaning they're more than likely pure-blood and hail from one of Europe's most conservative countries. I could try to narrow it down if we limit ourselves to the British Isles, South Jutland, Latvia, Greece, Bohemia, and possibly Norway; I doubt even a hundred individuals or so would fit. Then again, we might end up wasting our time should our elusive perpetrator or perpetrators hail from some other place. Of course, they could just as well be informed conspirators working against the ICW, but that argument fits basically any case we're ever working on. The second party, on the other hand, is – without a shred of doubt – one of Britain's pre-eminent, most powerful pure-blood clans with past ties to Grindelwald. Not only did they easily overcome the Ministry's gagging order, but they also correctly identified the bird for what it meant and managed to slip you the highly restricted and illegal evidence you needed to get it all rolling.'

Antonius closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. 'Accursed pure-blood clans,' he muttered.

Glücksburg gave him a judgemental look. 'I take offence at that.'

'I'd rather fall onto my own wand than apologise for that,' muttered Antonius.

'I thought you might say that,' said Glücksburg with a shrug. 'By all means, I find it hard to blame you for your resentment; some of those British upstarts really act beyond their station.'

'Any ideas what families exactly?!' muttered Antonius.

'Well, a few of them seem li–'

'No,' objected Boris sternly. 'I disagree. Only two families remain as real possibilities then.'

Ahuja looked at Boris with some wonder. 'I didn't know you'd studied Britain's political landscape.'

Boris waved it off. 'You don't need to be a genius to figure this one out. Of the current families in power, the Selwyns successfully pleaded their innocence during the Grindelwald trials, claiming to have acted under the Imperius.'

'Well,' said Sterling hesitantly, 'they have been gathering more and more votes recently. It's true that of all the extremely conservative pure-blood families, they're the one holding the most votes in the Wizengamot. Their influence has been steadily increasing for years, too. I know as much since some of my fellow Irishmen are a tad worried about their agenda. Some old pure-blood clans hold … views … about Ireland.'

'Really? The Selwyns?' asked Glücksburg. 'Are they important now?'

'You don't know?!'

Glücksburg looked disinterested. 'Contemporary politics bore me, my friend. Especially something as dreadfully dry as the British Wizengamot.'

'It could be the Selwyns,' admitted Antonius. He had researched the British political landscape well ahead of his arrival on the isles, and he knew most of those cunning bastards from his past dealings. 'Then again, I was there at Selwyn senior's trial. He was the one son of a bitch that almost managed to convince me that it wasn't absolutely impossible that he might just have been genuinely guiltless. Relatively speaking.'

'There's another possibility,' continued Boris, lowering his voice as if he didn't want the gale to overhear his words. 'The Blacks.'

Sterling made a face. 'Really? The Blacks? Bogeymen and dinosaurs. The Blacks are old news.'

'Very old news, in fact,' said Glücksburg, looking with an inscrutable expression at Boris. 'It's quite easy, despite the current magical ban, to trace their influence throughout Europe's history. Well, until recently.'

'I'm telling you,' insisted Boris, 'the Blacks aren't old news! They may not be as flashy about their involvement, but I'd rather take a step into that column of burning ash than assume that they've given up on power.'

'The Blacks adopted a half-blood, didn't they?' said Glücksburg with a chuckle. 'Seems rather run-down to me.'

'Oh, yes. Weren't they the ancient family that has been reduced to two members?' asked Fujiwara.

Antonius couldn't help but remember his friend's words of warning earlier this year. Magical side branches. If Prewett was right, there was no telling how many Blacks there really were. Two Blacks? There could easily be two dozen.

'You know something about the Blacks, Boris?' asked Antonius.

'Know something? No. But I've heard stuff. Stories. A former lover of mine was from a minor noble family that got into trouble with them a century back. Something about a bad deal. The Blacks didn't take it well; her family lost seven heads during the next decade – seven! All to mysterious illnesses, sudden disappearances – that sort of bullshit. Their family officially expired in its male line twenty years later, but she's still got their magical family tree rolled up in her trunk. You wouldn't bloody believe it; it's like a massacre on there. The Blacks are real, and they're freaking dangerous.'

'I didn't know you had a lover with British connections,' said Antonius, unpleasantly taken aback. He was unsettled that his intelligence on his own squad hadn't revealed this earlier, seeing as he might not have picked Boris for their initial mission otherwise. Any connection whatsoever, however old, was a risk. Antonius had known Boris from before the man had even left school, but it was a matter of principle. Someone doing his desk job back at headquarters had slipped up. Working with bad intelligence got people killed. Inside his pocket, Antonius clenched his fist.

Boris scowled. 'Didn't exactly shout it from the rooftops. Anyway, the Blacks were right there in the Dark Lord's inner circle. You know it. I know it. We all know it. They even fit Glucksburgh's criteria.'

'Somewhat far-fetched,' opined Glücksburg slowly. 'Are you sure this isn't some personal vendetta of your own, pining after your erstwhile beloved? As tragic and pitiful, really, as it is unbecoming even of you.'

'Oh, you just had to make this personal, didn't you?! Fine! Let's make it personal. Say, Major,' Boris spat the rank, his eyes glinting, 'is it or isn't it true that your own fucking father is a close friend of Lord Black?!'

All heads turned. Glücksburg shrugged. 'Well, I'd heard they dine together, yes. It's not uncommon in certain circles. But how is that any of my business? I've never met the man, and I think I've made it clear that I'm not interested in petty political squabbles.'

Boris smirked victoriously. 'This is what my girl used to say: everything the Blacks touch is rotten. Might be you're right. Might be you've never seen the man. Or maybe –'

'Enough!' Antonius stood up, staring sternly at them both. 'I said it before: I trust you all. Cease this childish bickering at once, or I will make you. In any case, I can't fault either of your theories about the possible involvement of third parties in our investigation, but – as it stands – the involvement has already happened. Before we concentrate our efforts on what exactly happened in the British Ministry, we'll crack this prison and get things straight concerning Grindelwald's escape. But you have my word that I haven't forgotten that someone's been meddling in our affairs. We will get to the bottom of that, too! That is all – dismissed!'

The rest of the squad left in a hurry, driven away by the hateful glares of Glücksburg and Boris. Antonius sighed. He just knew this was going to get complicated. As Glücksburg strode towards the forest and out of sight with an uncommonly sour expression, Antonius was left to wonder if he'd made a mistake. In Britain, yes, despite his attempts at secrecy, some pure-blood clan had managed to butt in. But here? In the wilderness? Under heavy wards and watchful eyes? Still … he just couldn't shake off this uneasy feeling, and – back during the war – his instincts had been what had kept him alive more than once.

As bitter a pill to swallow as it was, he might end up having to watch his own squad.

Blast it all! Blast all wretched pure-bloods!

Memory Lane

Harry wobbled through the rooms of his family's mansion, feeling feverish and muzzy while returning the occasional greetings of long-deceased family members. Staring at his own hands in wonder, he numbly walked into the next door frame.

'Are you about to snuff it right in front of my portrait, boy?'

Harry lurched to a standstill, rubbing his forehead. 'Hmm? Oh, Phineas. Good day to you. It's a fine day, don't you think?' he said, pointing thoughtlessly towards the grey, rainy landscape outside the nearest window.

The former headmaster arched an eyebrow. 'Have you lost your wit, boy? Don't tell me you're really going to peg out?'

'What? No … no, I don't think so.'

'You think?' repeated the portrait with an amused expression. 'In case you think wrongly, do me one last favour and bite it in front of my father's portrait. I would be ever so grateful.'

Harry gave a half-hearted bark of amusement. 'Won't Cygnus throw a fit?'

Professor Phineas Nigellus Black gave a sharp smirk. 'With any luck? Yes.'

Harry staggered onwards, waving Phineas' concerns about calling an elf aside. His mind was a big dipper of things he would need some time to come to terms with. Stretching his legs promised as good a distraction as anything right now. Frankly, he still felt like he was running on mostly hormones.

The second floor, which was almost entirely restored to its pristine appearance by now – with the small exceptions of a few paper bags, a lone lady's shoe, and a dinner jacket with some unspeakable stains – was thankfully deserted. Small wonder, it was late in the evening by now, and even though their family made arrangements for some of the more respected parts of society to stay the night, the Blacks were – most definitely – not in the business of hosting strangers; even if you had been lucky enough to be granted the honour of a room to retreat to, you had better be ready to leave by noon or you would be made to leave anyway.

He was therefore surprised to hear the sounds of enthusiastic chaos from one of the fancier guest rooms. Curiously, he wandered over to have a look inside. Tracey was bending over a huge duffle bag, indiscriminately shoving a wild assortment of things she had tossed on her bed inside. She was wearing some warm-looking but utterly bland grey wool robes, and her hair, presumably unable to cope with the tension any longer, had returned to its natural state of tightly wound curls.

She took a brief look over her shoulder when she heard someone at the door. 'Still alive?' she said, stuffing her posh robes unceremoniously into the bag without making an attempt at folding them. The other clothes, or so it would appear, hadn't fared much better. A long white sleeve protruded from the bag, hopelessly creased. Noticing his look, Tracey hastily crammed the sleeve inside.

'Mostly. Have the others left already?'

'Hermione left first thing in the morning.' Tracey halted, and Harry could almost hear her frown as she inspected the pair of shoes she'd worn yesterday. Harry wasn't particularly tall, but Tracey's footwear, no matter how surprisingly mature the design, looked like something little girls played with; there was just no denying the fact that they were almost humorously tiny. 'Well,' she continued, chucking the shoes at her robes with such a blatant display of indifference that Harry spontaneously developed a great deal of sympathy for Amaryllis. 'She went as soon as we calmed her down a bit. Had a bit of a breakdown, Hermione. Hysterics. I think she didn't like her first blackout much.'

'So she doesn't remember? That's … a pity,' said Harry cautiously.

Tracey snorted. 'The twins left a few hours after breakfast. Well, when I say breakfast, I mean we had the elves bring us some stuff … at around two or three, I think.'

'Amy … she didn't have any trouble walking, did she?'

'No? Why would she?'

'Never mind.'

Tracey flicked her tongue, displeased by his curt answer. 'And Daphne?'

'Having a bath.'

Tracey threw another alert glance over her shoulder, her golden eyes undimmed. Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she turned around to resume her 'packing'. 'She's confessed, hasn't she?'

Harry wondered how to react – until he realised that his artificial pause was a dead give-away.

'Good for you,' Tracey babbled on. 'Between the two of us, you might want to keep practising that expression a bit more; I'm sure even Hermione wouldn't buy that pathetic excuse of a poker face you're struggling to produce right now.'

Harry didn't reply.

'Once upon a time, I might have ranted at you about that habitual dishonesty of yours, but why waste time?'

Harry kept his silence.

'Doesn't it bother you at all that you keep lying to everyone? Why even bother dodging a stupid little question like this?'

'Because it's personal.'

Tracey snorted dismissively. 'Personal, my bum. You've always been like that. Maybe you're simply so dead inside already that it doesn't even strike you as odd that you keep fooling Daphne.'

'I'm not fooling Daphne.'

'Really,' drawled Tracey sarcastically. 'So she knows everything, does she? About the blood curse. About the compulsion. Even about the danger of death dangling continuously over her pretty neck?'

'… yes.'

Tracey faltered, the pair of trainers she'd been knotting together slipping from her grip. 'You told her?'

'I did.'

'Everything?'

'Everything.'

She turned around, staring at him with an enigmatic expression he couldn't rightly place. After several seconds of scrutiny, she picked up the discarded trainers, pushing them against the bag's contents. She struggled with a few bulky bulges for a few seconds until – with an audible grunt – she managed to zip it.

'Do I need to point out that, if you hurt Daphne, I'll hurt you back?'

'This is no concern of yours, Tracey.' She glowered at him, and Harry decided to add, 'But do you seriously think I would?'

'Maybe not. Not intentionally at least. Anyway, congratulations, hot stuff.'

Harry raised an eyebrow.

Tracey, wobbling under the weight of her duffle bag that looked almost as big as its owner, grinned at him. 'I suggest you have a look at the papers. Amy and I had a good laugh this morning, so thanks for that at least!'

Lazily raising a hand in farewell, she stomped off. Her admittedly somewhat cool exit was slightly ruined when Harry heard a loud thud that sounded exactly like a petite girl collapsing under the weight of a heavy duffle bag, followed by a quietly muttered 'Locomotor Bag!'.

Harry followed her outside, watching her levitate her bag towards a fireplace connected to the Floo. He didn't fail to notice that she had evidently chosen not to use the one in his grandfather's study, which was by far the closest. Daphne loved having ridiculously extended baths, and Harry wasn't at all sure he knew what he was supposed to say to her should he see her now, so for lack of anything better to do, he continued his aimless voyage.

The door to his grandfather's study, he soon discovered, was ajar, and he heard muffled voices from within. Through the small gap, he saw the huge stack of papers Arcturus habitually worked through each day, including several newspapers and periodicals. Hadn't Tracey mentioned something about that?

Deciding that it wouldn't hurt to check it out, he politely knocked on the door and entered. His grandfather was in conversation via Floo, talking with a veiled stranger. The stranger stiffened when he heard the knock.

'It's all right,' said Arcturus Black smoothly. 'Come in, Harry. Continue.'

'Are you … sure?' asked the voice, the hood turning in Harry's direction.

His grandfather's amiable face turned a shade hard. There wasn't any exact difference in his expression that Harry could have pointed out, but – for Harry at least – it was obvious that the stranger had said something he shouldn't have. 'This is Harry, my blood and heir. He is beyond your suspicions and qualms.'

'Of course! I didn't mean to offend. Apologies, Young Master.' The figure bowed deeply in Harry's direction.

Harry raised a hand in idle acknowledgement. 'I did not mean to interrupt.'

'Luckily, you do not, my son. Sit,' said Arcturus, pointing at the chair in front of his desk. 'And now, continue.'

'As I was saying, the dismantling of the wards is progressing at a steady pace, despite the Dark Lord's best attempt. I doubt Gringotts could have done a much better job breaking in. No matter my personal opinion about the Colonel or our … merry gang, there can be little doubt I strongly advise against taking even a single of these wizards lightly. Or witches, for that matter. Fujiwara, her princess looks notwithstanding, is about the best Mahoutokoro's produced in about a few dozen years. Ahuja is said to have corrected her NEWT questions in Ugadou while taking a nap! And then you have people like the Colonel or Mao, formidable fighters and survivors of a hundred skirmishes each. It's only a question of time before the keep is breached.'

'That wasn't unexpected though,' interjected Arcturus calmly. 'Their talent was never in any doubt, really.'

'Their talent isn't the problem. They are starting to ask questions! You know how much the Colonel detests the British clans for their involvement in covering up for the Dark Lord. The others are starting to stir it all up, and the Colonel himself is taking an interest. One person, in particular, is heavily undermining my work! Already, the Blacks have been mentioned.'

Arcturus arched an eyebrow. 'Do you think your position is in danger?'

'Not as yet,' drawled the man. 'But I need to be careful, now more so than ever before! If I know anything about the man, the Colonel will start observing his own men soon.'

'I see.'

There was a short pause. 'But I may need some help with that thorn that pricks my side.'

Arcturus gave a tiny, humourless smile, drawing the Prophet that lay on his desk close. Harry, from his seat, tried to catch a glimpse of the front page. Surely, he couldn't be on there, right? If only he was just an inch or two taller …

'Free press is a wonderful modern comfort, don't you think?' his grandfather continued with the hint of a smirk. 'I think it should show its gratitude for its continued existence once more. Do not worry; every person, even our far-famed Colonel, has his buttons to press. And this one,' he dropped the paper with an air of finality into the waste-paper basket, 'is particularly amusing to operate. A bit of distrust might do our good Auror some good. I don't particularly wish to hinder his investigation into the Dark Lord's disappearance, but it would be a shame should he come to consider us his enemy. If truly necessary, you may do whatever is necessary to protect our interests. But do not – I repeat – do not kill any of those men and women. We need every excellent magician available should it come to future … discourtesies with the Dark Lord. Do you understand?'

Harry craned his neck to glimpse at the headline he couldn't quite make out inside the bin.

'Of course,' said the man, bowing. 'Thank you for taking the time.'

Amidst the flames, the veiled stranger vanished in a puff of ash.

'He isn't family, is he?' asked Harry casually. 'I didn't recognise the voice.'

'He is not. But he is the next best thing. Incidentally,' said Arcturus smoothly, pushing a magazine in his direction, 'I suspect you're looking for this.'

Harry had a glance – and gave a heartfelt groan. The newest edition of Witch Weekly, fresh from the press, featured Harry – not wearing a shirt – striding through a darkened corridor he recognised as the second floor of their home, slowly shifting into view, his broody face partially covered by the flickering shadows.

'I'm going to kill Rita.'

'I'd rather you didn't,' said his grandfather, the corners of his mouth twitching suspiciously. 'She is a valuable distraction. In any case, there is really no harm to this particular scoop of hers. Though I suggest you refrain from making it a habit to wander the house undressed. For reasons best left unsaid.'

'Haha,' said Harry sourly. 'So glad to entertain.'

His grandfather's smile widened. 'This is nothing, really, my son. Nothing at all! A touch embarrassing, I dare say, but maybe even that bit of abashment isn't entirely wasted? It might just be that, at this very moment, some eligible female classmate of yours is cutting up the page to enshrine your swashbuckling moment with the camera. You really look just the right mix of dashing, daring, and dangerous. No matter your opinion on the woman, you have to admire the artistry. Why, we might even hang the original in the gallery. You would be the envy of generations – surely.'

Harry frowned. 'Have you quite finished winding me up yet, Grandfather?'

'And it used to be so easy, too,' reminisced Arcturus Black fondly. 'Howbeit, it is fortuitous that you chose not to spend the entirety of the day in Daphne's company alone. Loath as I am to deprive you of what would undoubtedly have been an evening to remember, the little conversation you happened upon should have inferred that I – meaning our family as a whole – am currently dealing with some rather … dire issues. Issues that threaten the continued existence of our family. And it should be essential that you – as the centrepiece of my efforts – be informed of its and your significance.'

'The Dark Lord?' guessed Harry. 'I thought he was dead!'

'Not dead, no.' Arcturus Black sighed. 'Merely gone. But that lucky circumstance won't be for long now, I fear.'

'Where was he the entire time?! How did he escape? I thought Dumbledore imprisoned him?! What's he been doing the entire time?'

'You have to understand, Harry, even I can't tell you this grim tale and all its whispered secrets. From what I understand, the Dark Lord broke free of his restraints within the first few months of his capture. He visited a few … acquaintances of his, took care of a few trails and – for all intents and purposes – vanished. I think most of his old followers haven't seen him for more than forty years now.'

'Why didn't he resume his fight?'

'Why would he? He had lost; most of his contacts were exposed or dead; his assets had been seized. His campaign had always relied on guile instead of brutish strength; the Dark Lord never intended to bathe the public in a sea of blood. Well, at least it is my belief that he never set out to do such a thing. Not as such. And then, of course, there was his unexpected loss at the hands of Albus, his own colleague and erstwhile friend.'

'Dumbledore and Grindelwald used to be friends?' asked Harry disbelievingly.

'Oh, yes. They were rather close, from what I understand. Their … friendship soured over a rather unpleasant showcasing of how hot-blooded even geniuses can be. You need not know the details. In any case, they were still young then, Harry, not even twenty. You are, naturally, aware of my thoughts on your headmaster, but even I wouldn't hold a juvenile friendship against whatever the foolish boy turned out to become.'

Harry hesitated. 'Well … I suppose. But how come I've never heard any of this? Wouldn't the media have a field day? Can you imagine what Rita would do with something like that?'

His grandfather nodded. 'I can. Albus Dumbledore is, first and foremost, a very secretive person, Harry. He does, I believe, mean well, but he's utterly incapable of trusting even those he considers friends to a degree that would allow him to confess his plans. In a way, he is to be pitied even.'

'Pitied?!'

'Indeed. If a man is left with no unconditional allies or friends, is bereft of his family, who could he turn to but himself alone? Still, as tempting as the thought of further publicly discrediting Albus is, it wouldn't be enough to dislodge him from Hogwarts.'

'Are you sure that's something we should want, Grandfather? With all due respect, but bound up as he is with his current duties, he presents much less of a problem than fully unshackled and free to do as he wishes.'

Arcturus Black smiled. 'An excellent point, and I quite agree. This is an old argument of mine that I tire of repeating to Lucius who, or so I wager, detests Albus even more than I do. Still, you would be foolish to assume that Albus is not – in some way or another – meddling with events as he sees fit. He has unprecedented authority over all matters Hogwarts and has – in due time – managed to sway most of the staff under his care to his side. Minerva or Severus Snape, for instance, spring to mind. And even beyond all that, Albus has many friends and admirers; you would do well not to forget that. But we strayed off topic, Harry. I need to talk to you about the Dark Lord, and this might be our most important conversation yet. Indeed, it might be the most … difficult talk we'll ever share.'

Harry sat just a bit straighter. 'You said you detested … detest the man, didn't you?'

'I did, and I did not lie to you. But I worry that the word 'man' might be lacking somewhat in this respect. The Dark Lord is not altogether human. Did you know the Dark Lord researched ancient myths for years? He researched the old pagan gods, Harry, but not because of some boyhood fascination, a sense of history, devotion, or even idle curiosity. No, he did it to find out if he could slay those gods and make their power his! I admit it freely, my son, the Dark Lord is an existence beyond us all. Where we see a deadly curse, he sees a toy. Where we see age, he sees immortality. Where we enjoy community, he sees a convenient, pre-built tool to control others. I know others see me as the devil in disguise, and I freely admit that I've done terrible things, cruel things; I've killed people; I've had others kill even more; and I've allowed an amount beyond reckoning to be killed in the name of what I treasure.

'But never have I done anything to prove my own greatness, never have I committed atrocities purely to prove my own superiority, to push some boundary of magic. I have associates both pure-blood and otherwise, I have allies, friends, family – I had Melania. I did terrible things, yes, but I did it all for them, for us, and for you.

'I do not claim sainthood, nor do I deny my own sins, chief among them being human, but I am acutely aware how what you treasure shackles a person, binds them safely to the ground. Humans are born with feet for a reason, humans aren't meant to fly, Harry. To soar through the skies of brilliance means unavoidably shedding some part of your human nature, leaving whatever you lost down there with what now looks like cattle and which once were your fellow men. Beyond the horizon, my son, lies no warm sunset but a dark, unfathomable, cold void too ancient and terrible to behold. And that, in summary, is why this conversation is about the Dark Lord, do you understand? Don't you see? To him, we are all pawns in a game of his own design. And yet – no matter the stakes – I feel strongly that humankind should not be the plaything of mortals, that the human race should only ever be the subject – never the object – of its own ambitions.'

Harry nodded. He understood the need to draw the line somewhere. Otherwise, you might as well murder your neighbour because he had something shiny that had caught your eye.

Arcturus stared right back at him with a tense expression, causing Harry to brace himself for some dark and no doubt dire revelation about their connection to the Dark Lord. 'Good, then on to the next topic,' said Arcturus Black abruptly.

Harry gave a start, nonplussed. What the hell?!

'It has come to my attention that you've recently revealed to Daphne the nature of the ancient magic the Blacks cast upon their descendants.'

'I did,' admitted Harry, still reeling and trying to catch up to what this had to do with the Dark Lord.

'This magic, though a touch tasteless in nature, has – in essence – allowed the Blacks to rise above any of the other British houses. For we alone have never been plagued by all the intrigue and infighting all the other clans are so very fond of. As long as your parents were Blacks of true birth, the ancient magic would ensure a sense of … conformity and loyalty. Are you, by any chance, aware how this sense of unity is achieved?'

'Well, as I remember, the opinions mostly diverge around the weighted views of the elders, don't they? Meaning that the considerations of a very respected and old family member would more easily sway younger and more inexperienced kin.'

'Precisely. You might note, by the way, that the Head of House is not automatically exempt from this rule, though their title – like yours – adds weight to their agendas. Then again, since the candidates for that office usually stem from the main branch and are among the oldest, this usually is of no concern.'

'Is it possible to fight off the effect of the magic with Occlumency?' asked Harry suddenly. 'I know the blueprint for the spell hasn't been passed down, but it would have to be some sort of mental compulsion or some such, correct?'

Again, a small smile flickered across his grandfather's face. 'Indeed. And yes, it is extremely possible to fight off the effects as long as you've mastered Occlumency to a certain degree. Then again, keeping up this act of defiance would undoubtedly have certain effects on your mind. You cannot, for extended periods of time, continuously fight without respite against something far beyond your own mind – just like no matter how accomplished an Occlumens you may be, you will at some point inevitably succumb to the vile administrations of a Dementor. In any case, you would need a particularly strong-minded individual with iron determination and terrible resentment to even muster the will to make the attempt. It would need the heights of injustice to even enable this sort of resistance. But it is indeed possible to shape some details, to choose your words, to make certain decisions despite the spell driving you to do something different. Do you follow so far, Harry?'

Harry nodded.

With a nod of his own, Arcturus Black leant forward, looking at Harry with an expression of utmost concentration. 'Then onwards, my son. More than two years ago, I broke to you that our family had past dealings with the Dark Lord, due to the foolish actions of my father. But my father's crimes, my father's folly is far worse than you might have guessed until now. I told you already that he did something to gain some measure of control over Grindelwald. At first, yes, at first it was just money. You are aware, of course, that it is my greatest creed to weaken an enemy from within, to take his strength and make it mine.' He gave a curious little bow in Harry's direction. 'And I am proud to say that, in the Dark Lord's case, I accomplished just that on two occasions.'

Harry felt a smile tug at his lips. His grandfather did not look amused; he raised his voice, and it sounded angry and bitter now.

'But we all have to know our limits! Make no mistake, those weren't the actions of a victor, Harry. No, mine were the actions of a beaten dog trying to skulk away after a brutal beating. These were the actions of someone viciously overthrown and downtrodden trying to save some last few pieces of the game. We lost! Because no matter what I think, no matter how I feel, this family will continue to be tied to the Dark Lord's cause, and there's nothing I, at least, can do about it!'

Harry stared into those grey eyes. They were forced to continue doing the Dark Lord's bidding?! He'd felt more than just some minor inner conflict about his family having been in the service of that monster, but now his grandfather was telling him that they still were – that even Harry was?!

Harry felt his mind shifting gears. 'For all I know, we could still be following in the Dark Lord's wake.' That's what Amy had said not too long ago during a private moment. Did she know something he didn't?

'You are, of course, aware,' continued Arcturus Black smoothly, continuing to skip along with the conversation with no regard for pace or – seemingly – coherence, 'that you're the first heir to the House of Black in over one thousand five hundred years to not be born of the union of a Black and another pure-blood? And though your mother's Muggle heritage was anathema to many of the older family members in and of itself, your distant Muggle relatives – I must stress – are by far the least controversial issue. You, Harry, are the first Lord Black to-be in over a thousand years not bound by the very curse you just recently revealed to our lovely Daphne. And I chose you, you specifically, despite having – as you know – two witches who originally hailed from the main family as well as dozens of other candidates from branches at my disposal. I chose you because you, Harry, are singularly suitable, empowered you might say, destiny's gift to us to free our family from this predicament. And for this empowerment, I must cast away the ancient credo, cast away these long-lived traditions themselves that have allowed our survival. We do not live to uphold traditions – no – tradition is what allows us to live, to survive. But if tradition stands in the way of our survival, even that must burn in the cradling flames of our rebirth!

'And now,' said Arcturus Black, his fingers steepled, focusing Harry with almost dreadful single-mindedness, 'I invite you to consider everything I just said.'

Harry's thoughts were racing. What was his grandfather trying to tell him? Surely, there was no other explanation for this extraordinarily roundabout way of having a conversation with strangely random changes in direction. What had it all started? Harry was, inexplicably, the centrepiece of his grandfather's plans. But what plans? He had overheard a conversation between Arcturus and one of his contacts, someone undercover working with – or so it would seem – Antonius and his men who were researching the Dark Lord's disappearance themselves. And this had led to them having this conversation.

Harry was 'beyond suspicion', Arcturus had said. One might take it to mean that doubt against Harry might affront the family and weaken Arcturus' position but … Maybe there was more?

Arcturus had repeatedly stated, even this very evening, that he detested the Dark Lord, and Harry believed him. As far as he could tell, his grandfather had never lied to him. Not given him the entire truth, yes, but never outright lied. In any case, Arcturus Black wasn't the kind of man to play the blind stooge. And Grindelwald was alive. How did Arcturus know? Especially given how even the ICW was apparently only just picking up the trace.

Once more, Harry glanced at those calm, expecting grey eyes that kept watching him. Arcturus Black sat still and quiet in his chair, waiting – awaiting some elusory conclusion he believed Harry must inevitably reach.

They had talked about the curse the Blacks had cast on their own, and how it ensured peace by consensus. They had also discussed Harry's unprecedented rise within the family.

Harry tried to ignore the stinging pain in his temple as he tried to concentrate, dearly wishing he hadn't drunk as much yesterday.

This talk is about the Dark Lord.

What kind of folly could Sirius II, Arcturus' father, have committed? How could he have bound the family to the Dark Lord's destiny? Why wasn't his grandfather just telling him what the issue was?! What could there be that prevented an open exchange like they'd had dozens of times in the past?

The next best thing Harry could liken his grandfather's haphazard way of leading the conversation to would be the first and hopefully last time ever he had had the misfortune to taste Veritaserum. It had felt like a tap-dance on the volcano. You had some amount of control of where to put your searing feet, but sooner or later the eruption would come to sweep away your pointless resistance and your pitifully struggling personality with it. But what could cause Arcturus Black, the most careful, cunning, and clear-sighted person Harry knew to behave this way?

Well, the blood curse could, admittedly.

But Arcturus Black was the Head of House Black, as well as its oldest living member, wasn't he? Whose spell could he possibly be under?! What was it Sirius II had done?!

This talk is about the Dark Lord.

And then it clicked. It was as if a dozen hateful, ugly pieces of a jigsaw suddenly converged, spelling the whole ugly truth.

Harry grimaced even as he felt a shudder run down his spine. 'Grindelwald couldn't be distantly related, could he? Your father didn't legitimise him to make him his pawn, did he, Grandfather? Grandfather?'

Arcturus Black didn't reply, but his dark look was all the answer Harry needed.

'I think I'm going to be sick …'