Section Two: When One Dark Lord Falls Another Rises

Chapter One: The European War

Tom needn't have worried about Albus Dumbledore preventing him from becoming the Head Boy. Although Albus was certainly reluctant to think that Tom might gain even more power over his fellow students, particularly as he would be joining forces with the formidable Marigolda Nott, now Lestrange, as Head Girl, the Transfiguration Professor had more important things on his mind. After all, Tom, though a slightly worrying child, was not yet a Dark Lord and might not ever become one.

Albus looked down at the letter in his hand and sighed. His hand knocked against the mug of Best Matured Oak Mead as he fumbled for the drink, unwilling to look away from the looped handwriting. Things were getting bad.

While it had remained in Europe, Albus had been able to justify to himself not getting involved. It didn't affect his country. He had children to teach. Someone else would stop it before it got out of hand.

Then British witches and wizards were called out to help in the fight.

At first it was just a special band of overseas Aurors. The European branch, to be precise. They were just doing their jobs, it was nothing special. They knew the risks. Albus wasn't any sort of Auror. He had no obligation to go.

Then other Aurors started to leave. And powerful witches and wizards who couldn't bring themselves to sit back as others were hurt, even when it was in another country and they had children to care for. And young men and women looking for glory and a fight of good against evil, Light against Dark.

Albus's students.

And they wrote to him. Not to the Minister, not to their parents or the Aurors, not even to Headmaster Dippet. They wrote to Albus Dumbledore, begging him to help. They spoke of friends, students Albus had taught since they were eleven years old and looking around with wide, awed eyes, who had died in the fight and who had, in their last moments, as they asked to remembered to their parents and their loved ones, said 'tell Dumbledore I was brave'.

And Albus was sitting in office in a castle far away from the action, in a country that he knew would be safe, reading their letters and not helping them because he was too afraid to face his sister's death, his brother's hatred, his lover's betrayal.

He was sitting in Hogwarts reading the letter of his students, his children, who were dying in a fight that wasn't really theirs, and worrying about who was going to be Head Boy this year.


Dear Albus,

How are you? Is Charlus behaving himself? What about Lucy?

The views here are lovely. It's so nice to travel and see the country; it's such a pity about the circumstances.

The fight isn't going terribly well. Grindelwald is powerful and he's gaining more and more support — starting to branch out into America, even. I can't think why he'd leaving Britain alone. A lot of people are fed up with the Muggles and their war, plus they've started hunting witches and wizards again. For fully trained adults it's not so bad, but three muggle-borns (that we know of, there may be more) have been killed by neglect or abuse and there are a few who have seriously traumatised, but are at least now with wizarding families who will care for them.

The Prewetts lost a child. Why they decided to go on holiday to wizarding France during a war I don't know, but the littlest Prewett (my nephew, as it happens) wandered off and they found his body in the river a few hours later. It isn't clear whether Muggles or Wizards killed him, but I don't think knowing would be much consolation to his parents.

Mia left us briefly to attend her brother's wedding. I thought that, perhaps, she would realise that it was safer there and she and Monty might return to England, but I realise that was foolish of me. A father's hopeful wishes, I suppose. It's unfair on them, really, when they're both old enough to make their own decisions, but I do wish they had had a chance to remain safe in England and not to get involved in a war with only very basic Auror training.

They're married now, a quick, quiet ceremony simply because neither wanted to die without being married (I remember Gertrude and me, when we first married…). Don't worry, you haven't missed it entirely, there will be a ceremony when we get back! If there wasn't, Gertrude would save Grindelwald the trouble of killing us.

I'm not going to beg you to join me. Although I'm not sure if we can win this fight without your help, I understand that you have your own reasons for not facing Grindelwald. I'm not going to try to pressure you or force you into a fight to the death you don't want. We're going to keep fighting until the end, win or lose. Just… if we don't make it back, take of Gertrude, please. Charlie and Lucy, too.

Give my love, and Monty and Mia's, to Charlus and Lucinda.

Yours sincerely,

Edmund Potter


"Congratulations on getting Head Boy, Tom," Marigolda said, straightening her green Slytherin tie.

"Likewise," Tom replied, nodding to her shiny new badge.

Marigolda smiled, that faux-modest smile that Slytherins were so good at, the one that said, I'm certain I deserve this and I don't care what you think, but I'm going to be polite and pretend I don't know my own worth, except you're a Slytherin as well and we both understand how this works, don't we?

"You know precisely what we're going to do, right?" Marigolda said. "I just have to sit in the background and look pretty, talking only when you don't want to deal with stupid idiots questioning you because you can't torture them in a room full of other Prefects or Professors?"

"Correct," Tom told her.

Of all his followers, Tom's favourite was Marigolda. She did what she was told and ensured that others did so as well, keeping them from questioning Tom and annoying him to the point where he had to get his wand out. She was clever and ruthless and assertive enough that Tom didn't think of her as weak (weaker than him, but wasn't everyone?), but not enough that she began to irritate him. She had been the first one to invite him into the Pureblood circle, sensing his potential, and, while Tom was not sentimental, he did like people who had could spot power and knew how to get at it.

She would be an excellent Head Girl to his Head Boy.


"Monty? Monty, where are you?" Euphemia Dearborn — no, Potter! Euphemia Potter! — coughed dust out of her lungs. Her forest green dress was ripped and covered in dust and the white powder coated her long auburn hair, currently escaping from its neat bun, as well.

"Mia?"

She hurried towards the sound, sidestepping chunks of destroyed building and fallen bodies. Dead or alive, she didn't know.

Fleamont was pulling himself out from under a chunk of stone, head bent as he coughed. His black hair, messy as all the Potter men's hair was, looked white in the dark, like his father Edmund's.

"Monty!"

Mia rushed over, almost tripping on a small chunk of white marble — maybe a decoration from the posh restaurant she and Monty had been eating at. She knelt down beside her husband, scraping her knees on the street, and pushed at the stone over her husband. Together they twisted it until the Potter Heir was free.

Mia held him tightly, feeling the warm weight of him in her arms. He hugged back. His breathing was rapid and he seemed as panicked as she was.

She'd travelled to Europe because she was fresh out of Hogwarts, madly in love, and desperate to protect the innocent and prove that she had what it took to become an Auror. She hadn't quite realised that she'd be stumbling through ruined streets franticly looking for her husband, ignoring people who were possibly dead or possibly dying because Monty was simply more important to her than the countless lives that had been lost in this war.

Maybe Edmund had been right that they would be safer at home.

"What happened?" Fleamont asked, looking up at her. Despite the blood running down his leg (Merlin, she was trying not to think about the blood), his blue eyes were clear and bright.

"I don't know," Mia admitted. "I think… some of Grindelwald's wizards attacked? They destroyed the buildings and we were… we were separated. I don't think any of the wizards stayed, though."

"Good," Monty said. "We should probably get back. Dad'll be worrying."

Mia nodded, wincing slightly. Edmund Potter had not been pleased that his son and daughter-in-law were determined to help him fight against Grindelwald and he had definitely not been pleased about their plan to spend a quiet weekend doing normal tourist things.

At least she didn't have to try to tell him his son was dead. Monty was warm and alive next to her, already pulling them both up despite having injured his leg. He tried to tug her away to a hidden corner to Disapparate, but she resisted.

"Wait… there's other people… They could still be alive."

Monty rolled his eyes, but followed her back down the street.

Now that she wasn't franticly searching for her husband, Mia could take in the extent of the destruction. What had been a quiet, posh street with white stone and marble restaurants and shops decorated with sculpted coils and statues on the sides of the buildings, broken up by the green of small trees and trailing flowerpots, had become the picture of a war zone. There were no whole structures standing, only half destroyed remnants of houses, shops, and cafés. Dust and stone and the trailed remains of plants littered the once-clean street. People who had been walking together, or sitting at tables laughing and chatting, were slumped on the floor. Red blood spiralled down to the drains hidden amongst the rubble.

Mia ran over to the body of a girl in a pale blue silk dress. She turned the girl over, tried not to sob at the expression of shocked terror on the girl's face, and felt frantically for a pulse. Nothing. She turned to the girl's sister, in pink. No luck.

Monty was a bit further off, bent over the body of a small boy. The look on his face said it all.

The couple fought their way through the debris, searching for any sign of life. There must have been a spell cast that targeted Muggles, because they were all dead — even those who didn't seem to have any visible wounds were dead. Mia found a little girl crying over her father's body. The father had a gaping wound on his head, while the little girl sported a crushed hand. He was dead. She wasn't.

Mia spoke to the girl in a soft voice, her heart going out to this poor child who had lost a parent so young. An orphan herself, Euphemia knew deeply the pain of growing up without parents.

The child must be a witch, probably muggle-born, Mia guessed. Her name was Olive. She'd been staying with her father after her English mother had died, despite the difficulties they'd had in getting her into Europe - the Muggle war, Mia assumed. While she was reluctant to leave her father, Mia eventually managed to persuade her that she would be safer if she came away with her and Monty.

"I'll look after your father until the police get here," Mia promised. "Monty will take care of you."

She handed the girl to her husband, who took the child gingerly. He looked past her to give Mia a worried glance.

"I'll be fine," Mia promised. She kissed him lightly. "I'll be five minutes, maximum."

Monty still looked concerned, but he nodded. "Come on," he whispered to Olive, and then they were twisting out of sight.

Mia took a deep breath. She was along now, on a street covered in death and destruction. But at least Monty was safe.

She hadn't liked lying to Olive. Mia hated lying to people and had always done so, but she had needed an excuse to stay while getting the little girl to safety.

Mia knelt by the dead man. A quick glance around revealed nothing except what Mia already knew. There was no one still living to see her as she drew out her wand and started to cast.

When Mia met Edmund and Fleamont back at their safe house, her face was grave. The spell that had been used on the Muggles in the street was… Mia had only ever read about it once, in her uncle's library. It was the sort of Dark spell that wasn't even mentioned in Defence Against the Darks Arts at Hogwarts. The assumption was that, if you were facing someone capable of using such a spell, you were already dead.


Magic curled up, invisible to mortal eyes but so solidly present that Tom could feel it, his senses tingling wildly. This magic was old and powerful, capable of ripping down buildings and sending people mad. And Tom was controlling it.

It took every ounce of willpower he had — and he had a lot — to keep it under control. This was ancient magic, wild magic, magic that did not like to be controlled or directed, magic that laughed at runes and scorned wands, magic that could only be used if one tapped straight into it, into the magic at the heart of the world. This was the magic that had made Merlin great, had formed the basis of Hogwarts castle, had made the first Horcrux. This was the magic that had first given wizards their power.

It curled higher and higher, wrapping round the crystal pillar. Tom was shaking with the effort of holding it in check, but he did not stop.

It spread, roiling and boiling over the ceiling of the huge crystal hall. The ghosts who had been watching Tom curiously from the shadows fled. They could see the magic, after all. They were the remnants of a witch or wizard's magic, lingering in the world, unable to do more than keep the person's personality and spirit alive.

They could sense the danger of what Tom was doing. They could feel the power. They could foresee the consequences that were unknown even to Tom.

The magic condensed, falling into itself in a blinding pulse of power. Tom flew back, crashing into the wall and sinking to the floor. He looked out of blurred eyes, into the centre of the swirling storm of magic.

A figure emerged.

Tom scrambled to his feet, sunk down to one knee. He bowed his head.

"My lord."

There was silence. Then the figure spoke, in a dry, old, crackling voice that got smoother and deeper with every word until it was a warm baritone, full of dangerous softness and ancient power.

"Whe— where am I?"

"The Crystal Hall, my lord," Tom said. He did not raise his head.

"Why am I here?"

"I have woken you, my lord," Tom said. "Mudbloods run unchecked through the castle. The Professors suspect the identity of your monster."

"I will need to slumber a little longer to regain my strength," the ghost said. Tom felt it approach him. "Then I will be able to punish those who usurp the integrity of the castle. You have done well, my boy."

"Thank you, my lord."

"You may leave me now. Make the world bow before you."

"I will, my lord."

The ghost's laughter chased Tom out of the Hall and through the dudgeons.


Marigolda curled the stem of a flower around her finger. A marigold flower, appropriately enough.

"I don't know what you expected, Tom," she said.

"A little more acknowledgement," Tom hissed. Anger was still bubbling though him.

Marigolda let out a huff of amusement.

"They still believe you're just a silly little half-blood boy peddling ideas that you stole off some poor pure-blood."

Tom snarled wordlessly. He was not very good at controlling his anger at the best of times and it seemed to be getting worse these days. People were just so irritating.

"I mean," Marigolda continued casually, "you could teach them a lesson. It's probably about time you started displaying your real power, anyway."


It was only after he'd sent everyone involved to the long-term ward in St Mungo's that Tom realised that was what Marigolda had wanted all along.


Albus watched Tom wandlessly Transfigure his desk into a pig and sighed internally. The orphan boy was dangerously powerful. He had raw talent and a quick way of learning the skills he needed to utilise that talent. Albus had only ever known that twice before, and that story had no happy ending.

"Well done, Tom, ten points to Slytherin," Albus said. His smile reached his eyes. "Anyone else want to try?"

Only Marigolda Lestrange and Augusta Spinnet managed to Transfigure their desks wandlessly, after several tries, earning both Slytherin and Gryffindor a further five points each. Albus expected great, if potentially disturbing, things from Marigolda, and Augusta… Augusta had potential that he suspected she would waste on becoming a proper lady for whatever man was lucky enough to snag her (Albus was looking forwards to his invitation to the wedding of Augusta Spinnet and Harfang Longbottom). That wasn't entirely fair, Albus knew. Augusta would marry someone she loved and put her effort into raising any children she had, likely becoming a very efficient matriarch in the process.

It was a lot better than what Albus had wanted to do with his power.

Albus let his students out, still smiling. Fleamont Potter — a very observant little boy — had once asked if it hurt to keep smiling all the time. Albus had been quite honest when he'd said no, it didn't hurt. He had managed to train his facial features to smile slightly as a default expression, and he was so used to it now that it just didn't affect him.

Sometimes, though, it hurt emotionally, to smile when all he wanted to do was to not smile. To know that he could never let anyone in, never let anyone see that most of his smiles were fake.

Aberforth had once accused him of being a serial liar, of not knowing how to do anything but lie. He didn't know how right he was, Albus thought ruefully as he chatted merrily to Headmaster Dippet and occasionally glanced into the sea of students eating dinner to wink at one of them.


"Augusta… I know that you want a big public proposal, something really romantic in front of all your friends and family, but… just so I know you'll say yes… Will you marry me?"

"Yes, Harfang, of course I'm going to say yes. I'm the one planning the proposal, after all — you won't do it right — and I'm hardly going to say no to a proposal I planned, am I?"

"Of course not, dear."


Dear Albus,

All alive and well here, thankfully. We've got a little girl staying with us now — I'm sure you remember Mia's habit of adopting first-years? Her name's Olive Garden, Mia and Monty found her after an attack on a Muggle neighbourhood they were visiting. Everyone else was dead.

Grindelwald's using Ezraca Carrow's old spell. I'm sorry to be so blunt, but I don't know how else to say it. I knew we were in trouble, knew he was powerful, knew we might not win, but this…

This is something else.

Monty's still confident, but I think he's the only one of us who is. Mia (I'm sure you remember her rather dodgy uncle) and I gave him an abbreviated version of the story, but he doesn't seem scared. Still believes that we will win because we have something to fight for.

Grindelwald's fighting for something as well. It's just not something we want to see him achieve.

Well, that's enough of the gloomy stuff. I'm glad to hear that Charlie's made a new friend, even if he is terrorising you. At least all you have to deal with is mischievous students. Also, do tell Lucy that she is not allowed a boyfriend until seventh-year — Mia was kind enough to remind me that this might now be a concern (although I don't think that this was what she expected to happen), so I thought I'd have you warn her pre-emptively that both Monty and I are already planning what we'll do to any boy who messes with her!

I'm delighted to hear that Augusta and Harfang are planning to get properly engaged fairly soon. I know it's been a dear wish of her mother for a very long time and I'm looking forwards to the wedding. Give them my congratulations and tell them to make sure it doesn't clash with Mia and Monty's, because we'd hate to have to miss it!

Look at me, desperately making plans that I might not be able to follow through. I think I'm in denial about this whole thing.

I don't want to think about what will happen if we lose, Albus. Meeting Olive has reminded me of what's at stake here, of what we'll lose if Grindelwald wins. Seeing her with Monty and Mia — I don't want to think that they might never get to have children of their own.

Love from your old friend,

Edmund Potter


"Miss Spinnet and Mr Longbottom, may have a word with you?"

Albus noticed the worried looks the couple exchanged and smiled to himself.

"Yes, Professor?" Augusta asked, bold as always.

Albus raised the letter he had received from Lord Potter that morning. There were nervous glances again, the two seventh-years obviously wondering what their teacher had found. Albus could remember the days when he would have hated to see a paper in someone with authority's hand.

"I got a letter from Edmund Potter today," Albus told them. "He wishes to congratulate you on your upcoming marriage and to tell you that he expects an invitation."

Another exchanged look, this time of confusion.

"Professor… we aren't even engaged yet," Harfang pointed out.

Albus smiled serenely at them. "Next time, don't plan a secret engagement in front of one of the most notorious gossips the on walls of this castle."


There was a storm brewing. Dark clouds swirled in the sky, centring on a fortress made of dark stone blocks, stood on a sharp, shagged cliff above a boiling ocean. The words For The Greater Good were just visible via their shadows in the dim light of the dark sky. Two figures, dressed in dark, billowing robes, stood on the battlements above the gate, listening to the sounds of screaming prisoners and crashing waves and roaring wind.

"It's so melodramatic," one of the figures moaned.

"No one asked you," Gellert Grindelwald, Dark Lord of Europe, retorted.

"Well, they should have," Carlos Iskalas, his second in command, huffed. "Really, Gellert, what were you thinking?"

"I was thinking back to basics," Gellert explained. "Something that we know scares people. Really, we don't need something new and original that might not even have the desired effect. Clichés are clichés for a reason."

"You spent two days researching a spell that would sound like people screaming in pain. And when you couldn't find one — because, really, who needs a spell to make it sound like people are screaming — you made one up yourself."

"I'm not seeing the problem here," Gellert admitted. "It's not like I spent all that time just looking for one spell. I found some very nice other spells as well."

Carlos sighed. "Remind why I'm here."

"Because you love me," Gellert said, grinning his most swoon-worthy grin. "And also I can offer you power the likes of which no other wizard can."

"Yes to the second," Carlos said. "No to the first."

Gellert staggered dramatically, clutching at his chest. "You wound me!"

Carlos sighed again. How someone so childish and overdramatic could raze entire towns without even lifting his wand (and the wand… the only reason Carlos hadn't slit Gellert's throat and made away with it was because he knew it would be his neck under the knife) was beyond him. Still, Gellert was right about the power. Carlos would put up with a lot for that sort of power. Clichéd evil villain scenes were only the tip of the iceberg.

"Can we go inside?" Carlos asked. "I know they've seen us and it's freezing out here. We have actual work to do."

"We have to wait until they leave," Gellert said. At Carlos's long-suffering sigh he continued, "That's actually good advice, Iskalas. We don't want them to know the entrance to the inside from the battlement."

"It's always hard to tell what's good advice and what's showboating, with you," Carlos said.

"It's all good advice," Gellert said, sounding offended. Carlos rolled his eyes and looked out into the dark night.

The scouting group Gellert was putting on a show for didn't seem to be going anywhere. They were attempting to hide behind a ledge of rock half a mile away, but Carlos had rigged a few spells in that perfect hiding spot and he and Gellert could see the group and hear their conversation perfectly. They appeared to be franticly discussing whether it would be a good idea to just go for it or to report back and make up a plan.

Lightening flashed. The perfectly timed and positioned bolt of electricity lit the two figures from behind, sending their larger-than-life shadows skimming across the ground to land over the scouting group. The rolling thunder carried an echo of Gellert's laughter across the intervening space.

"Do you think he'll come?" Carlos asked, not looking at his commander.

"I thought he would have come before," Gellert admitted. "I don't think I can judge what he will or will not do anymore."

"Will you go to him, if he doesn't?"

"Perhaps. When the time is right to move into Britain."


The last two weeks had been a whirlwind for Olive. It hadn't been very long since she was just a normal girl, living with her mother, attending school, and dodging air-raid sirens. Then her mother had died when a bomb had hit the office she worked in and Olive had been collected by some people sent by her father, whom her mother had told she was never to meet, and she was swept away to war-torn Europe. Her father had been nice, at least, until he was also killed by a bombing incident — one that Olive only just survived.

Now she was living with Mia and Monty Potter, in a house owned by Monty's father Edmund and frequented by all sorts of strange people. Her mum would have had a heart attack.

"Olive? Olive, sweetie, are you in there?" Mia poked her head round the door.

Mia was Olive's favourite. She was pretty, with curly red hair and warm brown eyes, and kind, always going out of her way to make Olive feel at home with them.

"There you are," Mia said, smiling. "Come on, Olive, Monty and Edmund are expecting us for dinner."

Olive hopped down from the windowsill she'd been sitting on, smoothing the skirt of her new blue dress. It was Monty's little sister's, apparently, and had been a little bit too big for her until Mia had done something with the small stick she carried everywhere.

They could all do odd things with sticks, everyone who lived here, or anyone who visited. It was called magic, Mia said. She said that Olive could do it too, and that was how she had survived.

Olive was not sure she believed them. Then again, nothing in Olive's life was like she thought it was, so maybe they were right and magic was real.


Tom sighed. It had been a long day and it did not seem to be over yet.

"Yes, Dorea?" he said, turning to the nervous little girl.

"I was wondering if you could help me with my Charms homework?" she asked.

Tom sighed again. He did not have the time or the patience to tutor a stupid Hufflepuff through basic Charms work. However, he did want to stay on good terms with Dorea, at least until he was out of Hogwarts. Arcturus might deny having any affection for the girl, but Tom could read between the lines, and while he might not understand Arcturus's feelings towards his sister, he could manipulate them.

"What are you struggling with?"


Only Albus Dumbledore noticed that the Head Boy tutored only the younger siblings of students he was occasionally seen talking to. He was also the only teacher to notice that none of the older siblings looked happy about the arrangement.


Aberforth slammed the pint glass on the counter. Frothy Butterbeer splashed down the sides of the already rather dirty cup. Albus winced.

Aberforth bustled away, busying himself with cleaning mugs and glasses with a cloth that seemed to simply be smearing the dirt around. Although he was obviously trying to control himself, temperance had never really been his forte.

Maybe he shouldn't have come here. Maybe he should have continued pretending that he didn't know his brother had bought a pub in the village right beside the school Albus worked in. Maybe he should just have gone to the Three Broomsticks like the rest of the staff.

But… Aberforth was still his brother. Albus had not always been the best older sibling and he knew that he would never be able to make amends for that. He would never even be able to prove to Aberforth how sorry he was. But he could still try.

"How's business?" Albus asked, slightly awkwardly.

Aberforth grunted. He had moved further away, doing something in a dim corner of the bar.

Albus looked around. He was the only person in the pub.

"Quiet night?"

"It's always quiet," Aberforth muttered.

Albus nodded. He fell silent again. For lack of anything else to do, he raised his Butterbeer to his lips and sipped. It tasted sour and old, like he'd flavouring it with the urine of the goats he'd always been so fond of. He drank it all anyway.

"Still hiding in your castle?" Aberforth asked abruptly.

Albus panicked. He didn't want to talk about this, didn't want to acknowledge it, didn't want to think about it. Even telling the story to a stranger wasn't as bad as this. With a stranger, he could limit the tale, could leave out the little details that he hated to linger on, the details that Aberforth knew so well and cared about so much.

"I'm still working at Hogwarts," he said, hoped Aberforth left it at that.

Aberforth snorted. "Teaching children that there's a right and wrong… teaching children to get involved in fights that don't concern them."

"I teach Transfiguration," Albus said. His heart was pounding and he felt sick. Maybe he shouldn't have drunk the Butterbeer.

He knew it was not the Butterbeer that was making him feel ill.

Aberforth snorted again.

The two Dumbledores fell silent, let the secrets swell around them and swallow them up. Did you know? Albus asked silently. I suspected, Aberforth replied.

Albus tapped his glass on the counter. The dim lighting of the Hog's Head reminded him of the house in Godric's Hollow, of the silence that would come billowing in, echoing, smothering, after Arianna had screamed herself to sleep. Of the nights when Albus would slip out of the house and…

Now he embraced the silence, the awkwardness, every feeling of this is my fault. He had brought this on himself. He had only himself to blame.

"Too much of a coward to face him?" Aberforth asked.

Albus did not reply. They both knew that the answer was yes.

Aberforth spat on the floor. "I never understood how you made it into Gryffindor."


Dear Albus,

Happy Halloween! What kind of a show are the ghosts putting on this year? Is it as good as that one time when — Monty is reading over my shoulder, so I'll just have to hope you remember! He says that he's hopeful he's finally figured out how to get you tell him (I don't have the heart to say it's not going to happen).

Little Olive has become somewhat of a fixture in this house. She's the favourite of us all, always making our days just that bit more fun. It's worrying, having a child in a war zone, but it does keep everything from simply becoming a combination of morbid despair and desperate love.

We've had a few spots of good luck recently. The American deputation has arrived. They can be annoying — can't use the right names for things for the life of them and can't make a decent cup of tea ever — but they are at least helping us push back against Grindelwald. At this rate we stand a chance!

Grindelwald's lost his left-hand man. We couldn't get at Iskalas, unfortunately, but Gisori's dead. Fell off a building and couldn't cast a spell in time. Monty tried to catch him, but it was a full-on fight, so he was a little distracted.

We lost two Boots and Clarence Abbot. I think Clarence had two children still at Hogwarts — I enclosed the last letters he tried to write and never managed to send. Will you give them to his children?

Send my love to Lucy and Charlie,

Your friend,

Edmund Potter


Sunlight filtered through the window, catching on the jewels and gemstones and making them sparkle. Rabastan Lestrange paced along the lines that had been carved into the stone floor of the abandoned classrooms, focussing intently on the power he could feel thrumming through him. His wife, Marigolda, chanted in an ancient language behind him.

The lines flared with light as the precious stones exploded in bright, arcing fireworks of colour. Rabastan held his focus despite the sudden blistering heat against his feet.

In the centre of complicated structure of pentagons, hexagons, and octagons, Arcturus Black joined Marigolda in chanting. Rabastan stared in awe as the power visibly solidified, the light darkening and bleeding black. He could feel its singing in his core, a dark, dangerous tune that called to him to follow, to grab hold, to make the world bow.

A slow, mocking clap echoed through the classroom. Rabastan, Arcturus, and Marigolda whipped round.

Tom Riddle sat on an old teacher's desk that had been pushed against the wall. His face was half in shadow, but the light from the windows caught his eyes and seemed to make them glitter in the gloom.

Rabastan blew out a calming breath. He let the last vestiges of power drain from his body.

The world would not be bowing to him. It would be bowing to Tom.


Fleamont threw himself behind a stone wall and panted desperately. His clothes were torn and his side ached viciously. He did not have to look down to know that he bleeding. He could still feel the searing pain from the spell. It had only missed something more vital because Mia had pushed him out of the way.

Monty closed his eyes and drew in deep, shaky breaths. This had not gone to plan. It was supposed to be a quick in and out job, something that would take maybe fifteen minutes, max. That was why he, Mia, and James Weasley had been sent. Three young Aurors with only a little over a decade's experience.

Somewhere, Mia screamed. Monty lunged out from his refuge, already casting. Two wizards went down, but more replaced them.

At least we know it's important, Monty thought ruefully. He could feel the weight of the vial in his pocket. It was so small, but so heavy. Must be a very important memory.

Mia screamed again. Monty scanned the room rapidly. James was fighting two at once and seemed to be winning. Mia—

Mia was surrounded. At least five assorted Witches and Wizards crowded around her. Even that, Monty suspected, would not have been enough, but one had crept up behind her and was holding her tightly, pinning her arms against her chest as she struggled.

Monty didn't stop to think about the consequences. That was his wife, damn it, and he was not going to let some of Grindelwald's cronies hurt her.


It was a very bloody and very triumphant trio of Aurors that Apparated back to base later that day.


Olive watched the dancing lights in front of her and thought they were pretty, much better than the nightmares that had haunted her previously. She didn't understand why Mia and everyone else was so excited, though. They didn't sleep in her room, so Olive's lights couldn't help them to get rid of nightmares.


Aberforth scanned the bar. It was quite full tonight. Three separate drinkers sat at the bar. Two people, heavily muffled, sat in a corner. Another person sat by the door, scanning anyone who entered. There was no sign of Albus.

Aberforth didn't know if he was disappointed or relieved.


Gellert looked at the photo he was holding and sighed. Albus looked young in the photo, far younger than any of the pictures that Gellert had seen in newspapers since. He was smiling as well, jokingly shrugging off the arm that the photo-Gellert was trying to sling over him. Gellert had not seen him looking that relaxed for years. He had not seen him at all for years.

"Gellert?"

He looked up. Carlos was peering into the room, his black hair slightly untidy, as though he'd just gotten out of bed. His green eyes were bleary and he was frowning.

"You should be in bed," he said. "It's nearly two and there's a lot to do tomorrow."

"I'll go to bed soon, Iskalas," Gellert said, turning away. "Get some beauty sleep, Merlin knows you need it."

His right-hand man rolled his eyes and drew his head back, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

Gellert looked at the photo and sighed. He stood up and left the room.

It was only when he was in bed that he realised he had forgotten to put the picture back in its box.


"Do you think we'll be home for Christmas this year, Dad?"

"I hope so. I wouldn't count on it."