CHAPTER 81: Checkmate (Part 1)

Headmistress' Office

April 5th, 1996

6:50 a.m.

Neville hadn't been in the greatest of moods for quite a long time now. It was something that was turning out to be bothersome for a great number of people, but that's just what happened when you were kidnapped, tortured and used in a dark resurrection ritual to bring back bloody Voldemort. That's just what happened when you returned to safety by sheer luck, still covered in the blood of one of your friends while still grasping onto the corpse of the other. And being woken up at just past six in the morning by the Aurors and hauled all across Hogwarts to Umbridge's new fancy office without even the chance to brush his teeth didn't exactly help his mood.

Umbridge too didn't seem pleased by the early morning wake-up, but at least she had been given the decency to change out of her nightgown and into more respectable clothes - or as respectable as a pink and fluffy robe that was at least four sizes too large for her could be. The other three Aurors in the room were all puffed up and mostly groomed as well, leaving Neville to wonder if it would have just killed them to give him five minutes to gather his bearings after basically yanking him out of bed.

"Take a seat, Mister Longbottom," Umbridge said with a hint of disgust in her voice. She had never been that fond of him, quite the opposite given how much pleasure she seemed to take in assigning him torturous detentions, but ever since he'd knocked down the mini Death Eaters she'd grown much more resentful towards him. And though he had to grit his teeth and glare at her like a bloodlusted wolf, he complied without a word. "Head Auror Scrimgeour has some questions for you."

"About what?"

"Don't worry," the man beside Umbridge - Scrimgeour, presumably - assured him. "You're not in any trouble."

"And would it be idiotic to assume that the Ministry has finally pulled their heads out of their arse and accepted that Voldemort returned?"

"Enough of your nonsense," Umbridge shut him down. "You'll answer any question Head Auror Scrimgeour asks you, and you will do so respectfully."

"Of course," Neville scoffed, turning away from Umbridge in an effort to restrain himself, even if for only a moment.

"Mister Longbottom…" Scrimgeour hesitated for a moment before speaking in a gentler tone. "Neville. What can you tell me about Harry Potter?"

And there it was, the two little words he just couldn't stop hearing ever since this bloody year had started. Harry Potter this and Harry Potter that. Master dueller Harry Potter. Saviour Harry Potter. Poor victim Harry Potter. Potter. Potter. Potter. Of course, Scrimgeour wanted to know about Harry bloody Potter. With his luck, they were looking for Potter to give him a fucking medal."

"He's an arsehole."

Scrimgeour seemed oddly amused by his characterisation. "Anything else you can give us?"

"Just generally a dick. Mildly psychopathic. You know… your typical Slytherin. What are you asking me this for?"

"Well, he spent a few weeks at your house this past winter break. I dare say you got a better view of the boy than anyone in this castle."

Neville blinked, his eyes searching for something before the realisation hit. "Right," he said stiffly, wanting nothing more than to tear his own hair out. Because of course, this was his bloody fucking luck. "Well, no. He kept mostly to himself, you see. We didn't talk much."

"Understandable," Scrimgeour said before writing something down in his small notepad. "I never really got along with my brother eith-"

"He's not my brother."

"Of course," the man smiled kindly. "Just a manner of speaking. What with him being a Longbottom ward and all. But I digress. Have you been in contact with him lately?"

Neville couldn't help but snort.

"That bad, huh?"

"Look, Scrimgeour-"

"Head Auror Scrimgeour," Umbridge said tightly.

"Head Auror. I don't know anything about Potter. I barely talked to the bloke before he invaded my home. You'll have better luck with Nott or Malfoy or Parkinson. He's always hanging around them."

"They'll be questioned soon enough, but let's maintain our focus on you."

"Why me? I don't even know bloody Potter. What was so important that you needed to drag me out of bed for this?"

"Do you know where Mister Potter is at the moment?"

"Sleeping? I don't fucking know."

"Mister Longbottom!"

"It's fine, Headmistress." Scrimgeour calmed her down. "It's rather early, and I can appreciate why Mister Longbottom feels cornered."

"I don't feel cornered." Neville gritted out, but Scrimgeour didn't look convinced.

"When was the last time you saw Mister Potter?"

"During the break, right before catching the train to Hogwarts. He's with my grandmother, just go talk to him."

"I'm afraid he's not."

"What do you mean he's not?" Neville snapped.

"I spoke with your grandmother about an hour ago. Supposedly he escaped from the residence a few days ago. It seems he has a knack for that."

"Well, Harry Potter was never said to be the most stable person."

"Perhaps. But this is the second time he's escaped from the residence in four months. At some point, you have to wonder if Mrs Longbottom just keeps laying random portkeys around the manor."

"And you think I had something to do with this?"

"Not particularly. Not with Potter at least. Your relationship with Mister Montague is another matter, of course."

Neville's eyes darted between Umbridge and Scrimgeour. "What does that have to do with anything?"

Scrimgeour turned towards his Aurors, the three of them having some weird exchange with only their eyes before Scrimgeour nodded and the one on the left pulled out a newspaper and threw it onto the desk. And the headline on it immediately cleared out any anger in his system as he had to actively contain his smile.

HARRY POTTER: BRITAIN'S YOUNGEST SERIAL KILLER

The picture beneath it was quite eye-catching in a way, though not in a positive sense. Either way, Neville couldn't help but reach out and pull the paper up to him, and as he skimmed through the article it became harder not to burst out laughing. It was all here. Everything Elijah had been telling him, everything he had been dreaming about for the past couple of weeks. And now the Aurors were after him. If Magic itself had wanted to give him a sign that there was indeed justice in the world, it just had.

"I don't see the humour in that article, Mister Longbottom," Scrimgeour said with a hard tone. "Just the opposite, actually."

Neville coughed, looking away from the newspaper. "It's not amusement, Head Auror."

"Could've fooled me."

"Ever since the attack at the Three Broomsticks, I saw Potter for who he truly was. For what he truly was. And no one believed me. Forgive me for feeling vindicated when I've been proved right about him."

"It's impressive how much resentment you seem to hold for Mister Potter," Scrimgeour said idly. "Is that something you share with Mister Montague?"

Neville opened his mouth but stopped, somehow knowing there weren't any right answers to that question without throwing himself under the bus. It was a clear trap, and he wasn't so willing to walk towards it without knowing how it might blow up in his face. "I don't know what you mean."

"I think you do." Scrimgeour pulled out one of the chairs beside him before taking a seat in it. "I'm going to be rather frank with you, Neville, is that okay?"

"… I guess?"

"I think you've been telling me nothing but shite up until now. I think you know more than you're letting on and for some reason, you've convinced yourself that the right thing here is to keep it to yourself. Harry Potter is a vile and dangerous killer, one who must be stopped as soon as possible. He'll be stopped either way, it's only a matter of time. But with your help, it'll be sooner rather than later. This means he won't be able to kill as many people as he would if you decide not to talk. You're still young, Neville, and as far as I can tell you're turning out to be a fine young man. Trust me when I tell you, you don't want those deaths on your conscience."

Scrimgeour was right. Potter was a killer. He was a monster. One that Dumbledore was only too happy to protect and keep safe while leaving Neville out to rot. He may not have been able to join the Order, he may not have been able to do anything for the fight against Voldemort. But if he could take one psychopathic future Death Eater off the board before the war properly started, why on earth had he been listening to Dumbledore and his grandmother in the first place?

"So let's start again, Neville, what do you know about Harry Potter?"

He didn't know how long he spent there with Scrimgeour and Umbridge, but by the time he had finished and was escorted to the Great Hall, most of the student body was already there eating. It had been hard to tip-toe around the details of Potter's situation during the winter break without revealing anything that would put his family or the Order in danger. He didn't mention Grimmauld - not that he could have if he had wanted to - or anyone else, and most of what he said was based on his experiences with Potter inside Hogwarts or what Elijah had told him. Scrimgeour was somewhat pleased, but Neville could tell the Auror wanted more from him.

Making his way towards the Gryffindor table, it wasn't hard to notice the large gap in the Slytherin table where Potter's goons sat. They would be next in the interrogation line, and soon enough Potter would be caught. It was the look in Scrimgeour's eyes. It wasn't hatred, not at all, not like anything he'd seen in Eli's eyes or his own. But there was still a spark in them, a sort of fire that promised Potter would be caught and swiftly punished. And given some of the things Scrimgeour had said, he had been onto Potter for quite a while now. It gave him this weird idea - a vision almost. Eli, Scrimgeour and he sitting in The Three Broomsticks, laughing and drinking butterbeer with a copy of the Prophet proclaiming Potter's sentence lying in front of him.

Their little trio. Team Anti-Potter. The only ones who could see the psycho for what he truly was. Though given the looks of things inside the Great Hall, their group wouldn't be so small anymore. There was no person inside the room who didn't have their eyes glued to a copy of the Daily Prophet - the professor's as well. There was shock and disbelief, but more than that, there was fear. People were finally seeing the real Harry Potter before their eyes, and they were disgusted by him. Murmurs spread around the hall and for once, they weren't about him. They were all finally seeing reason… Neville just hoped Hermione did as well.

She was sitting beside Ron, gripping the newspaper and barely giving Ron any room to even see the picture much less actually read the article. Knowing her, she must have already read it a full three times. Which is why he wondered why she even needed to read it yet another time.

"You're back!" Ron announced the moment he took a seat in front of them, but Hermione didn't take her eyes off the damn thing. "What did the Aurors want?"

"Do you even have to ask?" Neville nodded towards the copy of the Daily Prophet.

"So it's true? Potter he- he's the serial killer."

"I told you this," Neville gritted out. "I told both of you this."

Hermione threw the Daily Prophet on the table and glared up at him. "This… this can't be. It's wrong somehow."

"Wrong?"

"It just doesn't make any sense!" She kept going. "At first they were saying that it was a vigilante group who was doing these killings, and now he was behind them all? Even though there were various, completely different descriptions of the assailants in all the other murders? He- he could be framed!"

"Framed?"

"There's polyjuice! Metamorphmagi like Tonks. Who knows how many magical means there are to pretend to be another person or to edit a picture so that there's someone who shouldn't be there? Besides, it's not like the Prophet is the most trusted source for these things. Just look how they've been treating you and Dumbledore."

"For God's sake, Hermione, just look at the picture!" Neville hissed. "We know what Potter is capable of, we were there when he slaughtered those men. You can't tell me those bodies don't look identical. It's the same spells. The same tactics. It's him."

"Well, then there's a reason for all of this."

"A reason?"

"You just said so yourself, Neville. Potter saved us. He didn't kill us. He didn't kill anyone who wasn't a Death Eater that day at The Three Broomsticks. Maybe this was self-defence as well!"

"Self-defence?" Neville snorted. "So he was randomly attacked at a dozen different pubs over the past two months? Just like that?"

"We still don't know it was him at the pubs!"

"I'm with Nev on this one," Ron said.

"Of course, you would be," a voice said from beside him before he was hit with a mass of straight red hair as Ginny Weasley sat to his right. "There's clearly something off about this."

"Off?"

"Just look at him. Look at Harry for a moment."

"Oh, and what should I focus on? The gallons of blood covering his clothes or the bits of people that are tangled in his hair?"

"At his face you moron," Ginny rolled her eyes and snatched the Prophet from the table. "He looks out of it. Almost like he's drugged. Like he's only just reacting to the situation."

"So he was drugged?" Neville nearly shouted. "That's your excuse?"

"I'm not saying he was drugged. Not necessarily. But this whole thing's just off. And who took that picture anyway? I mean there's like eight or nine people dead in the frame, and it looks like it just happened. So why on earth is there someone there taking a picture rather than having run away or kept fighting?"

"Ginny," Ron started. "You and mum… you both think that Potter's some sort of… misunderstood victim. Hermione does too. Maybe it's a woman thing, maybe Potter just has one of those types of faces that makes you women just swoon and crave to hug him - like some kind of mothery thing - but you can't just ignore everything we know about the guy. He's murdered people. We've all seen it."

"And he's saved us!" Hermione said fiercely.

"That doesn't change that he's offed more blokes than anyone our age probably ever has. It doesn't change the fact that this isn't something beyond him. Potter's just not the Colin Creevey or Justin Finch-Fletchley type. He's not like any of us for that matter. So there's not a doubt in my mind Potter could have definitely pulled off something like this."

"That doesn't mean he did do something like this." Ginny rebutted.

"He did," Neville said coldly. "Potter killed Graham Montague. He killed all those men at the Three Broomsticks. And he killed all those men in that picture. How many more people will have to die before you realise just how dangerous Potter truly is?"

Wigtown

8:35 a.m.

"Shit. Shit. Shit!" Harry exclaimed as he threw himself over the register, feeling the burning sensation of a curse as it grazed his shoulder.

Of course, this was happening to him. With his bloody luck, Harry was frankly awed it hadn't happened sooner. On the one hand, leaving his new invisibility cloak at Grimmauld had probably been a bad idea, but given how he actually had to enter the store, pick out all the ingredients he was missing, and then pay for them, that didn't seem to be a good choice at first. On the other hand, being recognised by a friend of one of the many morons he'd murdered over the past couple of months was more of an inevitability than anything. Especially given just how many he'd actually put down.

He just didn't think whoever found him would end up calling the small army that was currently hunting him across the small village he had settled for. It was eight in the fucking morning for Christ's sake! The only reason he had woken up so early was to be there when none of these idiots would try looking for him.

Harry launched a couple of curses at the ceiling, and though they didn't manage to fully bring it down as he had hoped, it was enough to barricade the door and exclude any more from entering. Not that it lasted, as two of the windows suddenly exploded and four more entered the small store.

"Come on, mates. Would it kill you to go at this one at a time?" Harry called out, but the group seemed too busy to answer. He sent out a couple more curses he used for cover as he sprinted from the register to the door that led to the back. Pushing through the narrow corridor of the storage, Harry reached the door and gripped the handle before it exploded in his face. He was launched backward, crashing against the wall with his left hand shattered from the explosion. Harry screamed but as he saw the two men that were rushing inside he pushed the pain down and dropped his wand-

He pulled out the knife and slashed at the first man's throat, his blood dripping all over him as the full weight of his body fell on Harry. The two men behind him launched a barrage of curses at him, but the first man's body managed to give him enough cover for Harry to drop the knife, pull out his wand, and subdue the other two with stunning curses. He pushed the man's body off him just as the rest had reached the other door, and Harry quickly picked up both the knife and wand before rushing out of the store.

Even with the adrenaline, the pain in his hand was becoming less endurable by the second. But Harry kept pushing through, vaulting over the fence as he zigzagged across the field and dodged the curses launched at him. There were twelve, maybe fifteen men against him. And though their aim was shit and their duelling skills even worse, they were too much for him to handle in his current state. He needed to get out of the village, maybe the anti-apparition wards ended at the borders. Then again, when was the last time he had been so lucky?

Harry was so lost inside his thoughts that he barely noticed the man in the blue robes right before he crashed directly into him. "Sorry," he rushed out. "I have to-" but as he looked down at the man he realised he wasn't a random bloke from the town. He was an Auror. "Oh, thank God. You have to help me."

Harry reached down to try and help the man up before the Auror suddenly shouted. "Drop your wand!"

"Drop my wand?" Harry blinked. "What? No. You have to call for backup or get me out of here! There are a bunch of murderers after me!"

The Auror pulled out his wand and trained it on him. "I said stop!" He shouted. "You're under arrest."

"Under arrest?" Harry shouted. "I'm the one whose !"

The Auror grabbed Harry's left shoulder right before Harry reacted and clocked him in the jaw before using the stunning charm on him a couple of times. "That's what I get for trusting you Aurors. Fucking morons."

Harry immediately sprinted away, having lost too much time with Junior Auror number thirty-seven over there, and didn't look back. And it was only after a couple of minutes that he realised he hadn't heard or felt a curse in a while now. Not long after he felt the effects of the anti-apparition ward suddenly fade as well. The Aurors must have answered to reports of a fight, Thirty-Seven may not have been the only one lurking about the small town. Harry didn't dwell much on it, immediately apparating away.

It was so much worse with his hand in the shape it was in, but he wasn't too willing to dilly-dally in a village filled with Aurors who apparently wanted to arrest him. He landed on the steps to Grimmauld, nearly falling over as he pushed through the door and left dirt all over the carpet. Harry swallowed his pride and yelled out for Andromeda, only to be surprised when there was no response. He tried again, and one more time after that before suddenly the kitchen door opened and revealed the entire Order crammed inside.

"I apologise if my shattered hand is interrupting your precious meeting," Harry said sardonically, but neither his disfigured hand nor his remark seemed to dispel the tension in the room.

Suddenly, there was movement in the group before Andromeda pushed her way through the black Auror guy and the creepy man with yellow teeth. She glared at him as if she was seeing him for the first time before she pulled out a newspaper and threw it at his feet. Harry barely had time to read the headline and see the picture before he heard Andromeda. "Is this true?"

Harry stared at the newspaper, his anger bubbling in his chest and rising until he could feel it at the back of his throat. So raw and intense that it actually managed to slightly dim the pain from his hand. He recognised the picture immediately, even instinctively knew who had taken it. Montague and Dolohov had played him like a fiddle that night, it was embarrassing, but instead of finishing this on their own like men, the two of them had gone the coward's route. And he would make sure they would regret it.

"Is it?"

"Yes," Harry said instantly.

"You killed all those people?" Andromeda continued. "You've been going around for months murdering them all after you convinced us that you were the victim here. That it was actually Sirius who was wrong all along - not you. I turned my back on my own cousin for you!"

"I didn't ask you to do that," Harry snarled. "I didn't convince you of anything, I didn't really have to. All of you were tripping over yourselves to believe that I was just some poor innocent victim. I didn't even say anything about it! You just assumed it… and now you're just pissed off you were wrong."

"So that makes what you did right? Do you think that just exempts you from any blame?"

"You're the one saying it. Not me."

"Well, it doesn't. I don't know what you say to yourself every night just so that you can sleep, but nothing you say, no way you put it, will ever change what you've done. You murdered all these people and still had the gall to return. You're even covered in blood right now! I don't know how I was ever stupid enough to think there was a decent person somewhere in there."

Harry looked over the Order, looked at all their faces, and saw the agreement in the crowd. Everyone was staring at him like he knew they would when they found out. They looked at him the same way they looked whenever they talked about Voldemort or the Death Eaters or Sirius. They looked at him as if he was a monster. It was only Moody and the creepy yellow-teethed guy who didn't seem too bothered by it. Dumbledore had his head dropped in shame, though Harry guessed that was more because of how things had turned out than his actual murders. And Mrs Weasley… she wasn't even looking at him. She didn't seem mad or disgusted or anything like the rest. But just the simple gesture of not even meeting his eyes hurt him more than any of the other reactions.

"So what?" Harry asked. "You throw me back in my old cell?"

"No," Andromeda said. "It's not the Order's place to decide what should happen to you. We're not here to condemn or pardon you. That's what the Aurors are for."

Harry chuckled, noticing the tall black Auror reaching inside his robes for his wand. "No. If I'm going to hell… it'll be only after I'm dead."

He summoned his wand and used it to shut the kitchen door before quickly applying a disillusionment charm on himself. And right before the Order managed to open the kitchen door, Harry launched a banishing charm at the half-open front door, blowing it fully open. Various members of the Order immediately headed for the door, and Harry took his chance to apply a silencing charm on his shoes before rushing up the stairs. He grabbed his invisibility cloak and put it on right after he shrunk his suitcase before making himself comfortable in the room.

His hand was aching, and he could already feel his alloted magic of the day wearing out. But the day was only just getting started, and he couldn't leave Grimmauld until the rest of the Order had left the manor.

Azkaban Prison

April 7th, 1995

9:20 p.m.

"These are promising results, Clotho," the Dark Lord's high cold voice praised him. "Most promising indeed."

The Dark Lord had finally returned from his trip abroad to Europe, which meant that Bedivere and Circe could finally show him the potion's effects in person. They had used more samples on other Azkaban inmates to ensure Rookwood's show of progress hadn't been a fluke, and given how the potion had worked perfectly with all of their test subjects they were confident in presenting its effects to the Dark Lord. The added testing had also allowed for him and Circe to actually analyse the effects on the subjects and present the Dark Lord with a solid report.

"The potion seems to focus on healing the individual's magic," Circe spoke. "There's an effect on the mind seeing as to how they gain consciousness and the ability to speak - even if it takes a few days - but it has much more impactful effects on healing the damage the dementors did on the individual's magic."

"Does this mean there are limitations to psychological progress beyond healing the basic capabilities?" The Dark Lord asked

"Not necessarily," Bedivere said. "We have also tested the treatment on less affected individuals. Those whose magic was not truly affected, but still reeled from the psychological impact of the dementors' effect, and we saw a great deal of progress with the individual's psyche after they were given the treatment. Circe and I believe that the potion prioritises fixing the individual's connection to their magic before attempting to heal the psychological damage."

"A logical conclusion," the Dark Lord nodded. "More than their heart or their brain, the magic of a witch or wizard is what keeps them alive. It's what allows us to live longer and heal faster, after all. If the treatment helps fix the connection between the wizard and his magic… their own magic will begin aiding the treatment itself and making the process much smoother and stronger."

"Indeed," Circe said. "However, testing is as of yet incomplete. Would it be wise to immediately use it on our brothers and sisters? There are many inmates on whom we could continue our work."

"Your apprehension would be laudable, Circe, if it was not in vain. My followers have waited long enough… this treatment will work."

"And if it doesn't?" Bedivere asked. "My Lord, I do not mean any disrespect, but the others are expecting our undertaking to deliver positive results. It's what will prove your loyalty is not for nothing. Would it not be best to ensure it will yield positive results before subjecting our brothers and sisters to it?"

"I have faith in both of you, Clotho, as I do in my own expertise." The Dark Lord slithered across the room, towards the table with the potion-filled cauldron. "The treatment will work, there's no point in delaying it. Not when our timetable continues to shorten."

"My Lord?"

"You've seen the signs by now, I'm sure." He spoke smoothly. "The solar eclipse. The purple comet. Beltane. The last time three celestial events coincided in such a way was the night I was vanquished."

"Surely you're not suggesting-"

"Of course not." The Dark Lord said emotionlessly. "I know not what will happen that night. Not yet. What I do know for sure is that my inner circle will stand with me that night. Whole once again."

That's it for this chapter, thank you all for reading!

Next chapter we'll continue seeing how everyone reacts to the Daily Prophet article . Be excited!

By the time I'm posting this, I'm ELEVEN chapters ahead, and I have officially started writing the first arc of the THREE-ARC FINALE titled The Wrath of Olympus! If you are interested in learning how to get early access to them, join my discord server using the following link: discord . gg / jyPfbGqhJT

As always, thank you for reading, favouriting, and commenting! I appreciate all of you! :)