Chapter 20

The days that passed from their visit to Hogwarts took on a most curious characteristic for Albus, as such times often do when one is both busy and eagerly awaiting a certain date.

Each day was full and hectic, with little time to simply relax and dwell on the world, and so the individual days passed quickly. Regardless, the week itself seemed to drag on like pulled taffy, with Albus waiting desperately for the following Tuesday when the Wizengamot vote was set to take place, once Tofty was released from St. Mungo's.

By Thursday, Albus was half-willing to swear someone had performed a time dilation curse on him, impossible as it would have been.

The real issue, Albus knew, was that though his days were full, they were rote and downright boring. Necessary tasks, certainly, but of the political sort which he so detested.

It was the meeting with Tiberius Ogden that had him particularly frustrated at the moment.

Not, to be sure, that Tiberius had been anything short of helpful. The man was nearly as willing as old Tofty to go along with Albus' plan.

With his seat newly reinstated after Voldemort's reveal, he had regained face in the Ministry as a man who was willing to stand on principle, seeing as how he'd resigned over their treatment of Albus and Harry. Of course, that did lead to some…mistrust of him, on behalf of other Wizengamot members.

Nevertheless, Tiberius was still high in Albus' esteem.

Rather, it was Tiberius' contacts who so pressed Albus to annoyance.

Gilead Wimpleton and Janice Cruxley, those two notorious fence-sitters, never having consistently chosen a side in their lives.

They had not, could not be trusted to be made aware of Albus' entire plan; he had merely entreated them to not vote to give the ministry such extensive powers. He'd given his best declamation on the matter, explaining how and why it would be a terrible decision, and why, particularly, it would be bad for the ministry to declare war on Albus.

He'd talked with them for well over an hour, listening to their counter-arguments, showing them, point by point, why he was correct.

After much humming and hawing, after much meaningless words, he may have reached them, or he may have achieved nothing.

They were weathervanes, he knew, and always had been. If he could simply make them see the wind was blowing his way, all would be well.

Unfortunately, Albus was not certain that he had managed that.

It had been the same with his other meetings throughout the week. By necessity, he'd been forced to meet with the neutral parties in the Wizengamot, those not aligned too strongly with the Ministry or with Shafiq and his master.

All he needed was to swing a few his way, so that when his plan came through, the others would be cowed into following.

It would work, of that he was certain. The letters he'd been writing and sending would play their part as well; some cajoling, some slightly threatening, some outright promising rewards.

His plan would work.

But that didn't end his frustration at making it work.

The sun beating on his back, he walked into the cottage and found Gellert in a now familiar position, cross-legged on the floor with lumps of clay and domino-sized pieces of wood before him.

Gellert was poking at the clay with his wand, while eyeing the wooden plaques intently.

"That bad, eh?" Gellert asked without looking up.

"No worse than the others," Albus sighed, throwing his coat on the rack before sitting on the couch. "Slightly worse, actually. I remember when Gilead first became a Wizengamot member. He was full of vim and vinegar, making impassioned speeches and thinking carefully before choosing where to cast his vote. Now he cares only for his reputation and coffers, the same as them all."

"That will change soon enough."

"Yes. When is Nymphadora expected back?"

"They agreed to meet at four. She said she'd wait until late in the conversation, until they were feeling good and relaxed, before dosing them."

Gellert's voice took on a slightly bitter tone at the end.

Albus sighed again, wordlessly summoning the parchment on which he'd outlined some blueprints, with Bill Weasley's uneasy assistance.

"I still don't understand why it upsets you so that she will use Veritaserum instead of Legilemency or torture. You yourself agreed that it was the wiser plan."

The clock's tick seemed to fill the room as Gellert summoned a beautifully carved box and carefully placed the lumps of clay and Runes within.

Finally, his task complete, he looked up and met Albus' eye, a sad smile tugging at his lips.

"Wiser? Certainly. Her Legilemency is nothing special, and the Aurors have rudimentary Occlumency skills and would notice her intrusion, leading to a fight. Torture always has that downside that you never know whether you will be receiving the truth, and even if she were to Obliviate them afterward, there would be signs. A Confundus Charm and Veritaserum followed by Obliviation is the wisest choice, undoubtedly."

"And yet…" Albus prompted.

"And yet," Gellert said, rising and drawing his wand, spinning it through his fingers.

"And yet, if the girl were forced into one of the other options, it would serve well to increase her ruthlessness. To harm one's own friends in the name of the greater good? It would bind her to her path tighter than she already is, and would force her to face the bleak reality of war."

"It would," Albus agreed, "but it would still not be the wisest move."

"No. She is ready for her task, Albus. Why must we wait?"

Albus stared at the parchment for a moment before dropping it and standing, drawing his own wand.

"I have seen how your teachings have excelled, and agree with your estimations. Still, one more day of preparations cannot harm, Gellert. Tomorrow, we shall put her through the gauntlet, and then on Saturday she will excel."

It was not simply empty words, their talk of Nymphadora's improvements. Just yesterday, Albus had returned to the cottage from a meeting with Mundungus to find Gellert duelling him.

The two of them had planned it, of course, waiting for his arrival before Nymphadora's transformation, but it was still an incredible success, far beyond Albus' wildest dreams. He quite thought Gellert had never looked so chuffed.

And it had been quite remarkable to see himself from the outside. Oh, Nymphadora had none of his style or power, none of the amazing, inborn talent and brilliance which placed Albus—like Gellert and Voldemort—so far above regular wizards and witches. And she'd got his beard wrong, if only slightly.

But it had been mind boggling to see. Albus had been, for the first time in a very long time, completely dumbstruck, standing there with his mouth hanging open, a fine target for any of his many enemies.

Gellert had not spoken in jest when he had referred to Nymphadora as a queen among Metamorphs. Her ability was incredible, but the speed in which she had regained it after its sudden loss, and not only to regain it but to reach new heights with it—simply astounding.

While Gellert deserved—and took, at any chance he could—most of the credit for her success, Albus had played some part in it.

Though he knew little about Metamorpmagi compared to Gellert, he had first been famed for his mastery of Transfiguration. To be sure, the magic of a Metamorphmagus transfiguration was entirely different to regular transfiguration, but Albus was certain that his tutoring had assisted Nymphadora in reaching the heights she had.

That was not all he had been teaching Nymphadora, not in the slightest.

In between his meetings, letters, and solidification of plans, he and Gellert had set to duelling once more.

They had shown Nymphadora, to her awe, what a duel between them would have looked like, not a pathetic pantomime like they had performed at Hogwarts.

Well, not quite a true duel. Besides for the obvious lack of lethal spells, having an audience who they had to slow down for and occasionally explain things to changed matters somewhat.

Still, it was exhilarating to be matching his might against someone like him once more.

Then they had set themselves to teaching her, along with Sirius, Hestia, Sturgis, Bill, Arthur, and Molly when they came.

None of the Order would ever be able to achieve what Albus and Gellert had, but they had already been a deadly force, and were now all the more so, with Nymphadora leading the pack by miles.

Outnumbered by the Death Eaters, they were without question. But Albus was quite certain that they could still extract their pound of flesh.

"Shall we?" Gellert asked, gesturing to the meadow with his wand. "No audience this time."

Albus glanced over at Fawkes' perch. The Phoenix's latest Burning Day had been three days prior, and even with his prodigious healing and growth, Fawkes still required much rest to return to full size.

Another reason to delay Nymphadora's task until Saturday.

"You had me at shall we," Albus said. "But I hope we shall be interrupted by a message. Mundungus still believes he will be able to find out where Greyback will be tonight."

"The feral werewolf?"

"The very same. I would like to end him before I send a letter to a friend of mine. Come, Gellert. Let's enjoy our privacy while still we can."

Albus finally lowered his wand as the sun began to set, sweat dripping down his face, exuberant and relaxed at once.

That had been exhilarating.

It had been so long since he'd been truly challenged in a friendly duel that he'd forgotten how enjoyable it could be.

Even after Nurmengard, Gellert was still as close to a challenge as Albus would ever find, bar Voldemort.

Gellert's style was as unique as he was; a mixture of every sort of magic thrown together seemingly at random, harsh curses and horrific transfiguration melding with gentle charms, a chaotic medley that threatened to overwhelm the mind simply with its variety.

From that chaos, however, an elegantly beautiful symphony arose. There were traps within traps hidden by feints and conjured counterstrikes, curses nestling like Russian dolls, all leading to a majestic crescendo that would have swept Albus away had he not seen the shape of it forming.

Gellert picked up his wand from the ground, running it along his arm as he stood and instantly healing the deep gash that had erupted from his wrist to his elbow.

He had been as enthralled as Albus, that was readily apparent just from his expression. His eyes were bright, his smile hungry.

"You see, Albus? You see what we are? We are nothing like the others, and never have been."

"No," Albus agreed. "We aren't. And soon none shall be able to hide from that fact. You can come out now, Nymphadora."

The air rippled and Nymphadora's Disillusionment Charm fell away to reveal her standing, mouth agape, a god fifty feet away within the hedge boundary of Albus' cottage.

He'd sensed her arrival near the tail end of their duel, but had been too engrossed and far beyond the point of caring to stop or greet her.

Now he saw her, and his heart gave a painful tug. Her hair was a shock of pink, her eyes alight with joy—she looked, in fact, as she so often had before her parents had been killed.

"Wow," she whispered, gazing at them with new eyes, taking in the destruction their duel had caused. "Wow!"

"Yes, yes," Gellert said. "We are amazing. Do you want to assist in fixing this place?"

Judging by Nymphadora's spellbound stare, she would not take part.

Albus and Gellert acted as one, waving their wands and returning the meadow to its prior state.

Trees pulled themselves up from the earth and reattached to their roots; smouldering flames all over the place extinguished themselves, while the large furrows and craters flattened and grew level with the rest of the ground. The large piles of char and ash vanished, the torrential mudflow sunk into the earth, the lake resumed its calm surface once more, whirlpools nowhere to be seen.

It took but seconds for the regular pastoral scene to reassert itself. A bird chirped once, as if testing the waters, and then the trees erupted with song.

"You've never shown me anything like that before," Tonks said, her accusatory tone quite betrayed by the amazement ringing in her voice. "You've been holding back because I was there, haven't you?"

"Of course we have," Gellert said before Albus could respond. "and if you think about it, you'd understand why. We wanted to make sure you'd know what we were doing, so that meant slowing down. We couldn't unleash widespread power for fear of harming you or the others. And we are, somewhat human too. We perform better when it is not a performance and simply for the enjoyment of it."

"Or for a matter of life and death," Albus added.

"Or that," Gellert nodded, before dropping a saucy wink and lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Now, if you want to see something truly impressive, you should sneak into our bedroom at night and—"

Nymphadora choked on something between a laugh and a retch.

"Don't let Gellert mislead you," Albus said, his cheeks reddening, "you would find nothing entertaining there, unless you enjoy the sound of snores. That aside, I hope you have some reports for us?"

"Yeah," Nymphadora said, the last embers of joy dropping from her face. "I do, and its not good. But based on what I just saw—" she shrugged. "It might not be too bad."

"Inside, then," Albus said.

"But they do not trust each other?"

"No," Nymphadora repeated. "They don't, I told you, the real Aurors think all these new ones and new hit-wizards are plants, which they are. But they'll still work together until something changes."

"But will what happens on Tuesday be enough of a change?"

Nymphadora shook her head emphatically.

"Only after the Ministry has fallen. As long as the Ministry is as it is and the Aurors and older hit-wizards aren't seeing real signs of treason, they'll work with each other."

Albus sighed and tugged at his beard slightly.

The odds were far from terrible, but a hundred witches and wizards standing against him was not good news.

The destruction he and Gellert would be forced to wreak would not, could not be precise. There would be good people killed in their attack, people who Albus would otherwise happily fight alongside.

His hands were tied. The Ministry had chosen their path and he, his.

"And with all that in mind, their feelings toward me, toward us, haven't changed?"

She looked down at her hands, clasped around her mug.

"They're scared, Albus. They don't know what to believe anymore. Jordy and Helena, they're willing to trust that you're actually looking out for the people. But all that propaganda the Ministry was spreading—its done a number on them all. Once you've taken control, it'll be a moot point. It'll be you or Voldemort, and they were sure that the majority of people who were actually with the Ministry would choose you over Voldemort. But until then…it's all up in the air, Albus."

"Not quite," Gellert said. "It's a matter of days, and after seeing what you saw today, do you believe the Ministry can stand against the two of us?"

"No," she said. "I can't believe Voldemort could stand up to you either. Why—"

"Jordy and Helena," Albus interrupted, "What will they do on Tuesday?"

"They'll be at home," Nymphadora said unrepentantly. "If they go in—they'd stand aside."

Gellert looked at Albus with an eyebrow raised. Albus could all but hear him talking about how Nymphadora needed to learn ruthlessness.

"That is heartening," he said. "Unfortunately, Nymphadora, when the time comes, we will not have the luxury of examining the motives of each who stands against us, even of those who are trying to stand aside. We will be forced to be imprecise in our strikes, to cause damage on as large a scale as we can. You understand?"

"Some of my friends will die," she said grimly. "I know. But you have to do it. There's no other way. The enchantments they've raised—"

"Would make it more difficult for us to enter the Ministry," Albus said, "but will in fact, present no issue. Once we are in, it will be but a matter of moments to destroy them. They had no idea what Alastor has up his sleeve, correct?"

"No one knows, Albus!" Nymphadora said, throwing him an exasperated glare, "it's bloody Mad-Eye, he's keeping his own secrets. We know about the security trolls-"

Gellert threw back his hair and chuckled, twirling his wand once more through his fingers.

"As if they would pose any more a threat to us than the Aurors. Pathetic."

"And we know about the enchantments and extra security, but otherwise, no-one knows shit."

Albus leaned back, thinking it through. Knowing the man as he did, he had some ideas as to the sort of traps Alastor would have set for them.

It was extremely unlikely that they would fall into any of them.

But of course, Alastor knew how well Albus knew him, and would be planning for that, and would stray outside his usual forte.

Albus and Gellert were mighty well beyond the imagination of other witches and wizards, but they were not gods, no matter how tempting it was to believe so.

They could be defeated. And if Alastor was crafty enough, tricky enough, he might slow them down so much that Albus would not be able to stop the vote; he might, in fact, be able to stun Albus or the like.

Extremely unlikely, but possible.

He had planned as much as possible for that eventuality. If necessary, Nymphadora, Sirius, Hestia, Sturgis, and Bill would create enough of a diversion for he and Gellert to free themselves.

But that will not be necessary, he told himself.

"Thank you, Nymphadora," he said. "We will do well with this information. As for Mundungus…how certain was he that this is the correct address, and that we shall find Greyback and his pack there tonight?"

"He was completely certain," she said. "He'd heard one of them inviting a newbie, saying they absolutely had to hear Fenrir talk. And by the way, how hard could it be for you to call me Tonks?"

Smiling, Albus sipped his hot chocolate before answering.

"Please forgive an old teacher his foibles, Tonks," he said. "And again, thank you. I believe you may join us tonight."

"But not as yourself," Gellert said.

"As her?" Tonks asked, a look of disgust marring her pretty features.

"No," Albus said. "Stretch your talents. Gellert is right. You should make yourself appear as—an older wizard, one of our age. Someone who fits in with Gellert and I. If word gets out about our adventure tonight, I would quite like Voldemort to drive himself mad in figuring out the identity of this mysterious wizard who fits in with us."

"There isn't anyone like that," Tonks said.

"Then use your imagination, girl," Gellert said sharply. "We've got one more day to make sure you're ready, and we will have to be certain."

Tonks gritted her teeth but nodded, putting her mug down hard on the table.

"Fine. But once we're done on Saturday, you're explaining, right? What that headdress thing was, what I'm going down there for—you're explaining."

"Of course we will," Gellert said. "Did I not give you my word? Now go, prepare yourself. Grab your silver. It's time to hunt."

The house in Middlesbrough had seen better days.

The houses all along the one way street were decrepit and abandoned, some with police tape around them, but this, the last on the road, was the worst of the lot.

It's lawn was a fright, a mess of overgrown weeds and dead grass, with bones—some of which most definitely were not animal, scattered around the place.

The house itself reeked of death. Not physically, that is, but the aura it gave off was one of bestial cruelty, of pain and death. It must have kept the muggles away from the whole end of the street.

There wasn't a single whole window. They all bore at the very least cracks, with most of them simply lacking the glass entirely. The roof listed to one side, and the dented walls had long, claw shaped gauges torn through the paint.

The front door had clearly been torn off of its hinges—repeatedly, by Albus' estimation—and had been shoddily repaired. The knocker was missing, though a tiny metal piece was still embedded in the door.

Interestingly, the house had a basement, a cracked window barely visible above the grass.

Unlike the rest of the houses on this street, this house bore no graffiti. No Muggle hoodlums ventured here, however they excused it to themselves.

The stars shone above through the cloudless night, the half-moon glowing brightest among the heavens.

Perfect.

"Ready?" Albus asked, aiming his question at Nymphadora.

She'd chosen an interesting appearance for tonight; she looked like an ancient, potbellied wizard slightly shorter than Albus, with a brownish-red beard and the most shockingly purple eyes Albus had ever seen.

"I'm ready," she said. Her voice was deep and coarse.

Gellert marched forward and the door shot off its hinges at his approach, shattering into a million splinters that flung themselves through the open doorway into the house at incredible speed.

Immediately, a chorus of voices erupted in screams and strange noises—it took Albus a moment to understand, but he quickly realized it was an attempt for human vocal chords to emit wolves howls.

The interior of the house was no better than the outside. Directly in front of the door was a staircase, and slightly to the side Albus could see a torn apart kitchen. The yellow wallpaper had been ripped almost entirely away, cupboard doors had been torn off, and the refrigerator was lying on its side.

A screech rose as an absolutely filthy man ran toward them up the stairwell. His clothes were ripped and torn, his long fingernails were caked with mud and blood, as was his hair, and his teeth were an unflattering yellow-brown.

He brandished a long, crooked wand that hadn't seen much use in his left hand, and in his right, a rusted bronze knife that had.

Gellert gestured curtly, and the wand snapped upward, breaking the werewolf's arm at the elbow with the sudden shock of its force. It jabbed straight up and impaled him through the mouth, the very tip poking through the hair of his head.

His mouth opened soundlessly, eyes wide, the knife dropping from his hand with a great clang.

Then Gellert sprung, crossing the distance between them in the blink of an eye, the silver dagger in his hand flashing.

Gellert opened the werewolf's throat in a Cheshire grin from ear to ear, and before the cut even began to bleed, Gellert had buried the dagger up to the hilt in its heart.

Blood and black smoke spurted from the wounds, the werewolf's eyes turning entirely black as death took him.

Gellert jabbed his wand, and the werewolf careened down the stairs, ending with a thump and such a loud symphony of those inhuman shrieks that the house seemed to shake on its foundations.

"Steady," Albus whispered to Nymphadora, "you have nothing to fear."

"It is them who will taste fear," Gellert added, turning a blood covered face toward her. "They will gorge on it tonight til they have more than had their fill. Now we go."

"Not yet," Albus said, raising his wand.

He snapped it forward. An enormous force emblazoned with blindingly bright light rushed forth from it, careening down the stars like a locomotive.

"Now we go," Albus said.

There were a good dozen or so werewolves in the basement, of all ages and sexes. They kept their backs to the walls, looking as if they wanted nothing more than for the earth to swallow them.

They had been living on the outskirts of society, that much was apparent from a single glance. The mismatched and too-worn clothes, the filth and stench of unbathed bodies. The cleanest of them all was a child, no older than ten, who clutched a knife and stood before what was undoubtedly his mother with tears streaming down his face.

That was a painful sight, but Albus could not allow it to halt his mission. The boy had undoubtedly seen and partaken in worse horrors than anything Albus would unleash.

They were all armed, carrying knives or the like; very few had wands to accompany their blades.

And they all were stridently not looking at the body that lay in a crumpled heap at the foot of the stairs, in its own pool of blood. No, their attention was focused solely on Albus, Gellert, and Tonks.

Fenrir Greyback stood shirtless at the head of the room, beneath a flickering light-bulb that hung from the ceiling. His lips were peeled back in a snarl, baring his disgustingly gruesome teeth. His fingernails were long and sharp, each coming to a point, and his muscular arms and chest were criss-crossed with scars.

"KILL THEM!" He roared.

Albus was expecting something of that sort. As soon as Fenrir began to speak, he thrust his wand toward the floor as if he were stabbing the earth with a sword and whispered an incantation.

At his word, a wave of explosively concussive force shot outward in a concentric circle from him, throwing everyone except Gellert and Nymphadora against the walls to tumble to the ground.

Almost everyone, that is.

Five werewolves had already made their move before Albus' spell; three of them leaping through the air toward him with the other two simply running forward.

Those two were lucky.

Nymphadora cast the Killing Curse swifter than Albus would have believed her capable; swifter by orders of magnitude, indeed, than she would have been able to without Gellert's tutelage.

Two jets of emerald light shot from her wand and hit their targets, and the werewolves fell.

They were the lucky ones.

The other three were met by Gellert.

He snapped his wand upward and their leaps forward were stopped as if they had jumped straight into an invisible wall. There they hung, arms and legs splayed, faces battered and bruised.

Fenrir shrieked and made to move—

"No," Albus said quietly.

Fenrir slammed back into the wall. As he did so, a portion of the ceiling fell in, stopping to hover in mid-air just beside Albus.

Albus waved his wand and concentrated for an instant, focusing his will, forcing the moment of change.

The wood and plaster were no more. In their place hovered a glowing ball of liquid silver, its surface shimmering and dripping.

Albus sent globules of it toward Greyback before he could rise. As they flew, they reconfigured themselves into shackles.

Greyback stood up, shaking himself off, and was immediately hit by the shackles, one of each attached to a wrist and snaked out into the floor, deep into the bedrock.

The third encircled his neck, tightening.

Where silver met flesh, his skin blistered, motes of black smoke flickering up.

While this was taking place, Albus had twirled his wand, and the basement responded.

The walls and floor grew arms, seizing every werewolf within reach and tugging them close with iron grips.

The mother and child were gripped by one arm, and perhaps slightly less intensely than the others.

Albus was here on a mission of mercy, after all.

They all began to scream, but none as loud as Greyback.

"SILENCE!" Gellert roared, slashing his wand across the room.

Absolute silence fell, the pack opening and closing their mouths soundlessly. Fenrir struggled against his bonds, blood now dripping freely down his arms and mingling with that black smoke before realizing—with a look of panic in his eyes that quite delighted Albus, to his own disgust—that the harder he struggled, the more the brace tightened around his throat.

"We came purely for Greyback," Gellert said. "With no intention of causing harm to any but him. However," his voice became a purr, "those who attack us, well, they are free game, as they say."

He gestured to one of the floating werewolves and twisted his wand through the air.

Against his will, the werewolf's head began to turn, bones in his neck creaking and shattering, breaking and tearing the skin as it did a full about turn and returned to face Gellert once more.

Blood poured from the werewolf's nose, his mouth, the gashes in his throat, his ears.

Gellert's arm whipped out, and he buried the silver dagger in the werewolf's forehead.

Gellert laughed like a loon as the crimson ichor fountained out and drenched him, more of that black fog leaking from the wound.

Gellert released his spell, letting the corpse drop to the floor.

"I'm not done," Gellert cackled, "watch, all of you, and learn the price of not knowing your place!"

The mother was hugging her child close to her, his face buried in her chest. She rubbed his back and tried to speak to him, doubtless to calm him, but no words left her lips.

Albus forced his heart to remain as stone.

The werewolves stared, horrified, as Gellert went to work.

Albus did not stop him.

He cut the still beating heart out of the second werewolf and tore it to bits, and Albus did not stop him.

With exaggerated slowness, he beheaded the final attacker, sawing away at his neck for what felt like hours, and Albus did not stop him.

Gellert stood back as the final corpse dropped to the ground, his face and robes drenched in drying blood, looking as if he was wearing elbow length red gloves.

"Do not attack us," he warned, "and you will not suffer harm. We came not for you, but for him," he said, pointing at Greyback.

Gellert flicked his wand.

A nearly unfelt pressure was lifted from the room along with his Silencing Charm.

The werewolves began to cry and scream, begging for their lives.

"You have nothing to fear," Albus said, "we are here only for Greyback."

That did not seem to calm them much, though they quietened somewhat, enough for Albus to hear Greyback's raspy laugh, racked with agony.

"Come to kill me, Dumbledore? And you had to bring your friends? Shows what a danger a free werewolf is."

Few cheered at his words, most of them too frightened to do more than beg.

"I have come to show you mercy," Albus said, walking forward toward his trapped foe. "Something of which you know little."

That made Greyback laugh even harder, but the other werewolves, perhaps sensing Albus' energy, fell silent, no longer even begging.

"What, you're going to come here, tie me up, kill some of my pack, and then offer for me to change my ways and work for you like some tame pet?"

Greyback's rage overtook both his his pain and the humour he had found in the situation. His face contorted in fury and he surged forward, the cuffs dragging him back to the wall and the brace tightening around his throat.

"Kill me," he rasped, his face purpling, "I'll never serve you. Only the Dark Lord will give us our freedom."

"So this is what you call freedom?" Albus asked, looking around the room. Few of the pack met his eyes. "Hiding in a shoddy house, living on the outskirts of society, knowing that as soon as you have served Voldemort's purpose he will kill you. If this is your idea of freedom, my pity for you all only grows."

"We don't want your fucking pity!" One of them shouted, a broad shouldered man with a nose broken worse than Albus'. "It's not like you or the Ministry let's us do anything other than hide on the fucking outskirts, is it? We've got no choice!"

"He's right," Greyback wheezed, trying to raise his hands to his now bleeding throat, "we have no choice."

"You're only strangling yourself," Albus said, loosening the neckbrace slightly with a wave of his wand.

It wouldn't do for Greyback to strangle himself to death.

"You are right, in that your choices have been vastly minimised," Albus said to the angry werewolf, "but I am not the author of your misery. Whatever he claims, Fenrir has done nothing but push back the fight for werewolf rights by decades."

"Lies," the man said, "he's been—"

"A perfect example for the Ministry to point to whenever they want to show what terrible beasts you are," Albus interrupted. "The Ministry has shunted you aside and made your lives difficult, but Fenrir has been their greatest asset."

"You think I work for—"

"No," Albus called, a wave of his wand pulling Fenrir back against the wall and silencing him. "You have not been co-operating with the Ministry, not purposely. But every time I, and others allied with me, have tried to fight the Ministry's bigotry and cruel hatred, you have shown them the depths of evil that you claim all werewolves should aspire to. You purposely target children, purposely target innocents who you believe will survive the bite, so that you can brainwash them into following you, knowing all the while that you care nought for them. All you care for, Fenrir Greyback, liar and creature of evil, is your own name."

Albus turned to the rest of the room, looking at them one by one.

"You know that I speak the truth. You are forced to join Fenrir because that is the only path available to you, but that is only the case because he has helped make it so. I have personally tried dozens of times to pass laws aiding werewolves, I have fought against the laws which pushed you away, but every time I did so, another atrocity committed by Fenrir—or his pack, for that matter—came to light and swayed the vote. You allied with Voldemort at the height of his rise, and you have done so again, and what do you think that did for the public opinion of werewolves?"

"The Ministry—"

"Forget about the Ministry," Albus roared. "Soon it shall be history. But you, Fenrir— I had everything lined up, enough support to guarantee my proposal for free Wolfsbane supplied by St. Mungo's, the law would have passed! And you had to murder the entire Macfinn family, all because of Harley's editorial against the proposed bill. You singlehandedly shot it down."

Some of the werewolves, the mother most prominently, were glaring at Fenrir.

"And you," Albus said, turning on the burly werewolf who had first yelled at him, "you accuse me of pushing werewolves away? I, who have tried to pass more bills to advance your rights than anyone else? I, who was the first Headmaster in history to admit a werewolf student to Hogwarts? I who employed a werewolf? You accuse me?"

"Who says Wolfsbane is what we want?" The mother asked. Her son, however, seemed to have perked up at the mention of Hogwarts. "Maybe we've accepted what we are, and want to run free. Maybe we enjoy losing ourselves in the beast."

It was an argument that Albus had heard many times before, albeit usually with accusatory and inflammatory wording. He had not been expecting it from her, of all of them.

"That is a fair point," he said, "and one that I have considered as well. A solution can be found that fits each individual. You must know how many wild areas there still are that the muggles are unaware of. Some could be set aside, during the full moon at least, as sanctuaries, cleared of all human and other sentient life. You could run, you could hunt, but no being that knows love and fear need be harmed."

"The Ministry would never agree to that," she said, looking dubious.

"Fuck the Ministry!"

Gellert stormed forward, and all the werewolves cringed as he took stage.

"The Ministry is history," he yelled, "how can you not understand this?"

"It is true," Albus said. "In a matter of days, it will be my decisions that rule the day, and not those of the Wizengamot."

"We've heard those promises before," someone muttered. "And the Dark Lord—"

"Do not compare me to him," Albus said, the tip of his wand brightening dangerously. "I come here to make you an offer that will improve your lives dramatically. Wouldn't you like to have the option of attending Hogwarts?" He asked, looking at the boy.

"Wouldn't you like to join society, not as outcasts, but as regular members? To have gainful employment, and to have the choice on the full moon, to take freely given Wolfsbane or to hunt and run free in a sanctioned zone without posing a threat to others?"

"We'd never be accepted." A waspish woman said. "No-one would ever accept us."

"You would be surprised," Albus said. "but yes, there could be comments. You could face mockery and even hatred from your fellows. But that would be infinitely better than living as you are. You may be cursed with lycanthropy, but you are not beasts. You have morals. You have desires and dreams and goals. You will never be able to fulfill them as you are. I offer you change, while Fenrir offers only to drag you further in the name of his own hatred and ego."

"The Dark Lord—"

"Good God," Gellert interrupted, "are you truly so foolish as to not realize that he despises you? He hates you, fool. He thinks you a useful tool, and will dispose of you the instant you are no longer needed."

"He doesn't tolerate half-bloods," Albus said, "despite being one himself. He caters to none other than the powerful and important purebloods. Your existence is only as meaningful to him as your service to him. You will gain to reward for that service but death."

"I just said that," Gellert muttered.

"And what do you want from us?" The broken-nosed werewolf demanded. "If you're promising us all this incredible shit—and I don't for a second buy it—what, you want us to fight for you? Is that it?"

"All I want from you," said Albus, "is that you no longer cater to Fenrir's whims, that you no longer pledge your allegiance to the Dark Lord. I want you to try and work with me and my ambassador once I have taken the Ministry, to solve the issues society has foisted upon you. I do not ask you to fight in this war, though I would not say no if you asked to join me."

"What, we're that much of a threat to you that you're going to all this trouble just to get us out of your way?"

Albus made a small gesture with his wand.

The ball of boiling liquid silver shot around the room, coming within an inch of every werewolf's head. As it passed the broken-nosed one, a tiny drop flew off, landing on his cheek.

The sound of sizzling flesh was all that could be heard for an instant, until he started to shriek.

The silver was burning a hole in his cheek, his skin running like melting wax. Black fog erupted from that hole, and screaming in agony he sagged, upright only due to the arms Albus had formed from the walls and floor.

"Gellert, would you mind?"

Gellert sighed, but walked over to the man and seized his chin in one hand. Then, with a soft, sing-song incantation, ran his wand over the wound.

When Gellert stepped back, there was nothing but a burn mark the size of a Knut.

"I could have left you unblemished," Gellert said, "but I think this will serve as a reminder."

"A threat?" Albus asked, his voice ice. "No. If I so desired, I could kill every one of you in but a moment, and there would be nothing you could do to stop me. I am here to help you. If you stand against me, however, I will end you."

Nothing but silence.

"Fenrir Greyback," Albus said, stepping toward him and removing the Silencing Charm, "Do you have any last words?"

Gellert and Nymphadora had followed Albus. Very good.

"I thought you—you said you were coming to give me mercy!"

Fenrir's eyes, as yellow as his teeth, were wide and terrified. He'd seen his pack destroyed before him, knew that even if he survived this he would have to start again, and perhaps worst of all, would have to explain to Voldemort what had happened.

"Yes," Albus said softly, "mercy. If I were to dispense justice, I would see you removed from society for a while. During that time, I would have you feel the pain you have caused to so many, I would have you understand the loss and heartbreak you created. I would ensure that you understood how you have done nothing but to hurt your fellows. I would watch as you experienced the soul burning shame of remorse, and only when I judged you rehabilitated, then I would decide on whether to execute you or give you another chance. I could do this, Fenrir. But I am merciful. A quick death. Far better than you deserve."

"Personally," Gellert butted in, "I'm all for keeping you for a while. I've heard interesting things about how you act while transformed, quite unlike most werewolves. You and your wolf have come to some agreement, and you both are full of such delicious hate." Gellert chuckled, unnerving in its innocence. "Oh, I would know you inside and out. I would, I think, dissect your brain…eventually. But alas, this is Albus' town, after all."

"And what about you?" Fenrir asked Tonks, aiming for bravado but not quite achieving it. "Who the fuck even are you? Not saying a single word…what do you want with me?"

Albus watched carefully as Tonks, in her interesting disguise, eyed Fenrir with a sneer.

"If you do not recognize me," she said, her assumed voice taking on a tad of a foreign accent, "then you do not deserve to be enlightened. I have been silent because wisdom often holds its tongue, something I have been told you are incapable of doing. I would like to keep you as you are, though chained at my feet. Perhaps a nice silver muzzle to go with your ensemble. I would force-feed you Wolfsbane and keep you chained at all times. You would be my very own pet tame werewolf. But I agree with Gellert. This is Albus' land, and his decision."

"And so I decide," Albus said. "Watch," he called, to all the werewolves in the room. "And see the end of those who stand against me and ally with Voldemort."

He thrust his wand forward and the ball of molten silver engulfed Fenrir's head, covering it from the tips of his hair to his neck.

Fenrir's screams were agonizing, nothing more than pure suffering and torment given voice.

His body seized, surging up against his bindings, the brace around his neck tightening until it was cutting the skin deeply, and still he roared.

Silver dripped from his head, landing on his shoulders, his chest, his feet, burning and melting wherever it touched.

His skin began to melt, dripping away with the silver and revealing the bloody flesh beneath which too started to collapse. Veins and capillaries were momentarily visible through his silver mask, nerves and muscles and bones exposed for all to see.

Fenrir's screams turned to hoots as the silver ate his tongue and then he fell silent as his vocal chords were destroyed.

It was a merciful act.

No matter how terribly painful it was, it did not last long.

It was less than a minute before the silver moved away from Fenrir's head and began to devour the rest of his corpse; his skull had been stripped entirely of skin and flesh and hair, even the bones were dissolving to black dust.

Albus turned away from the gruesome specter, releasing the handcuffs from the corpse which fell to the floor with a final thud.

The werewolves were staring at him, their expressions mixed; some looked terrified and confused, others hopeful, yet others furious.

"I give you the greatest gift of all," Albus said, releasing their bindings with a wave of his wand. "I give you the ability to choose. I only ask that you choose wisely, that you choose life instead of death. Good evening."

With that, he left the house in a stunned silence, Gellert and Nymphadora hot on his heels.