Fate

by TheTrueSpartan

When Ron discovers that he can see the future, his entire fate is thrown off of its course. A story about adventure, friendship, growing up, and pushing forward through hardships. This story will get darker as it progresses, just like the original Harry Potter novels. It will cover all Seven Years of Hogwarts, but mostly from Ron's perspective. No Mary Sues, no Character bashing.

155. Chapter 155 - Blood-Traitor

AUTHOR'S NOTES: I have returned! Sorry for the long wait, I was on break and enjoying myself a bit too much!

Reader Caution is advised, as this chapter deals with topics such as suicide and self-harm! Please, beware of this before you read on!

Enjoy!

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter, and I do not intend to make any money off of this. Harry Potter is the intellectual property of J. K. Rowling , and I take no credit of it whatsoever.

I was also inspired by Demon Eyes Laharl's: THE RED KNIGHT! and also from Random-Fruitcake04's: CHOICES! I hope you check them out as well because they are genuinely very good stories.

There's also a few more Ron fics out there that are on point! They're called 'There and Back Again' by Chuchi Otaku, 'Still Standing' by Windschild8178, and 'Cooking Like a Bachelor' by Avatar Vader. Please, go check 'em out! You won't regret it, spread the Ron love, people!

P.S: Starway Man is a chad! (I'm never removing this)

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Fate

Chapter 155 – Blood-Traitor

Millicent Bulstrode's POV

Friday 30th April, 1994 (Durmstrang Institute – Before Dawn)

"This part of the castle…" Millie started, feeling goosebumps along her arms and legs. "…It feels strange, Ruta… Forbidden…"

Ruta maintained her ongoing silence, leading the way forward as if she were a mindless husk under the Imperius Curse. Millie watched her back with growing dread, the Polish witch had not been acting like herself for nearly two weeks, now. She was withdrawn, easily-spooked, and eerily quiet… So quiet, in fact, that Millie often felt as though she were moving through Durmstrang alone, even though Ruta rarely ever left her side. Kemppainen's punishments are taking their toll on her… But she keeps refusing him because of me… Because of how I treated her after our first Dark Arts class together… This is all my fault-…

"We're almost there," Ruta whispered, surprising Millie by breaking her silence so abruptly. "Most students avoid this particular corridor… We should be safe to meet with Eric here…"

"Why do they avoid it?" Millie asked, both out of curiosity and a need to hear her friend's voice. "Ruta?"

The smaller witch didn't answer, causing Millie to avert her gaze from guilt and shame. Is this how it's going to be from now on? I don't think I have the strength to carry on if that's the case. Ruta… She's the only person who makes this place bearable, and I'm losing her. She's refusing Kemppainen's instructions for my sake, for my approval, and it's destroying her. And he doesn't care… Not one bit. He just punishes us, and then, moves on with his lessons. He knows that he'll break one of us, eventually, and he's decided that it's going to be her. And I can't do anything to help her… I'm utterly powerless, and so is she…

They came to a stop underneath a strange symbol carved into the wall, a vertical line surrounded by a circle and a triangle enclosing them both. It looked like an eye of sorts, and the more Millie stared at it, the colder her skin grew. What is that? Why can't I stop looking at it?

"That's Grindelwald's Mark," Ruta suddenly whispered, once again taking Millie by surprise. "It wouldn't surprise me if you didn't know about it… Most of the Wizarding World wants to forget that disgusting, awful man." Grindelwald's Mark… I've heard of the Dark Mark, but not this.

"What is it doing here?" Millie asked, finally looking away from it.

"He carved it into the fortress' memory," Ruta replied, looking to her with a sullen expression. "When he was a student here, I mean. They tried replacing the stones, the entire wall even, but somehow, the Mark always returns. It's evil Magic, everyone says so, even by Durmstrang's standards."

"Evil Magic…?" Millie repeated, and Ruta shrugged in response. "Is that why no one uses this corridor? Because of Grindelwald?"

"Yes, I suppose," Ruta nodded weakly. "You said that it feels strange, didn't you? Well, you're not the only one who feels that way. Even the Professors avoid it, and the prefects too."

"And Kemppainen?"

Ruta shrunk at the mere mention of the man's name, making Millie cringe internally. "…Sorry… I shouldn't bring him up-…"

"…He's not the sort to roam about…" Ruta whimpered, her eyes falling to her feet. "…It's a good thing that this corridor is on the far side of the fortress… I'd hate to walk past the Mark everyday… I don't need another reason to hate this place…"

Millie nodded slowly, before taking a step closer to her friend. "Ruta… I'm worried about you-…"

She was stopped by the sound of approaching footsteps, turning to see Eric Schwarz hurriedly making his way over. He's already dressed for the day? The sixth year stopped a couple of feet away from them, his black eyes lingering on Ruta before he turned his attention towards Millie.

"I am glad you got my note," Schwarz started, smiling sympathetically. "How are you? I have heard… distressing… things about you two." Yeah… Everyone's heard about what he's doing to us, and not a single person has stepped in to stop him. "He is a terrible man… Just terrible… I am sorry that he is so focused on you two."

Millie noticed Ruta shrinking even more so, and in response, she subtly tilted her head in the Polish witch's direction. We shouldn't discuss him near her, especially not now. Schwarz gave a soft nod, adorning an even sorrier expression.

"Have you written your letter?" Millie asked, changing the subject.

"I have," he replied, producing it from inside his uniform. "I pray that it will be enough. I must admit, I found writing about my situation more difficult than I initially imagined. I do not know anything about Daphne-"

"She will help you," Millie promised, smiling feebly at the thought of the 'Ice-Queen'. "She's grown a heart of gold over the last couple of years. I know her, and I know she will help you as soon as she reads your words."

"Thank you, Millicent," Schwarz appeared relieved by her confidence in Daphne. "And thank you, Ruta. None of this would be possible without you."

"…It's nothing," Ruta muttered under her breath, staring down the corridor.

Millie and Schwarz exchanged looks, before the wizard stepped closer to Ruta. "Tell me why you are refusing Professor Kemppainen's instructions?" Millie frowned, but the resolute expression on Schwarz' face stopped her from interfering. "Ruta, look at me, please. I want to know what is going on. I want to help."

Ruta fidgeted with her hands, her bottom lip quivering. Merlin, look at her… This is all my fault!

"…It's because of me…" Millie spoke up, despite her throat tightening up. "…This is my fault…"

"What do you mean?" Schwarz asked, looking back to her.

"We-… He asked us to-…" Millie stopped, feeling colder and colder. "…He asked us to murder a rabbit… In my first Dark Arts class… I refused, but Ruta didn't… I held that against her-"

Schwarz raised his hand, stopping her shaky voice. He then looked between the two witches, his expression becoming crestfallen. The three of them stood under the Mark for several seconds, not one of them making a sound, until suddenly, Schwarz gently pulled Ruta into his side, before opening his other arm towards Millie. The former Slytherin stared at him, reluctant, but when she heard Ruta sobbing into Schwarz' uniform, all of Millie's fears and unhappiness overtook her. Her face twisted painfully, her eyes welled up, and she sniffled pathetically as she too latched onto the sixth year. I'm so scared… I miss my friends… I miss Hogwarts… I just want to go home…

---

?

"We have to go, now," Schwarz suddenly said, stirring Millie and Ruta from their stupor.

Both girls pulled away, wiping their eyes and exchanging tired looks. It had been weeks since either girl had felt so safe, so far from their troubles. I needed this… I really bloody needed this… Ruta was right, he's one of the good ones.

"Sorry about your uniform," Millie cleared her throat, sniffling.

"It is nothing to worry about," Schwarz smiled softly, giving Ruta's shoulder an encouraging squeeze. "I know I said that we should not be seen together in public, but I want to take that back, now. I want you two to come find me if you ever need a friend-"

"What about your mother?" Ruta interrupted, visibly worried for him. "You said that you were being watched… That your father hurts you…"

"I cannot ignore your pain," Schwarz simply said, making Millie blink. "I love my mother, it is true, but you two need me as well. I know it must sound strange to you, that someone you barely know would say such a thing, but I know what it is like to be afraid… To be alone…" He then smiled more fully, giving them a determined nod. "I want to help you, just as you have helped me. I want us to be friends."

Both girls were lost for words, but eventually, Millie managed to summon the strength to speak up. "Can you help us with Kemppainen?"

"I can only give you advice when it comes to him," Schwarz answered apologetically. "Do exactly as he commands… Do not fight him."

"…What?" Millie muttered, her feelings of despair returning.

"He will not stop, no matter how many times you defy him," Schwarz continued, sounding even more sorry. "All of us have been where you are, believe me. Just close your eyes, and your heart, and do what you must. That is the lesson Durmstrang wants to teach you. Do whatever you must to survive. I know it is sick… I know it is wrong, but the world we live in is also sick, and it enjoys hurting girls with good hearts." He sounds like Professor Vulchanova right now, only less cruel and blunt. "Ruta, you have been here far longer than Millicent. You understand me, no? You understand what it means to survive despite the odds? As Nerida did? As her people did?"

Ruta looked towards Millie, before averting her gaze and giving a weak nod. "…I understand…"

Schwarz then looked to the former Slytherin; his black eyes empathetic to her plight. "I am sorry, Millicent… I am sorry that your parents sent you here. It was cruel of them, especially if they knew what this place was, but that was their decision. What will be your decision? Will you just keep suffering? Will you just keep feeling powerless and afraid? Or, will you step into the fire and let it forge you anew? Will you become strong enough to never let something like this happen to you, again? Will you survive?"

"…I don't want to become a Dark Witch…" Millie managed, holding onto her left arm as her posture diminished. "I don't want to turn out like my parents."

"Then, you will not," Schwarz promised, catching her gaze with his. "Hold onto your beliefs, hold onto who you are at your core, and step through the fire. Survive it, and come out stronger for it. I will not become a Dark Wizard. My friends will not become Dark Wizards. This place is a test, and like us, you too will overcome it." Schwarz then smiled encouragingly. "And whenever your strength wavers, remember that you have friends who will help you. Ruta. Me. Your friends back home. And many others you have yet to meet. We are never alone, not unless we choose to be." Never alone, huh? He's right… Even though Ruta's been quiet this past couple of weeks, she never once left my side. And my friends back home… Pansy, Ron, Daphne, Tracey, Blaise, Theo, even Malfoy… They would never forget me, just as I would never forget them. I'll never be alone, because they'll always be in my heart.

"Here," Schwarz interrupted her thoughts, offering her one of his many colourful rings. "Green. Just like Slytherin, no?"

Millie blinked at his extended hand, at the green band in his palm, before hesitantly accepting the gift. "Are you sure?"

"I have plenty more," Schwarz smiled kindly, taking off a yellow ring and offering it to Ruta. "For you, sweet Ruta. For your kindness and compassion."

Ruta blushed scarlet, mumbling out a thank you as she took the yellow band. Both girls wore their respective rings on their index fingers, equally surprised when the rings changed in size to fit perfectly. Millie eyed the green ring with a growing sense of calm, despite not being one for jewellery of any sort. I'll wear this to honour my House, my school, and my friends.

"Why do you wear so many rings, Eric?" Ruta suddenly asked, making the older boy chuckle.

"A pathetic attempt at expressing how I feel inside, I suppose," Schwarz shrugged, ruffling her hair.

"How you feel inside?" Ruta questioned quizzically.

"…It doesn't matter," he smiled brightly, producing his letter and handing it over to Ruta. "Give Balint a treat for me, please."

"I will," Ruta managed to smile, nodding. "…And thank you… For the ring, and the…" she trailed off, averting her gaze. "Thank you."

"We're friends, now," Schwarz said, giving them a parting nod. "You need not thank me, just remember my words. And, come to me if you need anything. I will help you as best I can."

With that, the older boy left, shooting a smile back at them before turning the corner. We should go back to our dorm as well, before the other girls wake up and find us missing-…

"Are you finished with your letter?" Ruta asked, and Millie shook her head.

"No… Not yet," Millie replied. "I still haven't figured out a way to explain my decision to Daphne, and by extension, to all my friends. I've never been good with words, you see. Not like them."

"What decision?"

"I'm going to stay here," Millie revealed, looking into Ruta's widening eyes. "With you, I mean. I'm going to stay here with you."

"Y-You are? Why?" Ruta was visibly taken aback, though her voice gave away her relief. "I thought you missed Hogwarts and your friends…"

"I do, but you're my friend too," Millie responded, straightening up. "And the thought of you being here by yourself… After what happened with Waldvogel… I'm not going to leave you behind like that, Ruta. I just can't. So, I'm going to stay, and together, we'll figure out a way to survive Durmstrang."

Ruta's eyes welled up, again, and before Millie could react, the smaller witch was hugging her tightly. "Thank you! I know it's really selfish, but I didn't want you to go! You're my only friend! Thank you!"

Millie said nothing in response, deciding that returning Ruta's embrace was enough to convey her feelings. Friends don't leave each other behind, right, Ron? They protect each other, just as you always protected me. Now, it's my turn to protect someone else, and I won't let her down.

---

Blaise Zabini's POV

Friday 30th April, 1994 (Slytherin Training Area – After Classes)

Blaise dodged to the right, narrowly avoiding the stunner heading his way. I can do better than that. If I dodge right at the last second, my opponent is more likely to have their guard down.

"Again," Blaise ordered the dummy before him, frowning when it didn't register his command. "Again! Merlin's Beard, where is Ron's P-12 when you need it? Again! Again! Circe give me patience… Again, you useless bastard-"

"Why are you cussing at a piece of wood?" came Pansy's voice from behind him, further souring his mood. "And what are you doing down here? Classes just ended for the week… Don't you want to take your shoes off and relax for a bit?"

"No, I don't," Blaise replied curtly, keeping his focus on the dummy. "Do you mind? I'm in the middle of my training here."

"Your training?" Pansy giggled, approaching his side. "Are you trying to steal Ron's thunder?" Ron's thunder? Did you miss the part where my victory was stolen from me by Potter?! By Dumbledore?! I will never be humiliated like that, again! Not by anyone!

"What do you want, Pansy?" Blaise asked coldly, turning to face her. "Why are you disturbing me?"

Pansy blinked, before looking mightily offended. "I'm sorry. How rude of me to want to talk to my friend. My friend who's been avoiding me, that is. My friend who glares at me grumpily whenever he thinks I'm not looking." Damn… She's noticed, then-… "What's going on with you, Blaise? You're acting very strange lately. Is it your mother? Has she tried to contact you?"

"No, not even a letter," Blaise replied, much to Pansy's bewilderment.

"Then, why are you constantly brooding?" Pansy inquired, her hands finding her hips. "And what's it got to do with me? Why do you keep staring at me like I've wronged you somehow?" You did to Daphne what Dumbledore did to me! And it fucking hurts! You're a bloody cheat, and a terrible friend to boot!

Blaise looked around the training area, and when he was certain they were alone, he decided to give voice to his thoughts before they drove him mental. "I'm angry because my life has gone to the dogs, and I know for a fact that it's only going to get worse from-"

"Blaise, your life hasn't gone to the dogs… You finally got away from your mother, just like you always wanted," Pansy interjected, vexing him further. "You should be celebrating! You're free!"

"Free?" Blaise exhaled, genuinely taken aback by her naivety. "You think I'm free?! Why?! Because, like you, I don't have parents telling me what to do?!" Pansy flinched, she hated it when he raised his voice. "Is that what you call freedom?! How-…?! Bloody hell… How can you be so thick?!"

"Oi! I'm not thick-!"

"But you are!" Blaise snapped, scaring her. "My mother has assassinated several Lords, Pansy! Powerful men, all of them! You think she's just going to let me go?! You think she doesn't have plans for me?! Why else would she even birth me?! She's always made it clear that she cares very little for me, so why would she go through the pain of childbirth on my behalf?! I might be done with her, but she isn't done with me! I can feel it in my gut!"

"We'll protect you, then, you git!" Pansy shot back, no longer one to back down so easily. "I will protect you! She can't get to you if I'm in the way!" I don't want that! I don't want what little I have left to be ripped away from me!

"What madness has convinced you that you could ever hope to stop her?! Because you have deep vaults?!" Blaise argued, no longer caring about keeping his composure. "Her victims had deep vaults too! What good did their gold do them, huh?! They're fucking dead, while my mother is living her best life! You are deluding yourself if you think you can beat her at her own game!"

"Why do you have to underestimate me all the time?!" Pansy exclaimed, her voice cracking. "Is it because I'm a girl?! Is that it?! Are you that shallow, Blaise?!" Merlin help me, I'm going to slap some sense into her! I'm going to-…! Fucking hell, calm down! I need to calm down before I really lose it…

"What exactly have you done, Pansy, that makes you think I should never underestimate you? That I should run around signing your praises?" Blaise had to ask, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "You can't even win a few duels without resorting to bribery."

Pansy's body froze in place, her fierce expression slowly fading. "W-What do you mean by that? I don't know what you're talking about-"

"You're not as clever as you think you are, all right?" Blaise started, frowning deeply. "But what you are good at is convincing people to do what you want. You convinced the fourth years to join us in protest against Flint and his thugs all on your own. And, similarly, you convinced McCumbers to throw his duel against you, just so you could beat Daphne in the fina-"

"That's not true-"

"Save it," Blaise hissed, shaking his head in disappointment. "I saw him showing off his new Gobstone set this morning at breakfast. I overheard his friends talking about how rare and valuable it was. There's no way he could afford that, nor his parents. They work in the Ministry, and from what I know, they're not exactly in the top brass. You bought it for him, and all he had to do was throw the match-"

"Stop…" Pansy took a step back, breathing heavily. "Stop it…"

"Why? Why should I let you off the hook?" Blaise took a step forward, feeling outraged on Daphne's behalf. "Daphne, your supposed friend, worked her bloody arse off… She was fucking shaking after her duel against Ginevra… Shaking, Pansy… There wasn't a single part of her that wasn't hurting, but she kept fighting, regardless! She was brave, for once! She was tyring her hardest, for once! She put her very soul into the tournament, did her absolute best, only to have her deserved victory snatched from her by you! Do you have any idea how much that hurts? To try so hard, only to get swindled at the last second? To hear people cheering at your loss, and shouting obscenities at your back, when all you did was show them your best self? I felt like I was going to die from the sheer effort I was putting in-" he stopped abruptly, realizing that all his worst emotions had become muddled together over time. …I was brave, for once… I was trying my hardest, for once… I deserved to win, but that didn't matter… What am I compared to the Boy-Who-Lived, right? Just the spawn of a murderous bitch…

His disgust with his monstrous mother, his outrage at being cheated and humiliated, his fear of losing his remaining friends, his growing distaste of Pansy's unearned arrogance, and his utter lack of power over his own future, had all become muddled together, and now, being confronted by all these wretched feelings at once made him want to curl up into a ball and vanish from the world. It would've been so much better, so much simpler, to never have been born a Zabini. Of all the terrible things my mother's done to me, being the one to bring me into this world has to be the worst. I can't believe I chose to be blind to what she really is for so long… It's my fault Lord DeLuca died… It's my fault that she's going to come after my friends… After Ron… Why did it have to be her?! Why?! Of all the witches in this world, why did-?!

"Blaise…" Pansy whispered, slowly reaching forward and wiping an errant tear off his cheek. "You're really scaring me…"

Blaise smacked her hand away from his face, taking a step back and gritting his teeth. "I don't want to talk to you, anymore… Not right now, at least… What you did to Daphne…" Blaise wiped at his eyes, sniffling loudly. Fuck this conversation! Fuck everything! "When Ron finds out about what you did, we're all going to pay for it… He'll punish everyone for your shitty choice… I hope you're proud of yourself-"

"There you two are!" came Theo's voice from behind them, and although Pansy turned to face him, Blaise kept his teary gaze aimed forward. "It's happening! The Triumvirate are arguing with Flint! We're about to shut him down for good! C'mon, Daphne wants us-!" he stopped just as abruptly as he had arrived. "Pans? Are you okay? You look-"

"I'm fine…" Pansy cleared her throat, before drawing in a sharp breath. "We'll be right out, Theo. Just give us a minute, please."

"…Right…" Theo said slowly, no doubt realizing that Blaise had confronted Pansy about her scheme. "Um… Don't take too long, all right? It's now, or, never."

With that, Theo rushed off, leaving Blaise and Pansy alone once again. She's going to beg me not to tell Ron the truth, now. It's just a matter of seconds-…

"Don't tell him," Pansy mumbled pathetically, and immediately, Blaise felt his face twist into a sneer. "He won't punish anyone if he doesn't know-"

"You want me to lie to him for you?" Blaise turned his sneer in her direction, making her avert her gaze. "And what do you mean by 'if', exactly? It's not a matter of if, you fool, it's a matter of when. He will find out, with or without my help, I can promise you that. Ron sees a lot more than he lets on, and you bloody know that. If I lie to him, I become complicit. If Theo lies to him, Theo becomes complicit-"

"You already told Theo?!" Pansy gasped, visibly panicked.

"I didn't tell him, he figured it out just like I did," Blaise rolled his eyes. "You didn't make it all that difficult for us, either. I bet, even Malfoy is onto you. And a bunch of other Slytherins, too. I mean, how arrogant do you have to be, Pansy? To think that no one would question you beating McCumbers without even breaking a sweat? How stupid do you have to be to concoct such a pathetic scheme, and expect to get away with it?"

"…I used my cunning…" Pansy whimpered, the pain from his harsh words more than evident in her voice and expression.

"You used your gold, nothing more," Blaise told her bluntly. "And, now, you want us all to lie for you… Why? Why would you do this? Forget about Ron, did you even think of Daphne? How betrayed she would feel if she ever found out? What was the point, Pansy? Tell me, because I just can't wrap my head around it." Why are you acting like this? Ever since you inherited that bloody Parkinson fortune, you've lost it. Was Theo right? Is this all because of your parents? Your mother?

Pansy shifted in her spot, looking so helpless that, despite his anger with her, he couldn't help but feel sorry for her. "…My whole life, people have underestimated me… Looked down on me… My mother, my father, and now, even my friends… I just wanted…" she trailed off, pinching her eyes in order to stop her tears from escaping. "I just wanted to be seen as something other than stupid, or, thick… I wanted to prove to Ron that I could handle myself just fine… I wanted to prove it to everyone… And, mostly, I wanted to prove it to myself… I deserve to be valued by the people I love, don't I? Just like everyone else? Instead of being treated as an afterthought? Instead of being seen as a burden?" He was right, then. Is that really how we make her feel, though? As an afterthought and a burden? "I don't know what I did, but my entire life I've been treated as though I'm not good enough, and I'm so tired of it… I just want to be loved… I deserve to be loved… It doesn't have to be from everyone, just my friends… That'd be enough for me…"

Blaise stared at her with a softening expression, his sympathy slowly overpowering his anger. "…Pansy… This was not the way to go about earning that love… Don't you see that? All you've done is put yourself in a position where you have to lie to your friends."

"I know that…" she finally sobbed, covering her face. "…I'm so stupid… Just like my… my mother used to say… W-When Ron finds out, h-he's going to hate me! And Daphne too! They'll b-both hate me!" Sweet Circe… Why did you have to dig yourself into this hole? Haven't we all fought each other enough, already?

Blaise let out a tired sigh, massaging his forehead and eyes. "…Don't do that… Crying is not going to change what you did, all right?" And, it makes me really uncomfortable.

"…I'm sorry…" Pansy coughed out, wiping her eyes with her sleeves.

"…I'm sorry too…" Blaise apologized, thinking about his earlier comments. "I didn't-…" he paused, trying to clear his mind of everything but Pansy. "I didn't mean to let all of my anger out on you… It's not you I'm angry with, it's my life… It's the position I've put you all in with my mother… I'm sorry for not realising that you felt so…" he trailed off, he was never any good at comforting others. "…I do love you, Pansy. All of us do."

"…I know…" Pansy shifted closer; her eyes downcast.

"You're not an afterthought, nor a burden," Blaise added, feeling emotionally spent. "But you are being reckless, and you're acting invincible when you're clearly not… And that needs to stop before you make a mistake you can't come back from." Before you end up like Tracey, or, Millicent. Or, even Ron.

"With your m-mother, you mean?" Pansy asked, her mascara marring her cheeks.

"Yes, and others like her," Blaise gave a soft nod. "These are dangerous people, Pansy, and these are dangerous times. You might not have realized this yet, but your wealth has put a target on your back-"

"…I do understand…"

"Then, why aren't you acting like it?" Blaise asked. "Why are you trying to aggravate the likes of Lady Longbottom? Why are you so eager to put yourself in my mother's path? Why are you ignoring the dangers people like them present? Is it really all an attempt to impress us? Your friends?" Pansy said nothing in response, but she didn't have to. "You're not impressing anyone by acting foolhardy, Pans… You're just scaring us. You're scaring me. I don't want to see you hurt, none of us do, so please, just… Just be better, all right? Be smarter. Take things a little more seriously."

"…I will…" she swallowed thickly, looking thoroughly chastised. "W-What do I do about Ron? And Daphne?"

"Confess, before they find out from someone else," Blaise advised, making her shrink as a result. "If you tell them exactly what you told me, about how you've been feeling overlooked and underappreciated, then… Well, Daphne will listen to you. She'll be angry and hurt, but she'll listen, I reckon. She might even forgive you if you show her how sorry you are. As for Ron…" Blaise shook his head to himself. "Damn it, it's moments like these where I really miss how he used to be… He would've become sappy the moment you shed a few tears, and you'd be in the clear." Now, you'll be lucky if you leave the conversation in one piece. "Take this entire mess as a lesson, Pansy. Whatever happens, just don't forget about this. Don't forget what happens when you take shortcuts. Don't forget what happens when you cheat the people closest to you." And I'll remember to stop belittling you and what you bring to the table. Let's both learn something from this conversation.

"…I won't forget, I promise…" Pansy croaked, fidgeting with her hands.

"You should go to your room and clean up," Blaise suggested, turning towards the exit. "I'm going to go make sure that Flint doesn't clock Theo, again. Or, worse, manhandles Daphne."

With that, Blaise began to walk away, only to be stopped when Pansy took him by the hand. "…Thank you, Blaise…"

"For what?" Blaise sighed out. "Yelling at you and making you cry?"

"For looking out for me," Pansy answered, sniffling. "…No one ever notices how much you look out for your friends, but I do…"

Blaise didn't really know what to say to that, so he merely gave her hand a squeeze before walking away. Isn't that what you're supposed to do for your family? Making his way out into the common room, Blaise was quite taken aback by the sight of every Slytherin standing to attention, all of their backs turned to him. He could hear Flint's boisterous voice from back here, and as he pushed his way to the front of the common room, stopping just behind his friends, he spotted the Triumvirate standing face-to-face with Flint, his gang of miscreants cornered at last by all of Slytherin House.

"…This is all his doing, isn't it?!" Flint roared, red in the face. "He's put you three up to this! Just admit it! You're the lackeys of a third year! Have you no shame?! You! Selwyn! You're a Pureblood! Like me! He ought to be kissing your feet, the fucking Blood-Traitor, but he's giving you orders?! How does that work?!" Call him a Blood-Traitor, again. Go on. This little bit of theatre is going to end with my wand up your arse.

"Are you done?" Selwyn asked in response, indifferent even in the face of Flint's rage. "Have you screamed enough, now?"

"Fuck you, you bitch!" Flint hissed, spitting at her feet. "You fucking Blood-Traitor! You think you can turn your back on your own people and get away with it?!"

"Are you threatening me?" Selwyn raised an eyebrow.

"I'm making you a promise!" Flint glared murder at her, his hands clenched into fists. What an idiot. He understands the concept of witnesses, doesn't he?

"Make all the promises you want, Flint," Ductu stepped in, she looked a lot less patient than Selwyn. "But your little power-trip ends today. You, and your pack of idiots, are all alone. All of Slytherin is fed up with you. Are you going to come after all of us? Is that it?"

"Maybe, I will!" Flint took the bait, and whispers immediately broke out amongst the spectators.

"He's done," Daphne whispered to Theo, who was grinning from ear-to-ear.

"What are you all gawking at?!" Flint barked at the crowd, only to be met with sneers and scorn. "Most of you are a bunch of Half-Bloods! You've got tainted blood in you! Me?! I'm Pure! I'm a fucking Lord of Magical Britain! You don't even understand what that means! That's how low you are compared to me!"

"Now, he's definitely done," Theo added, chuckling. "Why didn't I bring any snacks? This is brilliant!"

"His meltdown is delicious enough, isn't it?" Daphne joked, and both Theo and Malfoy nodded along. But it could prove dangerous, too. He's becoming unhinged from what I can see. I should be ready to stun him, just in case.

"You're a 'Lord' out there, Flint, but not in here," Martyris chuckled, while Blaise subtly brandished his wand. "In here, in Slytherin, you're the lowest of the low. You're a burden on this House, which is why we're all standing against you, now. You don't exemplify any traits that Salazar deemed worthy. Cunning? You don't have any to speak of. Ambition? You're a common thug. Determination? If you had that, you wouldn't have needed to repeat seventh year. Pride? Well, you do have a lot of that, but it's the wrong sort-"

Flint suddenly reached for his wand, and Blaise acted accordingly, pushing himself past Daphne and Theo. "Stupefy!"

The stunner whistled through the air, blowing past Ductu's head and hitting its intended target. Flint was sent flying back onto an empty armchair, nearly tipping it over before slouching in it unconscious. The Triumvirate turned to face him, as did all his other Housemates, all of them alarmed by the sudden use of Magic. Blaise, however, ignored the majority of them, sheathing his wand and signalling the Triumvirate to proceed with a curt nod. They probably wanted him to lash out against them, goading him the way they were, but it's better this way. He's hurt enough people, already. Plus, I don't want people thinking that Ron used them and put them in danger for his own goals.

"Bloody good shot, mate," Theo commended, patting him on the back. "Next time, though, give us a little warning, won't you?" Sorry, but I've been waiting to do that since he threw Daphne at me.

"It's over, you lot," Ductu was the first to turn to Flint's gang, all of whom were just staring at their 'leader'. "Association with him will only tarnish your future in this House, now. You still have a chance to become productive members of Slytherin, and I suggest you take it."

"The malicious targeting of your Housemates is over," Selwyn took over. "The unjustified attacks on the other Houses are over. The continuous loss of House-Points is over. Going forward, you will not hurt Slytherin in any shape, or, form."

"Are we clear?" Martyris asked, looking a lot more serious, now.

They said nothing in response, but judging by their subdued expressions, everyone could breathe a sigh of relief.

"Thank you, all of you," Ductu turned to face those at her back, her eyes lingering on Blaise in particular. "As always, it fills my heart with joy to see Slytherins standing together. Given our treatment at the hands of Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, and even Hufflepuff, it's only right that we look after one another." The Slytherins cheered, especially those that Flint's gang had been targeting exclusively. "Flint was right about one thing, however… All of this was the idea of Ronald Weasley, who intends to return to Slytherin very soon, and when he does, he intends to lead this House into its fruitful future. Now, some of you might be unhappy to hear that, given that he is only a third year, but let me remind you that he won leadership by a fair vote before taking a break from Hogwarts due to his poor health. We, the Silver Triumvirate, and the other seventh years, will be focusing mostly on our N. E. W. Ts in the following months, so the timing couldn't be more perfect. When he returns, we expect all of you to give him a warm welcome back."

Most of the Slytherins cheered, again, the memory of Ron decimating the A-Rank Tournament still fresh in their minds. How quickly they've changed their tones now that he's offering them positions of power out in the Wizarding World. Well, at least, they've put an end to Flint, and that alone deserves some praise.

---

Thirty Minutes Later

"We were just talking about how brave you were," Martyris giggled, holding onto his arm as she led him into her shared room. "Weren't we, Carey?"

"We were," Ductu said smoothly, standing in the centre and armed with her most pleasing smile. "Thank you, Blaise. Flint is an animal, and you handled him accordingly." Right… Is that why you summoned me? To thank me? I don't think so.

"There's nothing more attractive than a decisive man, but I'm sure you know that already," Martyris said sweetly, giving his arm a squeeze. Ugh…

"I didn't want things to get out of hand, that's all," Blaise said, gently pulling his arm free. "Where's Selwyn?"

As if on cue, the raven-haired witch came out of the adjoining bathroom, wearing nothing but a towel to protect her dignity, her hair and legs still wet from a steamy shower.

"We have a guest, Samantha," Ductu chuckled, keeping her eyes solely on Blaise.

"You could've warned me," Selwyn frowned, shooting Blaise a dismissive look. Do they think I'm stupid? As if that entrance wasn't planned.

Something twisted inside of Blaise as he watched Selwyn march over to her trunk, these three reminded him greatly of his mother. They were cunning, devious even, and they were unscrupulous enough to use their beauty as a weapon to enslave men. Or, in my case, boys. Now, I finally understand why Ron used to have that stupid grin on his face every time he spoke with them in private, and why he acted like their lapdog despite them blatantly using him for their own gain. Merlin, this really does diminish the respect I have for him… How could he fall for such base tactics? I thought he was better than that.

"You're not going to start changing in front of me, are you?" Blaise asked Selwyn, fighting the urge to sneer at her.

"Is that a request?" Martyris laughed, but Blaise ignored her.

"Is this how your parents raised you, Selwyn?" Blaise continued. "To parade yourself half-naked like this if you ever wanted attention? Or, did you really just turn out so pathetic all on your own?"

The room went silent at that, all three witches losing their friendly demeanour within a heartbeat. Oh, didn't expect that, did you? These tricks of yours… I've seen them before in the employ of the worst kind of woman. You're not even amateurs compared to her.

"I'm not Ron, nor am I like the dozens of boys who want to bed you," Blaise looked to Ductu, pleased to see her frowning at him. "You try something like this with me, again, and I'll turn you into an insect like I did to McLaggen. Witches like you three… You turn my fucking stomach." With that, Blaise turned and walked away, stopping at the door. "Oh, and before I go, I want you to know this… You can't turn us against him. We won't spy on him for you. We won't undermine him for you. And we certainly won't choose you over him. Unlike you, Ron inspires loyalty, whereas you three can only bargain for it. He's not 'just a third year', as you put it, he's one of the most powerful, influential wizards in the world. You're nothing next to him. Nothing."

Blaise exited the room and slammed the door shut behind him, rolling his eyes. Pathetic… Still, that was rather cathartic. I needed that. Maybe, one day, I can put an end to my mother's schemes as well. Once she's in Azkaban, I can finally be free of her. I could even salvage the Zabini name, if I choose to. Blaise made his way back to the common room, back to his favourite spot in front of the fireplace, where his friends were already waiting for him. They all look like the cat that ate the canary. Well, I can't blame them. Slytherin isn't the same without this spot.

"The conquering hero returns," Theo smirked at him as he sat down. "So? What did they want? Did they shower you with their 'adoration' for saving them?"

"Don't be gross, Theo," Daphne huffed in indignation, before turning her focus onto Blaise. "Well? What did they want?"

"I didn't stay long enough to ask, but if I were to guess, they wanted to seduce me," Blaise answered, much to everyone's intrigue.

"Seduce you?" Pansy asked, leaning forward with a strange glint behind her eyes. "What makes you think that?" If I didn't know her, I'd have no idea that she was in tears less than an hour ago.

"Well, for one, Selwyn was wearing nothing but a towel," Blaise started, ignoring that both Theo and Pansy looked outright envious of him. "Their tactics aside, they want someone to keep tabs on Ron for them, I imagine. The closer that person is to Ron, the better."

"They still want power in Slytherin, you reckon?" Daphne questioned, frowning deeply.

"No… Maybe," Blaise shrugged, sinking into his favoured armchair. I missed you, old friend. "Most likely, they want to stay ahead of him after they graduate. Ron told us that he secured jobs for them all, so it's only natural that they would be interested in keeping an eye on their investor. And, in my opinion, they're not fond of him. Something happened between them, but what it was I can't rightfully guess."

"I really don't like those three," Daphne said, her voice almost close to disdainful. "Ron would be better off cutting ties with them, instead of doing them favours." I agree, but clearly, he has a soft spot for them. I shouldn't mention that, though, especially not near Daphne. "Wait… You mentioned that they tried to seduce you… You don't think that's why Ron-"

"No," Blaise cut her off, for her own sake. "Ron's not like that. And, let's not ignore the bigger issue here. If they tried this with me, then they're bound to try it with others."

"You mean, I'll get to see Selwyn in a towel too?" Theo smiled the most satisfied of smiles. "Bless you, Ron, you're the gift that keeps on giving." They all gave him dull looks, before Daphne slapped him on the arm. "Ow! I was joking!"

"As if," Daphne rolled her eyes. "Blaise is right, we should be careful around those three. And, we should make sure that they don't approach the first and second years. Or, the fourth years. Actually, let's figure out a way to keep tabs on them in general."

"Or, we could just tell Weasley," Malfoy suggested. "If he knows what they're up to, he can use that against them. He can feed them whatever information he wants." That… is a good idea, actually. Ron likes to control every situation to his benefit, and he'll-

"We shouldn't worry him needlessly," Daphne refused dismissively, somewhat vexing Blaise. "We can handle this ourselves." There she goes, again. Making decisions for him as if she's the authority on all things related to Ron. "We should handle this ourselves, I mean. We ought to take this chance to step up and win some respect-"

"I'm with Malfoy on this," Blaise spoke up, surprising them all. "If it's related to him, then he needs to know about it. We'll tell him when he comes back-"

"Blaise, we can outsmart those three-"

"This is not a discussion, Daphne," Blaise stopped her short. "He's coming back, and so, we'll be going back to how things used to be. Ron's the leader, not you. He decides what he needs to know and what he doesn't. If he's to lead Slytherin House, then we, his loyal friends, can't undermine him. Not for any reason. Theo, back me on this."

"If we undermine him, then others definitely will," Theo nodded, despite Daphne's darkening expression. "And, most importantly, we should all endeavour to remain in his good books. Ron's a powerful friend to have… Now more than ever."

Blaise shot Pansy a subtle look, her guilt was written all over her face. I really hope she takes my advice and confesses, because Theo's right. Ron has more power than ever, and we haven't exactly been his favourite people as of late.

"To how things used to be, then," Daphne scoffed, rising from her seat and storming away.

They all watched her leave in silence, save for Blaise. "What was that, Pansy?"

"Daphne and Ron aren't on good terms at the moment," Pansy sighed out. "I think, she wants to escape his shadow and leave her own mark in Slytherin. Plus, they're exes, but they share the same friends… It must be hard for her knowing that you boys will always choose Ron's side, no matter what she does." Why wouldn't we? Ron's earned our loyalty; we would be just a bunch of faceless third years without him.

"Greengrass forgets that any semblance of power that she does have is only there because Weasley handed it to her," Malfoy pointed out, much to Pansy's annoyance. Once again, he's right. Strange times when Malfoy starts making more sense than Daphne. "What? Have you seen any other third years hold as much influence as we do?"

"Try and talk some sense into her, won't you? Before she ends up ruining things for the rest of us?" Blaise gave Pansy a meaningful look, who responded with a nod before leaving the boys behind. "When Ron returns, you two, we're going to be ready. We're going to make ourselves indispensable to him. That's how we make up for losing the C-Rank Tournament." It's how I repay him for opening my eyes.

"Agreed," Theo and Malfoy said together, before shooting each other semi-annoyed looks.

---

Ronald Weasley's POV

Friday 30th April, 1994 (Prosperity Farm – Late Evening)

"Daphne wants to leave her own mark in Slytherin, eh?" Ron chuckled, fixing his black tie in front of the mirror. "And Blaise has rallied the troops in my name? He wants to make up for losing the C-Ranked Tournament?" Good old Blaise. I can always count on him to show unwavering loyalty. And Daphne… Well, nothing would please me more than to see her best-self, despite her low opinion of me.

"This is what Marty heard," Marty nodded fervently, sitting atop Ron's bed with Custard in his lap.

"What else?" Ron asked, studying his reflection. Perfection, save for my hair… I could use a haircut the next time I see Pansy. A fringe does not suit me, and it could get in my eyes during a fight.

"Aside from the commotion Marty mentioned, and the plans made by Master's friends, Marty has nothing significant to share," Marty replied, absentmindedly stroking Custard's soft fur.

"No one noticed you? No one at all?" Ron asked, shooting a quizzical look back.

"The Hogwarts Elves always clean the castle without being noticed," Marty replied as if it were obvious. "Marty too prefers to remain unseen."

"Remarkable, you lot… Each and every one of you," Ron looked back to his reflection, thoroughly amused. "And how fortunate for me that you were sent to dust the cobwebs off the chandeliers in Slytherin." Too fortunate, even… Something's bound to go wrong, tonight, then. I never get this lucky. "Do you reckon you could ask to keep cleaning the Slytherin common room and dorms? I could use the eyes of an 'unseen' Elf-"

"Marty has already put in the request, Master," the Elf beamed, much to Ron's delight.

"I love you so much."

"Marty knows," the Elf sniggered. "There are not many Elves lining up to clean after the Slytherins, so Marty will be given ample opportunities to play spy for Master." Brilliant!

"Well, I can't say I blame them," Ron turned to fully face Marty. "Well? What do you think?"

"Why all black, Master?" Marty questioned, tilting his head. "Is Master attending a funeral? And not a ball?" Spot on, as always.

"Well, I am attending a funeral," Ron smirked, his eyes flashing red. "The people there just don't know they're dead yet."

"Master must promise to be careful," Marty said, losing a lot of his mirth. "Master will be dining with the most dangerous of Lords and Ladies, all of whom want to hurt people like Master."

"I'll be careful, mate," Ron promised. "And, I'm not going alone. I'll have the most powerful wizard of all time by my side. You've nothing to fear, all right?" Marty gave a nod, though he still appeared worried. "Anyway, I want you to enjoy your night off. My cottage is your cottage. There's plenty of food, so eat whatever you like. Warm yourself by the fire and read a book. Put up your feet and enjoy yourself. You've earned it. Oh, and don't wait up for me. If you get tired, the bed's all yours. Just remember to feed Helios, though. He becomes violent when he's hungry, and he'll claw your face off in your sleep."

With that, Ron left his bedroom and made his way out into the cold night, waiting for Dumbledore on his porch. I'll head down to Slytherin tomorrow, I reckon. The quicker I establish my rule, the better. My first act? A party! The best I've thrown yet! A celebration for Slytherin dominating the Ranked Tournaments, and a last bit of fanfare for the fifth and seventh years before they have to focus solely on their studies. I'll also elect delegates for the first years. Mathew, Hestia, and Flora will do. They have the best grades, and the most potential to make Slytherin proud. Tori will no doubt get jealous, but she'll have to get over it. Nepotism has no place in Slytherin's future-…

Ron's thoughts were brought to an abrupt end by a flash of fire, which ended with Dumbledore and Fawkes standing before the cosy cottage. "Good evening, dear boy."

"Good evening, Headmaster," Ron greeted back, making his way off the porch. "Nice robes! You're as stylish as always, Sir!"

The Chief Warlock was wearing long, flowing dress robes, a royal-purple cloak that swept to the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. He looked kingly, powerful, and above all, fashionable beyond compare.

"These old rags?" Dumbledore chuckled, pretending to be modest. "Just something I put together at the last second, my boy."

"Oh, I'm sure," Ron sniggered, before giving Fawkes, who was wearing a royal-purple bowtie, a respectful nod. "Always a pleasure to see you, Fawkes. You look very handsome, tonight."

The Phoenix shrieked in response, showing off his large, fiery wings by displaying his impressive wingspan.

"May I?" Dumbledore asked, Conjuring a platinum clip with a small emerald hanging off of it.

"You got me a present?" Ron blinked, pleasantly surprised. "Um… Go on, Sir."

Dumbledore attached the clip a quarter of the way down Ron's tie, beaming when the emerald was perfectly centred. "Why so much black, Ronald? You could've worn a white shirt, at the very least."

"You don't like it?" Ron asked, feigning hurt.

"I do, it suits you quite well, but we are attending a prestigious gala," Dumbledore reminded him, full of mirth. "And you, my boy, look like the human equivalent of the Grim." Realization suddenly dawned upon the old wizard, causing his lips to quirk upwards. "Ronald… This is too brazen, even for you."

"I've no idea what you're talking about," Ron played innocent, grinning. "This is just something I put together at the last second."

Dumbledore chortled, patting Ron affectionately on the arm. "Your antics never disappoint. I must admit, I am looking forward to seeing what you get up to, tonight."

"It sounds as though you want me to cause trouble," Ron tutted, shaking his head. "What sort of Headmaster are you, exactly?"

"The kind that encourages free-thinking."

"The kind that enjoys chaos, you mean."

"Just a bit."

"Try a lot."

"You wound me with such accusations, my boy," Dumbledore took a step back, offering Ron his hand. "Shall we?"

"We shall."

---

Corban Yaxley's POV

Friday 30th April, 1994 (Yaxley Manor – Late Evening)

Corban stared at the unopened bottle of Ogden's Finest Firewhiskey, scowling to himself. He needed relief, a way to unwind from the stresses of his position, and although alcohol hadn't failed him thus far, he was growing bored of it. He needed the company of a woman, a Pure woman, now more than ever. I wonder if Anastasia will-… No… No, she is too weak… I only ever hurt her… Perhaps, someone at the gala, tonight? If I am fortunate, Clementine will be in attendance as well-…

There was a knock at his door, and Corban drew in a shaky breath. "Come in. It's open."

"Good evening, my Lord," came Felix's voice, followed by the sound of the door being locked.

"Felix," Corban put on a smile, turning to face the young wizard. "Is it time for us to go? Is Anastasia ready, at last?"

"Not quite yet," Felix replied, he was certainly dressed to impress. "I wanted to speak to you before we leave for Magical Bulgaria. I'm not intruding, I hope-"

"Nonsense," Corban waved a dismissive hand. "What's on your mind?"

"I was wondering if it's necessary for me to attend," Felix replied, his expression hard to read. "I-… You know how the other Lords feel about me… And those who will be attending, tonight… They are even less tolerant of men like me." If they so much as make a snide comment, I'll cut their tongues out for you. "I am not comfortable with attending this gala. I fear that I will only bring you and Lady Anastasia shame and dishonour-"

"Banish that thought," Corban commanded, feeling his temper flare. "She and I don't feel that way about you-"

"My Lord-"

"I said, banish it!"

Felix let out a sigh, his head dropping slightly. "…I am only thinking of you, my Lord…"

"No, you are thinking of yourself," Corban countered. "Of your own fears. Of your own insecurities. You are a man, now, Felix, and a man does not lower his head so easily! A man does not cower in the face of petty insults!" Corban then drew in a sharp breath; he didn't enjoy raising his voice, especially not near his family. "And, in case you didn't already know, you won't be the only man there with… controversial appetites… We all have our vices, Felix, even me. Those you fear will judge you are no different. Lord Bierhals? His wife is his half-sister, they share the same father. Lord Dobrev? Since his wife's passing, he has taken to sleeping with his Elves. Lord Eder? He is only a year older than you, and like you, he too prefers the company of other men. Hiding from the world will do nothing for you, nor will it change what they say about you. You have to show them that you're not so easily intimidated. You have to show them that there is more to you than the rumours they've heard. You are a Rosier! The last Rosier! And, you are my ward! You are a part of my family, and no one looks down on us! Not unless they value their heads! Learn their weaknesses, Felix, learn their secrets, and then, none of them will dare question you! Don't hide from them! Face them!" Be more like your brother! The mere sight of him would have silenced most of these Lords and Ladies!

Felix nodded, standing up straighter. "…You are right, my Lord. Forgive me-"

Corban raised his hand, stopping the young man from apologizing needlessly. "I need you by my side, tonight, Felix. I need your keen intellect. We are in desperate need of new allies, and this gala presents the perfect opportunity for us to return to power. The Purest, most important families from Germany, Bulgaria, Turkey, Romania, and Russia will be in attendance, as well as those from smaller, less powerful countries. We need to befriend as many of them as possible."

"Do they not share our beliefs?" Felix asked, displaying his inexperience. "Minister Ivanov would never invite Blood-Traitors to her own ceremony, my Lord. Is she not the Dark Lord's agent in Magical Russia?"

"She is, and she wouldn't," Corban started. "But these families have held grudges against us British for centuries. We, the British Purebloods, not only subdued our land, but we also prospered beyond any of them. We established the very first Ministry of Magic. We built a society in which Wizarding-Kind thrived above all others. We brought the Centaurs, the Goblins, and even the Merpeople to their knees. We authored and implemented the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy. And our great nation, to this day, is the beating heart of the Wizarding World. Their envy of us has only grown stronger with each passing century, and now, overnight, we need them… We need their aid… We need their goodwill. They will not make this easy for us, nor will they show us the respect we are owed. They have been waiting for this day for too long not to enjoy it." Corban frowned deeply, disgusted at the thought of courting the allegiances of lesser Purebloods. "If men like Ralston Potter still walked the Earth, we would…" he trailed off. How low we have fallen, Felix… Our ancestors must be weeping in their tombs.

"Ralston Potter, my Lord?"

"A great man," Corban all but whispered. "A wise man. When these Eastern fools were planning to wage a global war against the Muggles for their prosecution of our people, he was a staunch defender of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy. His actions, and forward thinking, allowed us to not only be rid of the Muggles, but to also establish control over the Wizarding population in one fell swoop. He was ahead of his time, a true pioneer, and despite how his accursed family turned out, he was a strong believer in the Purity of Blood." He let out a deep sigh as he finished, shaking his head to himself. "…Forgive my ramblings… There is no use in wishing for a past long buried. We have to keep moving forward, even in such dark times."

"You will see us through to the end, my Lord," Felix said, sounding certain enough for the both of them. "You and the Dark Lord both." The Dark Lord… Yes… He has left us behind, but he intends to return, and when he does, I must have something to show him aside from the destruction these 'Butchers of Birmingham' left in their wake. He will not forgive me a third time; I am certain of that.

"Come, then, Felix," Corban said, leaving the bottle behind. "We have a great deal of work to do, and I've wasted enough time as it is."

---

Friday 30th April, 1994 (Gruev Manor – Late Evening)

"Thorfinn!" Corban greeted the bulky wizard, shaking his large hand. "Good to see another familiar face!"

"Likewise," Thorfinn grunted, shooting a quick glance at Felix and Anastasia. "Your wife is feeling well, tonight, I see. That gladdens me."

"We don't get to attend many parties these days," Corban started, whilst Anastasia took a step forward and clung to his arm. "The invitation invigorated her spirits, I believe."

"You did not bring young Euphemia with you, Thorfinn?" Anastasia asked, looking for his bastard daughter.

"No… No, she is too young for such things," Thorfinn replied, looking around with narrowed eyes. "I don't trust these people, nor do I want her associating with their children."

"That's a shame," Anastasia smiled dejectedly. "I enjoy playing with her. She is a very clever girl."

"Then, perhaps, if your husband has no objections, I could occasionally leave her with you? Whenever I travel for business, that is?" Thorfinn suggested, and before Corban could respond, Anastasia nodded excitedly.

"That would be lovely! Corban and I miss having a child around to keep us company!" Ugh… I remember Lysandra when she was six… Another screaming, spoilt child is the last thing I need in my house-… "Corban? Don't you agree, love? Wouldn't it be lovely to have her stay with us?" No.

"I do," Corban put on a convincing smile, knowing of his wife's soft-spot for children.

"Thank you," Thorfinn grumbled, his eyes still scanning the surrounding families. "Are we going to beg these 'fine people' for aid, Corban? Or, are we going to approach them as agents of the Dark Lord?"

"Felix can fill you in," Corban gestured the young wizard to step forward. "He has made us a list."

"Good evening, Lord Rowle," Felix greeted, whereas Thorfinn simply grunted in response. "As you well know, many families in attendance tonight swore eternal allegiance to the Dark Lord during the Great War. Most, however, simply funded him and his cause, all the while distancing themselves from him and his army. Those who swore eternal allegiance-"

"Are the ones we should approach as Death-Eaters?" Thorfinn finished, and Felix gave a nod. "Say the names, boy. I never took to Legilimency." Or, manners.

"Ackermann, Bierhals, Färber, Grünberg, Jäger, Rask, Waldvogel," Felix started, his expression thoughtful. "These are just the families from Magical Germany-"

"You memorised the list?" Thorfinn cut in, raising an eyebrow.

"Felix' intellect rivals my own," Corban stated, patting his ward on the back. "And, in some areas, he even overshadows me."

"You give me too much credit, my Lord," Felix said modestly, his lips quirking upwards. No, I give you the credit you are due, which can't be said of our friends and allies.

"Continue, Felix-"

There was a sudden flash of orange within the greeting room, causing the chatter to die out instantly, and when Corban turned around to see what had happened, he was met with a most peculiar sight. There, at the centre of the greeting room, amidst the most devout believers of Blood-Purity, stood a proud Blood-Traitor, his red hair and manic grin taking all by surprise. It can't be… What is he doing here?! Is there no place left on this Earth where I don't have to worry about this particular Weasley?!

"It's coming very soon," Gaspard's voice rang out in his head, warning him of the 'shadow threatening to devour all of Magical Britain'. "You keep your eyes open, Corban, for your family's sake, if not your own."

Corban felt his jaw clench tightly, his eyes becoming fixed upon Dumbledore. This is bold, old man… Very bold… Bringing him, of all people, here… You disrespect your betters once again!

"Pardon our flashy entrance, good people," Dumbledore addressed them all, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Fawkes is not one for subtlety, I'm afraid." The phoenix atop his shoulder let out a piercing cry, striking at their eardrums and hearts. "It appears as though we've arrived just in time, Ronald. Come, let us find Minister Grigorov. I don't fancy loitering about like the common rabble." Common rabble? Oh, I'm going to enjoy the day you meet your end, you old fool. I just hope I'm there to see the Dark Lord tear you into pieces! And, as for you, Ronald Weasley… You're in my house, now. Let's see what you're really made of.

---

Ronald Weasley's POV

Friday 30th April, 1994 (Gruev Manor – Late Evening)

Despite the Headmaster's call, Ron remained rooted to his spot. Instead, it was his eyes that travelled the room, lingering on each and every face before him. He revelled in their disbelief, these wretched people who controlled the Wizarding World from the shadows, because right now, in this moment, he had stolen their power from them. He had breached the gates once again, proving to them that he could reach them no matter where they lurked. Such pretty people… Such fine clothing… Such a magnificent home… I will take all of these things from you. Your gold, your power, your legacy, your very lives… I will have them all. Your reign has reached its conclusion, whereas mine has only just begun.

Their disbelief soon turned to outrage and disgust, but even then, Ron maintained his grin, feeling increasingly excited at the prospect of violence breaking out. C'mon… I'm right here. I'm right in front of you. I'm everything you hate, and you're everything I hate. Let's tear each other apart, eh? It'll be fun! When his eyes finally landed on Corban Yaxley, Ron couldn't help but chuckle. I'm catching up to you, 'my Lord'. What will you do when I finally reach you? How long do you think you can escape me?

Shooting Yaxley a wink, much to the man's chagrin, Ron finally accepted Dumbledore's invitation, sauntering past the Lords and Ladies of Eastern Europe. They whispered their protests amongst each other, but none dared to step between him and the Grand Sorcerer, not even as the duo departed from the greeting room.

"This is going quite smoothly, isn't it?" Dumbledore said as they made their way through the adjoining hallway, ignoring the staff who were awaiting the guests.

"Did you expect them to throw me out as soon as they saw me?" Ron asked, and Dumbledore shrugged in response. "Did you want them to?"

"It would've been rather entertaining to watch, I must admit," Dumbledore chuckled, shooting a smile back. Cheeky old bugger!

"You might get your wish yet, Sir," Ron laughed. "They looked ready to murder me."

"Not all of them, my boy," Dumbledore pointed out. "The young ones did not share their parents' sentiment." Really? I didn't notice them. "It's not often that a young celebrity makes an appearance at these gatherings."

"A young, Blood-Traitor celebrity is even more rare, I imagine."

"The rarest," Dumbledore agreed.

"Then, that's my way of getting more information," Ron decided, as it was already clear that the adults weren't going to be speaking to him.

"Excellent thinking, my boy!"

"Oh, please… You only mentioned them so I would get that idea," Ron nudged the old man, making him chuckle some more. "Any particular 'young ones' I should seek out?"

"There was a girl, around your age, who was quite taken by you," Dumbledore said, his voice bordering on teasing. "She was wearing the loveliest kaftan… Red and heavily embroidered."

"A what?"

"It is a type of dress, dear boy. A very popular type of dress, I should add, especially amongst the Şehzade of Turkey. They demand their women wear them, and the one wearing the most beautiful one at any given gathering is often rewarded with gifts of all manner."

"Of course, you would know something like that," Ron shook his head to himself. "And what's a…? I'm sorry, what did you call them? Sheza-what?"

"Şehzade," Dumbledore repeated. "It translates to 'prince of the blood imperial'." What the fuck?

"That isn't pretentious at all," Ron said offhandedly, rolling his eyes. Cunt of the blood imperial, more like.

"Beware of these 'princes', Ronald," Dumbledore warned, suddenly sounding grave. "They are few in number, now, but their influence is far reaching. All of them trace their ancestors back to the House of Osman itself, the first Sultan of Turkey. In their eyes, even Purebloods such as the Sacred Twenty-Eight are beneath them. They are royalty, and they will expect to be treated as such, even by you and I." We'll see how 'royal' they are when the Americans are beating them over the head with those metal batons of theirs.

"You mentioned princes, but not princesses," Ron pointed out. "Any particular reason for that?"

"The Şehzade have stripped their women of power over the centuries, I'm afraid," Dumbledore sighed out. "It is a sad affair, truly, but there is a silver lining… Magical Turkey has recently elected its first female Vizier, Berrak Ulusoy. A tremendous victory, but not for the Şehzade. The people of Magical Turkey are desperate for change, desperate to be free from those who own all the land and hold all the power. This will make our job easier."

"That is a silver lining," Ron grinned. "You reckon this Vizier, which I'm assuming is just another word for Minister, can be made into an ally?"

"I intend to find out," Dumbledore answered, noticing the Bulgarian Minister, Ivaylo Grigorov, approaching them at a hurried pace. "Prepare yourself, dear boy. Our work begins, now." Right! No losing my temper, no distractions, and no fighting. I'll gather as much information as I can, and then, we'll exchange notes once we're back home.

"It is true, then," Grigorov came to a stop before them, staring right at Ron. "I did not invite you here to insult my other guests, Headmaster Dumbledore. Already, there is a commotion, and so, I must ask you to send this boy away. He is in danger here." Me? In danger? I am the danger!

Fawkes let out a displeased shriek, making Grigorov jump a little. Yeah, you tell him, Fawkes!

Ron fought hard to not burst into laughter, whereas Dumbledore stared at the man with a pleasant smile on his face. "Danger? What sort of danger, Minister?"

Grigorov clenched his jaw, his expression darkening. He was a short, scrawny fellow in his mid-thirties, with combed, greasy, black hair and a pencil moustache. "As you well know, this boy is a Weasley… And my guests are not fond of his ilk. I cannot promise his safety-"

"You don't have to, Minister, because I'm here," Dumbledore chuckled, a twinkle returning to his eyes. "I can promise his safety."

"You are willing to cause a scene?" Grigorov demanded, frowning deeply. "You are willing to shame your country further than it has already been shamed?"

"For him, yes," Dumbledore replied immediately, making Ron puff his chest out a bit. Ronald Weasley: Albus Dumbledore's best friend! "And, as you just said, they are your guests, so a scene would reflect just as poorly on you. After all, Magical Bulgaria does not stand for Blood Purity since the days of Gellert Grindelwald. Or, am I mistaken?"

The mention of Grindelwald's name made Grigorov sneer outright, no longer bothering to mask his distaste of the Blood-Traitor in front of him. "Grindelwald is a relic of the past, and I will not have his name mentioned in my presence. You too are a relic, Dumbledore, one that I have summoned here to showcase to my guests. Like a prized dog, if you will." Prized dog, eh? I'm going to kill you for that. Fudge, make room, I'm sending another Minister to Hell very soon. "I should've known better, however. This mistake is entirely mine."

"Yes, it is," Dumbledore beamed, looking very pleased with himself. "You should not underestimate your elders, young man. After all, we've survived this long for good reason. Now, show us to the ballroom, please. I wish to greet Lady Grueva, and her young son, and offer them my condolences." Condolences? Her husband was trying to fuck little children at the Carrows' party… Emilia was right to castrate the bastard.

Ron drew in a subtle, deep breath, reminding himself that there was more to gain here by keeping his rage sealed within. After a few moments of glaring, Grigorov turned on his heel and gestured them to follow him.

"Perfectly handled, as always," Ron whispered, commending the old man. "How do you do it, Sir? How do you keep your calm?"

"By remembering that passion fights, but reason wins," Dumbledore whispered back. "And, it helps knowing that I could tear this manor, and its grounds, out of the Earth and hurl them at the Bulgarian Ministry." Oh… Well, shit… He's the danger!

"We should continue our lessons," Ron suggested, a greedy glint behind his eyes. "Transfiguration, Conjuration, all that… I'll be returning to Hogwarts very soon, so we'll have plenty of time."

"Certainly," Dumbledore agreed, patting him on the back. "Maybe, I can even teach you some chess." Oi! Fuck you!

"I will beat you, and I will learn the story behind those wolves," Ron promised, not one to back away from a challenge. "I always win in the end, you'll see."

Grigorov led them through the manor and into an oversized ballroom, one that had been altered via the Extension Charm. It was by far the grandest ballroom Ron had seen so far, even grander than the one in Greengrass manor, with a glossy, marble floor, high walls with embellished mouldings, thick velvet drapes covering the stained-glass windows, and observation balconies that could be reached by accessing the upper floors. Now, I know why the party celebrating a Russian Minister, put together by a Bulgarian Minister, is being held at the manor of a Bulgarian, Pureblood widow. These fuckers are all the best of friends, aren't they? Trading favours for favours while the common people, like my own family, struggle to make ends meet. They devour the entire pie, and then, they throw us crumbs just to feel benevolent. It's all rigged to keep them at the top. It always has been.

As they strode past the labelled tables, each of them reserved for the expected guests, and onto the dance floor, Ron looked up to admire the ceiling. It had been Charmed to display the starry, night sky, much like Hogwarts, and the thought of these rich, ruthless bastards dancing under the Heavens as if they were Angels made his blood boil. Calm. Stay calm. Let them enjoy their comforts, for now. One day soon, you'll get to tear everything away from them. Look forward to that, and stay on your best behaviour. Don't embarrass the old man by acting like a pouty child.

"Lady Grueva, I have brought you the source of the disturbance," Grigorov greeted the gowned witch at the centre of the ballroom, who turned to face them with a blank expression. "Albus Dumbledore, and his uninvited guest, Ronald Weasley."

Grigorov bowed his head at that, making it quite clear that he was just a puppet Minister. A skinnier Fudge… Just what I needed in my life. Grueva studied Dumbledore and Ron with a bored expression, before waving Grigorov away.

"Your wife wanted to speak with you, Ivaylo," Grueva spoke, her voice barely louder than a whisper. "Her Aurors are all in place, she says. Make sure of it." Her Aurors? Wait… Grigorov's wife is the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in Bulgaria? How does that work? They both work for the Purebloods? And here I was, thinking that our Ministry was a joke… The game is so bloody rigged that it's not even funny, anymore.

Grigorov left without another word, leaving Dumbledore and Ron with the raven-haired witch, who continued to study them in silence. She was striking for all the wrong reasons, with her sharp chin, her baggy eyes, and her sunken cheeks, but she held herself in a manner that reminded Ron greatly of Mary Greengrass. She was powerful, not in terms of Magic, but rather, in terms of wealth and influence, and that fact was not lost on her judging by how unimpressed she looked with Dumbledore in particular.

"He should never have invited you, but here we are," Grueva started, her dark, dull eyes now fixed solely on Dumbledore. "The threshold of my home has been forever sullied by a Blood-Traitor, because, like all men, Grigorov is driven by his ego." Oh, no… She doesn't approve of me! What ever shall I do?!

"I am sorry for your loss, Lady Grueva," Dumbledore said, ignoring her snide comment about his companion. "Grief weighs heavily upon you, I see, but I have nothing to offer you beyond my condolences-"

"Are you 'sorry'? Truly?" Grueva questioned, raising an eyebrow. "We both know what led to my husband's death. We both know what he was doing in his final hours."

"He was still your husband, the father of your young son," Dumbledore replied, smiling softly. "Pain cares very little for our circumstances." The circumstances being that your husband was trying to fuck a boy around the same age as his own son. I don't even want to think about how fucked up that is.

Grueva looked to Ron, as if waiting for him to offer his condolences as well. "What about you, boy? Are you sorry for my husband's death?" I would, without a shadow of a doubt, do him in a second time! I would watch as Emilia stomped on his bollocks until they burst! Still, the smart thing to do would be to follow in the old man's footsteps, and yet… If I did that, I'd be betraying my principles, my code. It's one thing to behave in a civil manner, but it's another to pretend to be one of them. The mere memory of how I behaved around the Greengrasses, Augusta Longbottom, even Muriel… How I kissed their arses, and addressed them as if they were nobility, as if they were better than everyone… It sickens me. I played by their rules to get ahead, but now, I don't need to do that, anymore. Yeah, I'm not offering any condolences, especially not for a vile piece of shit who hurt children for his pleasure.

"No, I'm not sorry for your loss, because he got exactly what he deserved," Ron replied, but much to his surprise, her lips twitched upwards. No… No, no, no. You're not meant to like that. You're meant to get offended, hurl insults at me, and then, throw me out on my arse. What are you doing? You're ruining this for me!

"Finally, some honesty," Grueva said icily, her features already schooled. "My husband's friends, his competitors, even those who despised him, have all come to me with their 'condolences'… And not a single one of them meant a word of it. False words spilling from false smiles. These truly are dark days when a Blood-Traitor has more honesty in his heart than the Pure." She then looked back to Dumbledore. "More honesty than even the Grand Sorcerer himself. What a pity. I thought you were meant to be something special." Her gaze returned to Ron, looking him up and down as if he were meat. "You may stay, Blood-Traitor. I will enjoy watching you interact with my guests." Blood-Traitor… Is that the best she can do? Does that make her feel mighty? Calling me names? Pathetic.

"I'm already looking forward to it," Ron winked, smiling. "Love the dress, by the way. Black suits you perfectly." It'll suit your son too, when he attends your funeral.

"Thank you," Grueva turned her back on them, gesturing her elves to finish decorating. "Hurry it along, you worms. I do not feed you out of my own pocket to watch you waste my time."

"Yes, Mistress…"

"Mercy, Mistress…"

"At once, Mistress…"

Ron drew in a deep breath, it was easy to see that the Elves were terrified of her, keeping their heads low and working tirelessly despite the bandages covering their little bodies. The sight made Ron feel sick, but he maintained his happy features, even as he turned his back and walked away from Grueva.

"That was… a strange encounter," Dumbledore said when they were out of earshot, the twinkle behind his eyes was gone. "It appears as though she was not fond of her husband. Not entirely, at least."

"The bloke who was trying to rape children was unlikable?" Ron 'gasped', before smirking. "Did you hear her? I'm the honest one out of us two. Me. Ronald 'Honest' Weasley. How's that make you feel?"

"She was also a lot less subtle in her hatred than I imagined," Dumbledore ignored his jokes, looking troubled.

"You think that was bad?" Ron asked, chuckling. "Sir, you'll hear plenty worse, tonight. To them, I'm just a dog. A filthy mongrel who should've died in my mother's belly. Actually, I'm not even that… That's too good. I'm a speck of dust getting in their eye, nothing more. And you? You're no different. Not really. You might be the most powerful wizard to ever walk the Earth, but you're not 'Pure'. Why are you so surprised by this?"

"I am not surprised, but rather, I am offended," Dumbledore said, giving him a sorry look. "We are friends, after all, and I do not have many of those." Oh… "It displeases me to know that they judge you so poorly, when you are so much more than they could ever be." Is that really true, Sir? I don't think it is, but you're kind to say it, nonetheless.

Ron smiled wholeheartedly, deeply touched by his compassionate words. "That means a lot to me, Sir. Just don't start throwing houses at their Ministry, please. Not on my account."

"I will try my hardest not to," Dumbledore laughed, his mirth returning. "And you, Ronald… Promise me that you will not give in to your anger. Not tonight, at the very least. We have a great deal to learn here."

"I know, and I promise," Ron agreed. "I won't disappoint you, Headmaster."

---

Amelia Bones' POV

Friday 30th April, 1994 (Gruev Manor – Late Evening)

"I can't breathe in this fucking thing…" Alastor grumbled, tugging at the collar of his robes. "This is demeaning, Bones. I am not a dog to be muzzled when you see fit."

"Just be grateful that I didn't give you a wash too," Amelia returned, ignoring his displeasure. "You are the Head-Auror of Magical Britain, now, and you will not dress like some maniac from the woods. The man who held this position before you was…" she trailed off, wishing that Rufus was by her side tonight, instead. He no longer visits me, even. He's just… gone… As if he only ever existed in my mind… "I need you to watch my back, Alastor. Can I count on you, or, not?" You still haven't given me an answer regarding our last discussion. Do you serve the Ministry, or, Dumbledore?

"We shouldn't be here in the first place, but yes, I'll be watching," Alastor eventually replied, his Magical eye darting about. "Half of these bastards were known associates of You-Know-Who, and the other half were funding him from behind the curtains. These people are our enemies, Bones. Plain and simple."

"Nothing is plain and simple in our world," Amelia countered. "And I am not here for them, but rather, for my fellow Ministers. Magical Britain poured a great deal of gold into the Gaia Project, more so than any other country, and I'm here to remind them of that." Wherever you are, Fudge… I hope I get to see you in an iron cell, someday. "It is not uncommon for Ministries to help each other, especially in times of need. After all, if British wizards break the Statute of Secrecy out of desperation, it'll be a catastrophe for all Wizarding-Kind." From the corner of her eyes, she spotted Crouch marching over to them, and so, she turned to face him. "Well? Did you find out why they're all so upset? Is it because of us?"

"Weasley is here," Crouch told them, frowning already. Ronald? What is he, of all people, doing here?

"Merlin's Beard," Alastor growled, clutching more tightly to his staff. "Arthur and Molly did us all an injustice by bringing that boy into this world. Why is it that everywhere I look, I see his smug face staring back at me?" He's not wrong about the last bit… Ronald seems to be everywhere at once, and that is rather troubling. Even within the Wizengamot, his people are making my life hell. Rufus never trusted him, thought he was up to no good, and maybe, he was onto something-…

"Dumbledore brought him here," Crouch looked to Alastor. "Let me guess… He didn't tell you what he was up to? Or, you decided that we are not worthy of knowing Dumbledore's illustrious plans?" Was that necessary, Crouch?

"This isn't the time, nor the place, to become divided," Amelia stepped in before Alastor could respond, her voice ice-cold. "What does Dumbledore have to gain by bringing a-…? A Weasley to such a place? Surely, he must understand that Ronald would not be welcome here."

"And, more importantly, what is their relationship?" Crouch added. "The Wizengamot has suddenly begun to hound you, and it's no coincidence that the man in charge of the Wizengamot is being chummy with the boy who has a bone to pick with the Ministry… The same boy who is no doubt behind the Wizengamot putting you on blast. Prewett? Longbottom? Ogden? Fawley? They are spearheading this new campaign against you, and they are all his friends." Why do I feel as though I'm besieged at all sides? Probably because I am…

"Alastor?" Amelia looked to her Head-Auror for input. "You know Dumbledore best out of us three. What's he playing at?"

Alastor shrugged, exhaling. "I don't know. He is an eccentric man, and they've worked together in the past."

"The Squib Orphanage," Crouch remembered, as did Amelia. That girl… Priscilla… We failed her, and all children like her. Magical, or, not, they were born in the Wizarding World, and we threw them to the streets. Another shortcoming that I must sort out during my term-… "Amelia? What do you think?"

"About what?"

"About Dumbledore using the boy to advance his own ambitions?" Crouch repeated, making Alastor roll his good eye.

"If Dumbledore had ambitions for my Office, there'd be little I could do to stop him," Amelia replied. "No… He's not that sort of man. However, his relationship with Ronald is… odd. I've been in a room with them together, and it felt as though they were speaking to each other without saying a word. They are close, of that, I am certain. Alastor, find a quiet moment to approach him, away from Dumbledore, and question him. I will do the same, but only after you've softened him up."

"I give him the stick, and you offer him the carrot?" Alastor asked, and when she gave a nod, he smirked. "I won't go easy on him, if that's what you're thinking."

"I don't want you to," Amelia assured him. "If he wants to stick his nose where it doesn't belong, we ought to respond in kind." And, to be honest, I am sick and tired of him meddling in affairs beyond his understanding. His allies coming after me in the Wizengamot, when I'm already under so much pressure, was the final straw.

---

Ronald Weasley's POV

Friday 30th April, 1994 (Gruev Manor – Late Evening)

He watched in silence as the guests poured into the ballroom, each of them being announced by Grueva's Head-Elf, who too looked as though he had been recently beaten. With every name said, Ron thought of the files stashed away in his cottage, putting faces to the crimes he had spent hours reading up on.

"Lord Harald Aldershof of Magical Germany, and his Lady wife, Dorothea Aldershof!" Bribery. Ties to multiple Muggle disappearances. Hosted the Dark Lord during the Great War on two separate occasions. Sentence: death.

"Lord Otto Grünberg of Magical Germany, and his son and heir, Lord Egon Grünberg!" Bribery. Burning of Muggle property. Committed multiple murders during the Great War, but pardoned due to his claims of being put under the Imperius Curse by Ian Mulciber. Sentence for the father: death. The son will need to be further investigated, but for the time being, I will leave him be. I have no proof against him, and he was just a boy during the Great War.

"Lord Hans Jäger of Magical Germany, and his Lady wife, Johanna Jäger!" Outspoken supporters of Blood Purity, the wife more so than the husband. Hans had strong ties to the Dark Lord's uprising. His father, who is now dead and buried, had strong ties to Grindelwald's uprising. Linked to various anti-Muggle organisations, including the Scourers of the States. Johanna Jäger is the Professor of 'Study of Muggles' at Durmstrang, a position she has held for nearly a decade. Sentence: death.

"Lord Michael Färber of Magical Germany, and his Lady wife, Helga Färber!" Stealing native Centaur land by force, same as Greengrass. Outspoken against Elves being granted freedom, especially by their Muggle-Born masters. Michael's younger brother, Stefan, is the Professor of 'Magical Monsters' at Durmstrang, and is considered the more radical of the two. Sentence: death.

"My boy, don't forget to smile," Dumbledore suddenly whispered, nudging him. "We are guests here, remember?" I know… It's just hard…

"These people…" Ron sighed out, putting on a bright smile. "They are everything wrong with the Wizarding World. They do nothing but hold us all back. They do nothing but spread terror and lies. They don't deserve to be so happy, so content. The things I saw their friends do at the Carrow twins' party… I can't let them keep getting away with it." That boy Amycus Carrow branded, the Muggleborn… I wonder how he's doing? Is he well? Does he remember what was done to him? Would he even understand why it was done? Will I ever run into him at Hogwarts? I hope I do, so I can look after him-…

"So, you will just kill them all?" Dumbledore questioned; his voice devoid of judgement. "What of redemption, Ronald? Was it not you who approached me about Sebastian and Mary? You believed in redemption, then. Your words swayed me into granting them asylum within the Order."

"And look how I was repaid," Ron countered, feeling embittered at the mere mention of those two. "Those who want to redeem themselves do it in silence, without witness and without reward. Like Professor Snape, for example. The ones who go around asking for second chances are just begging to get away with whatever fucked up shit they've done. They don't want to change; they just want to survive." Like Greengrass, like the Death-Eaters who claimed to be under the Imperius Curse. "This is for the best, Headmaster. This wretched lot… They will keep finding Dark Lords to serve, they will keep trying to build their 'Pure World'. They have to be put down, or, they'll destroy everything and everyone."

"You talk of their destruction as if it's nothing, and yet, you despise that they do the same," Dumbledore pointed out, and Ron chuckled lightly. Who told you it's nothing, eh?

"It's not nothing… I know I'm just as terrible as they are, that I've allowed them to drag me down to their level," Ron whispered, sensing that someone was approaching them. "But I bear the burden, the responsibility, so that good people don't have to. You taught me that, Headmaster. I am the monster you've all made, so please, take some credit. You've more than earned it."

Dumbledore blinked, visibly taken aback for once. "…We will continue this discussion later, dear boy…" My, my… I managed to stump him. Someone, write down the date, please.

"As you wish."

"Horace, my old friend," Dumbledore turned around and beamed, and Ron promptly followed suit. "I did not expect to see you so soon, but I am glad for it!" What is he doing here? Isn't he supposed to be in the north? With those Hydromancers?

"Albus!" the fat, gooseberry eyed wizard laughed, his thick arms opened wide. "And Ron as well! What a treat! I would never have guessed that you two would be in attendance! Especially you, Ron! What a treat, indeed!" Ron merely smiled in response, his eyes darting towards the tall, emaciated man standing behind Slughorn. Who is this? A Hydromancer? "Please, allow me to introduce you to my traveling companion! Sanguini! Step up, my boy! Don't be shy, now!"

The tall man stepped forward, his dark, baggy eyes lingering on Ron's throat. "A pleasure to make your acquaintances. I am the one called Sanguini, a traveller and a philosopher." I don't like the look of this man. There's something dangerous lurking behind those eyes of his.

"He is a Vampire!" Slughorn announced, which seemed to vex Sanguini. The danger is explained. "I know what you're both thinking! Traveling with a Vampire?! I must be mad! But I promise you, Sanguini is a perfect gentleman! And quite learned too!"

"A traveller, you said?" Dumbledore put his hand forth, and Sanguini shook it without wasting a second. "Where have your travels taken you, Mr. Sanguini?"

"Just Sanguini will do, Headmaster," the Vampire said pleasantly, his eyes darting towards Ron, again. "And, many places… Deep into the Himalayas, inside the tombs of ancient Pharaohs, to the very top of Mt. Olympus, even to the beating heart of the ever-elusive Temple of Shadows… I have seen things that even you would not believe. Impossible things. I have dined with kings, slept with thieves, and shared adventures with the hardiest of witches and wizards." That sounds amazing… The freedom… The open road… If only my life was like that, I wouldn't be such a miserable twat. Or, maybe, I still would be. Who knows? Maybe, Daphne was right, and I am the problem. Maybe, no matter where I go, misery will follow after me.

"And where did you meet Mr. Slughorn, Sir?" Ron asked, putting his gloved hand forth.

Sanguini looked to Ron's hand, visibly hesitant, before giving it a quick shake and pulling his hand back as if he'd been burned. What was that? He's been giving me strange looks, and now, this? What did I do? Is it just my face? It is, isn't it?

"We met in the Far North, my boy," Slughorn answered for Sanguini, sensing that something was awry with his friend. "Do you remember the Magical Tribes I mentioned when last we met? Sanguini was staying with a local chieftain, and as soon as I saw him, I knew he was a fellow adventurer. A scholar, even!"

"I also remember you mentioning a book on Hydromancy," Ron said, matching Sanguini's intense look. What is it? It was just a handshake, mate. "Have you finished it, yet? I'd like to keep my promise and promote it in the Quibbler."

"You can't rush art, as I'm sure you know!" Slughorn laughed, 'subtly' nudging Sanguini's side. "You will be the first to know once it's finished, I promise! My friend here is helping me expand on it, in fact! He spent much longer with the locals than I did! Isn't that right, Sanguini?"

"…Yes," Sanguini's gaze weakened, as if he were attempting to pull himself together. "Yes, I spent months with them before Horace arrived. A peculiar, but resilient people. They have learned to manipulate ice and water in astounding ways, but their homes are threatened by Muggle expansion. Soon, they will need to move south, away from the only way of life they've ever known. The Art of Hydromancy will eventually be lost to time, as a result."

"Muggle expansion?" Dumbledore asked, curious.

"The snows are melting, Headmaster," Sanguini clarified, and both Ron and Dumbledore cocked eyebrows. Melting? "The Muggles are building great cities all over the world, but their industrial machines operate with a heavy cost. A cost that we must all pay for, I'm afraid." Okay…

Dumbledore and Ron exchanged looks, both of them slightly alarmed by the Vampire's warning.

"Come now, Sanguini…" Slughorn chuckled nervously. "There's no need to be so morose! This is a party, after all! Come, we have many more people to meet! Albus, Ron… We will speak more later, I hope?"

"Certainly, old friend," Dumbledore smiled, whereas Ron maintained a more serious demeanour.

"Before you go, Mr. Slughorn," Ron called out just as the man began to leave. "I didn't hear them announce you. I've been waiting here, watching all the guests arrive, and yet, you didn't come through the front. Why is that?"

"Oh… Lady Grueva is an old friend," Slughorn answered, chuckling without a care. "I've attended her parties before, so her Elves just let me in from the backdoor. I've never been fond of lines, you see." I see. Friends with Grueva, friends with all these Purebloods… I wonder if he was friends with the Carrow twins too. I'll have to find out, and if I don't like what I find, his adventures will come to a bloody end.

"Enjoy the party, both of you," Ron smiled darkly, noticing that Sanguini was staring at him, again. "I'm sure our paths will cross, again."

Sanguini and Slughorn departed at that, heading straight for Grueva and her young son, Boyan. Ron turned back around in order to continue watching the guests, still thinking of Sanguini's strange looks. I wonder if, because he's a Vampire, he can sense that I'm not exactly human myself. I hope not, that would be very inconvenient-…

"Sanguini wasn't very fond of you, dear boy," Dumbledore noted, and Ron gave a grunt in response. Most people aren't, so I'm used to it. "And I know what you're thinking about Horace."

"He's friends with the wrong sort of people, and that's very dangerous in these times."

"That, I cannot argue, however, I know Horace. He is not a Blood Supremacist. As a matter of fact, he loathes violence of any kind. He is a socialite, my boy, and attending such gatherings makes him feel important. He considers himself a vital part of high-society, even though he is rarely remembered when he leaves for his adventures."

"You did mention that he refused to join the Death-Eaters, despite the Dark Lord making it personal," Ron remembered, hoping that Slughorn had maintained his integrity over the years. "But still, it doesn't hurt to be certain. I know he's your friend, but no one is above my judgement. Not him, and certainly not these Purebloods. Isn't that right, Fawkes?"

The phoenix shrieked in response, flapping his large wings. See? He understands the new order of things, same as Octavia. The world has changed with my coming, and it will continue to change as I see fit.

"Then, we will seek certainty, for your peace of mind and for Horace's safety," Dumbledore agreed, following his gaze. "I will fetch us something to drink. Don't make your intent too obvious, Ronald. We will get our chance, but not tonight."

"I'll go, Sir," Ron stopped the man. "You fetching me things feels… wrong. I'll be right back." Plus, I can't keep smiling at these cunts. It's better if I go, and you keep an eye out.

"You don't have to-"

"I insist," Ron gestured him to stay in place, before turning to leave. "Will champagne do? Or, do you want something stronger?"

"A glass of wine would be perfect, dear boy. Thank you." One glass of wine coming right up.

He marched over to the closest floating, gilded tray carrying a large assortment of refreshments, picking out a glass of red wine and a tankard of Butterbeer. These will do nicely, I hope. Butterbeer is always delicious, but I know next to nothing about wine. Eh, I doubt these people drink anything but the best, so the Headmaster will be pleased-… Someone is coming. Someone strong. Someone dangerous.

Ron felt the hair on the back of his neck rise, whoever was behind him had the aura of a scorching sun, and it was getting closer and closer, threatening to engulf him entirely. Maintaining his nerves, Ron turned around with a pleasant smile, coming face to face with Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody. You? What are you doing here? And bloody hell… His Magical Signature is rather intimidating. No wonder he's so feared by Dark Wizards.

"Aren't you a little too young to be drinking?" Moody frowned at him, his Magical Eye scanning the drinks in his hands.

"I'm having Butterbeer, Sir," Ron shrugged, still smiling. "The wine is for my date."

"Date?"

"High-heeled boots, cute as a button, a beautiful, white beard," Ron chuckled, even more amused when Moody looked ready to smack him. "I'm sure you'd be able to recognize him. He's a very famous wizard."

"With a tongue like that, I'm surprised you made it in here in one piece," Moody grumbled, pulling out a flask and taking a swig. "What are you doing here, boy? Do your parents know that you've put yourself in this kind of danger?" I don't like his tone very much. Is he trying to intimidate me? "Answer me when I ask you a question."

"Is the Minister here with you?" Ron asked, instead. "She is, isn't she? Why else would you be here? I'm going to take a guess and assume that this isn't your usual scene."

"Don't test me, you little brat," Moody took a step forward, his scarred face and mangled nose were not a sight Ron enjoyed particularly. Nor his breath… Don't you brush your teeth, you animal? "What are you doing here? Why would Albus bring you here? What is that you're after?"

"Some personal space would be a nice start," Ron took a step back, using his Occlumency to keep his temper in check. "What exactly is your problem, Sir? I can go wherever I please, whenever I please. It's none of your business-"

Moody smacked the tankard of Butterbeer out of his hand, before sneering down at him. "Choose your next words carefully, boy. Very carefully. You stink of Dark Magic, and you have a habit of sticking your nose into places where it doesn't belong. I don't like that, and I don't care whose child you are, I'll throw you in the Ministry's dungeons and lose the key. Now… I won't ask you, again. What are you doing here?" Right now, I'm trying very hard not to put my fist through your chest.

"Is this how you Aurors behave when no one is looking?" Ron asked, losing his mirth. "You intimidate and threaten children? Is that why it was so easy for Robards to threaten my friends with a weapon? Are you going to threaten me, now? With that little stick in your hand?"

"This 'stick' put away a hundred Dark Wizards before you were even a thought," Moody growled, both of his eyes now fixed solely on Ron. "And, if you're what I think you are, it'll put you away as well." Something dangerous then flashed behind Moody's real eye. "Or, it'll just put you down." You? Put me down? Oh, please… You're nothing. Just an attack dog with rancid breath. It'll take a far greater knight than you to slay the likes of me.

"Does this make you feel powerful?" Ron asked, his voice barely louder than a whisper, now. "Would hurting a child make you less afraid of the dark?"

"Do I look frightened?" Moody hissed, the nostrils of his damaged nose flaring.

"Yes…" Ron began to smile, though it never reached his pale eyes. "I know fear… I can taste it from a mile away, and you, Alastor Moody, are drowning in it. People call you paranoid, they call you ever-vigilant, but they don't know the truth like I do. You are afraid. You are always afraid, even in your sleep. Those Dark Wizards you put away with your little stick, they took something in return, didn't they? Your sanity… Your humanity… They took it all away, didn't they? You're just a corpse marching towards the end, aren't you?" Moody took a step back; his expression was unchanged but something had shifted behind his eye, again. "Isn't fear a beautiful thing, Sir? The most primal emotion, the most honest emotion, capable of bringing even a giant such as yourself to the edge of madness." Ron then took a step forward, sniffing the air around the Auror. "Shall We give you the push you need, hm? Come on… Join Us down there, in the darkness. We, the mad, could always use more company-"

"Ronald?" came Dumbledore's voice from behind Moody, and the Auror promptly turned around. "Alastor, I didn't know that you were planning to attend-"

"Why did you bring him here, Albus?" Moody demanded, frowning deeply. "What is your relationship with him?"

"Ronald is a bright young man," Dumbledore started, shooting the redhead a kind smile. "I've become quite fond of him, and it is my belief that Ronald, and others like him, will shape the future of the Wizarding World." Others like me? There are no others like me. Only me, and I will be more than enough. "I've brought him here because these are the people who shape the Wizarding World at this current moment. He has a lot to learn from them. What to do, and, more importantly, what not to do."

"This is a teaching experience, is it?" Moody grumbled, looking between the two. "Do you expect me to believe that?"

"Where is this coming from, Alastor?" Dumbledore asked, still smiling.

"I don't know if you've noticed, but your little protégé here is barmy," Moody glared at Ron, his hold on his Magical staff tightening.

"He is… spirited," Dumbledore chuckled, while Ron smiled from ear-to-ear. Spirited! I like that! "He sees things that others do not. His perspective is to be valued, Alastor, not looked down upon."

"…No, Albus…" Moody whispered gravely, staring into Ron's eyes. "I know madness when I see it, and I see it in his eyes. This one… This one is rotten to the core."

"It's not your fault he turned out so-… So bloody rotten…" his mother's voice rang in his ears, cutting as deeply as before. If I'm rotten, then so is Moody. The fear in his heart, the fear that drives him, I know it all too well. It has moulded us both into killers.

"You are being too harsh, my friend," Dumbledore said, the twinkle behind his eyes vanishing. "Ronald has a good, kind heart. I've seen it for myself. You are doing yourself no favours by cornering him." Is that why he came over? He saw us? "Did Amelia put you up to this? Threatening children is most unlike you."

Moody ignored the old wizard, still staring at Ron. "I will be watching you from now on, boy. I will be watching very closely. You've been warned."

With that, the scarred Auror hobbled away, barging past the guests who all but jumped out of his way. What a bothersome man. I ought to be careful around him. He's a war hero, so it would be a real shame if I have to gut him as well.

"I'm sorry about that, my boy," Dumbledore sighed out, just as Ron handed him his glass of wine. "Alastor is-… He is too blunt with his words, but his instincts are sharper than any other man I know. He was bound to grow an interest in you, given your pivotal role in the conflicts happening all around us."

"Do you think the Minister has grown a similar interest?" Ron asked, and Dumbledore gave a nod.

"It certainly seems that way." Damn, that's bound to make Percy's life much harder when he's in the Ministry. Sorry about that, big brother.

"Shame…" Ron sighed out, before smiling, again. "Let me grab another Butterbeer, Sir. After that, we should walk around and identify more of our enemies." Which, now, apparently includes the Minister and her meanest attack dog. Brilliant… My good luck has come to its expected end.

---

Corban Yaxley's POV

Friday 30th April, 1994 (Gruev Manor – Late Evening)

"He's really here, then," Robert glowered, staring at Weasley and Dumbledore. "Damn that boy… When will we finally be rid of him?"

"I would caution you not to repeat that, my Lord," Felix sighed out, shooting Corban a subtle look. "After all, the Dark Lord has made it quite clear that Ronald Weasley is meant to be courted, not harmed."

"Courting a Blood-Traitor," Thorfinn sneered, as if he'd sucked on a lemon. "We used to hunt them, like dogs, but now, we're trying to win them over. The Dark Lord has lost it-"

"Shut up," Corban hissed, barely stopping himself from smacking Thorfinn across his dull face. "Do you want to die? Do you want your daughter to die? Don't ever question our Lord and Master so brazenly." Bloody fool, you'll damn us further with such talk. "Robert, a word in private?"

Stepping away from Thorfinn and Felix, Corban and Robert stopped just out of earshot. "What is it, Corban?"

"Stop letting your emotions control you," Corban warned, not wasting any time. "Thorfinn is just parroting your words, I know it. You will not spread doubt and dissatisfaction amongst our ranks-"

"The Dark Lord has done that himself," Robert interjected, his large hands curling into fists. "He has put a Blood-Traitor above our children. Above us. And why? What are his reasons?" Beyond our understanding, I'm sure.

"It's not our place to question him," Corban hissed, before drawing in a sharp breath. "I will not argue with you. I will not allow infighting when we are so close to being eradicated. Weasley is a problem, yes, but we will outlast him, just as we have outlasted all before him."

"And what's the point of outlasting him if he drags my heir down with him?" Robert demanded, shooting Weasley another hateful look. "I can't believe I allowed him to turn her against me… I should've cut his throat the very first time I met him."

"You won't be cutting anyone's throat if the Dark Lord destroys you for disobedience," Corban pointed out, and Robert deflated a little. "Patience, Robert… That is our best weapon right now. Now, tell me of the assassin… Have you spoken to him?"

"I have sent him a letter," Robert reported. "He has been forced into hiding, according to his associates. Some maniac cut off his hand with a bloody knife." What? "Don't worry, he will answer my call. I've used him before, and he has never let me down."

"Just remember that he's meant to test Weasley, not kill him," Corban reminded him, no longer certain that Robert was the right person to turn to for this. "If Gaspard is right, then the Dark Lord has to be made aware of the threat Weasley poses. Not just to us, but to him as well."

"The Vampire is a fool… Weasley is just a boy," Robert scoffed. "A talented boy, sure, but just a boy. What happened at the Carrow twins' festival… That was not the work of a child. It couldn't be." Good sense tells me so as well, but I vowed not to underestimate him. And Gaspard… He has not lived for so long through luck alone. Only a simpleton would ignore his advice, even if he is a Vampire.

"We will find out soon enough," Corban said simply, noticing that Lady Grueva was fast approaching them. "Just get it sorted, Robert. Find your man and put him to work, and keep your displeasure to yourself." Corban then turned to face the hostess, bowing his head in respect. "Lady Grueva, it has been too long."

"Far too long, Corban," she presented her hand, a soft smile upon her lips.

Corban kissed her knuckles, feeling her loss most keenly. "My Lady… I am sorry for the burdens you must now shoulder alone. Your husband will be avenged one day, I swear it."

"And I am sorry for the loss of your friends and allies," Lady Grueva returned, tightening her hold on his fingers. "So much Pure blood has been spilled… We are all in mourning, and will continue to be so until the murderers have been discovered and sent to the Dementors."

"Forgive me for holding such an opinion, my Lady, but I am glad that you were not with your husband that night," Corban said, standing up straighter. "If you are ever in need of allies, you will find them bearing the name Yaxley. I give you my most solemn vow."

"Thank you, my friend," Lady Grueva's shoulders visibly relaxed, and Corban couldn't help but pity her. She is alone, now. Her enemies are coming for her, as are her 'allies'. She is paying for the mistakes of her foolish, weak husband, and that is not right. She is a good, virtuous woman, and I cannot let her be destroyed by our own.

"Ahem…" Corban cleared his throat, pulling his hand away. "Lady Grueva, I'm sure you remember Lord Bulstrode."

"My Lady, I will bring you the heads of those murderous dogs myself," Robert promised, bowing his head. "What happened to your husband happened on English soil, and so, it falls upon us to bring justice down on those scum."

"Thank you, kind Lord," Lady Grueva's demeanour eased further, she looked so much older than she was. "If only my own countrymen were as brave, and true, as you two… Even now, they plot behind my back to steal what rightfully belongs to my son."

"We will not let it come to that," Robert assured her. "We might not share a country, but we share a deeper bond. We are the Pure, and we will triumph together."

"Well said, my friend," Corban approved. Cast aside your doubts and displeasure, we have far too much work before us to be distracted by our own ambitions. The Dark Lord will guide us into the future, yet. We must believe in him. "Come, my Lady, I wish for you to meet my Ward, Felix Rosier. He is both intelligent and resourceful, and I could not be more proud of the man he is becoming." She is the most powerful Pureblood in Magical Bulgaria, and thank the Gods, she has need of us. Allying ourselves with her will open the doors to the East, I am certain of it.

---

Amelia Bones' POV

Friday 30th April, 1994 (Gruev Manor – Night)

Like moths to a flame, they were all gathering together right before her eyes. Yaxley, Bulstrode, the Rosier boy, Rowle, and now, even Nott… The night had barely even begun, and they had already managed to weasel their way into Lady Grueva's good graces. They were forming an alliance, no doubt, one that would allow them to regain the numbers they had lost at the Carrow twins' horrid estate. I will become trapped between Weasley's alliance and Yaxley's alliance, and both of them will try to tear the Ministry apart just so they can feel important. If I can't convince my fellow Ministers to help me, then I will have no choice but to turn to the Americans. Did Harper predict all of this, I wonder. The civil unrest brewing in London, the Old Families trying to hold onto their power and influence, the Ministry crumbling under the weight of Fudge's mistakes, the ambitious young using the chaos to their advantage… Harper has struck while the iron is still hot, and I might have no choice but to yield to his designs.

Amelia let out a tired sigh, fixing her monocle into place. "You wanted to be at the top, didn't you? Well, this is what the top looks like…"

"Talking to yourself, already?" came Crouch's voice, curt as usual.

"Well?" Amelia turned to face Crouch and Moody, raising an eyebrow when she saw the Head-Auror grimacing. "Alastor? Did you get anything out of him?"

"He was rattled by a child," Crouch answered before Alastor could. You can't be serious… How?! "And, now, he's making excuses."

"I don't make excuses," Alastor growled, and Amelia was inclined to agree. "And, I was not 'rattled'. I don't get 'rattled'. I've faced the Dark Lord himself, Crouch-"

"What happened?" she asked, silencing Crouch before he could butt in, again. "I want to hear it from him. What did the boy say to you, Alastor?"

"He spouted some nonsense that held no meaning…" Alastor replied, his voice dismissive. "It doesn't matter."

"It doesn't matter?" she questioned, frowning. "Of course, it matters! What did he say?"

"It doesn't matter," Alastor repeated more aggressively, taking her and Crouch by surprise. He's definitely rattled… "All I know is that we need to watch him from now on. He has to be put under surveillance. Rufus was right about him, and I was a fool to ignore his instincts. There's something deranged about that little shit. Deranged, and degenerate. I could see it in his eyes, clear as day. I'm going to put an Auror on him-"

"He's an arrogant, self-important, and annoyingly nosey brat," Crouch listed, frowning deeply as he went on. "But to waste our finite resources on him is foolish-"

"I am telling you, Crouch, that boy is a problem that needs to be dealt with," Alastor growled, and Crouch looked to Amelia for support.

"The Aurors are mine to command, now, are they not? If so, I will not waste their time, and mine, following-"

"Roberts," Amelia cut in, giving Moody a nod. "She taught him for a time, and they appear to be on good terms. Have her approach him, again. She will do her duty to her Ministry."

"You can't be serious?" Crouch fumed. "Minister, you are making a mistake-"

"I don't think I am," Amelia said thoughtfully. "Crouch, this is the second Head-Auror who is telling me that Weasley is a threat. First, Rufus, and now, Alastor as well… Two of the sharpest Aurors I've ever worked with. I can't ignore that."

"I need Roberts leading the Hit-Wizards," Crouch argued. "If you are going to waste time on this goose chase, then pick someone less important to the D. M. L. E."

"Tonks," Alastor suggested, but Amelia wasn't sold on the idea. "Don't let her chipper attitude confuse you. She's a clever one, and she can be downright devious when she needs to be. And, she also happens to be close with those who've known him his entire life. She's our best option."

"She is also a drunk," Amelia said icily. "Yes, Alastor… I know. She's been seen in the Leaky Cauldron many times since the raid on Knockturn Alley, drinking herself stupid."

"Which is why I'm recommending her," Alastor countered. "She's a good Auror, and she can even become a great one, but she was too green to be in Knockturn Alley. All the recruits were. A simpler assignment is what she needs to get back on her feet." Am I sensing fondness in your voice, Alastor?

Amelia drew in a sharp breath, before giving a nod. Greater Aurors than her have turned to drink, I can't deny that. And, if Alastor is right, then the Ministry will retain its best Auror recruit. "I want answers, Alastor, and she will do whatever she must to get them. Am I understood?"

"I'll see to it," Alastor promised. "Are you still planning to offer him the carrot? Because I don't think that's going to work, anymore." Agreed.

"No, not the carrot…" Amelia looked towards Weasley, eyeing him suspiciously as he blankly stared at the elderly Lord Zamfir of Magical Romania. What is he doing? He's just staring at that man… "Instead, I will share my honest thoughts with him, whether he likes it or not." It is past time someone put that boy in his place.

---

Ronald Weasley's POV

Friday 30th April, 1994 (Gruev Manor – Night)

Even more 'Lords' and 'Ladies' had arrived over the last hour, and yet, there was still no sign of Samara Ivanov. She was either running late, or, she cared very little for the praise of these people. When she does arrive, I wouldn't mind a chat with her. I want to know what sort of witch we're dealing with-

"Enjoying yourself, Blood-Traitor?" came a smooth voice from behind him, making Ron grin. You're damn right, I am!

"Most definitely," he hummed, popping another bit of cheese into his mouth. "Mmmmm. This is good, this cheese. You ought to try some before I finish it."

"Well, make space, then," the voice instructed, and when Ron took a step to the left, a well-dressed wizard stepped forth. "Why am I not surprised to find you stuffing yourself with our food?"

Ron studied the wizard from the corner of his eyes, recognizing him as Denis Sokolov of Magical Russia. There's nothing worth a damn about him in my files, save for the fact that the Americans suspect him of various criminal activities. Kidnapping, ransom, theft, murder… No solid proof, just suspicions. If the Americans are right, then he's very good at covering his tracks, which means he's clever. I ought to be careful with him.

"I am Lord Denis Sokolov, of Russia," the handsome, young wizard introduced himself, giving Ron a roguish grin. "You've probably never heard of me, but I've heard of you. The Prodigy of Slytherin. The Troll-Slayer. The Bane of Veela-Kind. Such grand titles people have bestowed upon you, such is the way of commoners and peasants. They are so easily impressed, but that's hardly surprising, given how tedious and dull their lives are."

"Are you jealous of me?" Ron chuckled, fully turning to face the man. "And, you are mistaken, Sokolov… I have heard of you."

"You have?" he asked, looking excited. "Tell me, what have you heard?"

"That you keep the company of thieves and killers," Ron replied, shrugging. "And that you are wealthy enough to keep getting away with your many scandals."

"Oh, I am," Sokolov chuckled, tossing a bit of cheese into the air and catching it with his mouth. "Being the Head of an empire has its benefits." Empires fall, mate.

"You're a little young to be the Head of your own family, aren't you?" Ron pointed out, trying to get more information.

"I am, I am," Sokolov smirked, his brown eyes were full of warmth and mischief. "Father was struck down by the Dragon Pox when I was just a boy, and my mother… She slipped in the bathroom of her Mudblood lover a couple of years ago. The fall broke her neck, I'm sad to say." You don't sound very sad. You sound proud. "I am curious… Do you love your parents, Blood-Traitor? Even though they can offer you nothing but a lifetime as a bootlicker of your betters?"

"They gave me life, and that is more than enough for me," Ron answered, unfazed by the petty insults. "And, as far as I'm concerned, you lot are not my betters."

"We're not?" he blinked, feigning confusion. "What manner of delusions are you under, Blood-Traitor? Of course, we're your betters! Every single person in this room is better than you! The cutthroats who work for me are better than you! Even my slaves are better than you!" Something dangerous flashed behind Sokolov's eyes. "Do you want to know why they're all better than you?"

"I'm sure you're about to tell me, so go on," Ron fought the urge to roll his eyes.

"Because…" Sokolov leaned forward, his lips twitching upwards. "They know their place." Before Ron could retort, Sokolov slapped him across the face, jarring him momentarily. What the fuck?! You fucking-! "Go on, try something. People are watching. Raise your hand to me, Blood-Traitor."

Ron clenched his jaw so hard that his teeth began to hurt, his rage threatening to break out of him in a monstrous display of violence and brutality. Sokolov, however, merely laughed at the sight of his reddening face, taking a step back and raising his arms to his side.

"Well? Are you just going to stand there, Blood-Traitor?" Sokolov challenged, trying to goad him. "I just slapped you, didn't I? In front of all these people!"

Ron turned his head slightly, noticing the many smirking faces enjoying his embarrassment. They were all waiting for him to react, he could see the anticipation in their eyes. The moment I fight back, I'll be thrown out of here, which is exactly what they want. Control, Ron… Control… Remember your promise to the Headmaster. Don't humiliate the old man by breaking this cunt's face in ten different places.

Ron drew in a shaky breath, forcing himself to smile. "That was it? My mother slaps harder than you, Sokolov. Maybe you should give your arm a rest from all the wanking, it might help you swing harder next time." Merlin help me, I want to tear out his lungs right now!

"Oh, he's good!" Sokolov laughed, clapping his hands condescendingly. "Greengrass has trained his dog well, I see." I'm going to enjoy killing you, I really am!

The surrounding Purebloods laughed, one of the younger Lords, Grozdan Kirov, even barked at Ron, but he ignored them all, keeping his eyes fixed on Sokolov alone. The grinning, satisfied Pureblood picked up a piece of cheese and tossed it at Ron's feet, before turning to leave.

"Eat up, dog, there's plenty more where that came from," Sokolov sniggered, walking away towards a nearby group.

Ron watched silently as Sokolov was greeted with warm smiles and words of admiration, for he had bravely done what they had all desired to do from the moment they had seen the redhead. Still clenching his jaw, Ron turned his attention back to the refreshments laid out on the table, picturing himself flinging said table at Sokolov and his friends. It's all right… It's fine… It's just a slap, so get over it… He's done far worse to far better people than you…

"…Elitist cunts…" Ron grit out, before closing his eyes and drawing in deep, calming breaths. I'm okay. I am in control. I won't let them get to me this easily-…

"Sorry for abandoning you, Ronald," came Dumbledore's voice, the man's jolly mood did little to calm the Slytherin down. "My bladder is not what it used to be!"

"I understand," Ron said sourly, nudging the plate he had made for the man towards him. "You should try the cheese. It's delicious."

Dumbledore did not miss the anger lacing his young friend's voice, and as such, he adorned a more serious expression. "Dear boy, what is wrong? I was gone for but a moment-" he abruptly stopped, noticing the discolouration of Ron's usually pale face. "What is that mark, Ronald? Upon your cheek?"

"A lesson from 'Lord' Sokolov about the nature of my place," Ron answered, his mind was already made up. "Do nothing, Sir." He is mine to kill.

"He struck you?" Dumbledore asked, his voice was eerily calm. "He put his hands on you in front of all these people?"

"They would just deny it, so he had nothing to lose," Ron looked to the old man, noticing the growing tempest behind his eyes. "The man is a coward, clearly. He waited until you were gone, Headmaster. He's not worth your anger, nor your Magic."

"Where is he?" Dumbledore asked, his eyes already searching for the man. "I would very much like a word with him." A word? You mean you want to disintegrate him, don't you?

"I could have easily torn his arms off myself, but I chose not to," Ron sighed out, thinking of Stoatshead Hill. "…I remembered the promise I made you, Sir…" Dumbledore looked back to the redhead at that, the tempest slowly subsiding. "We're here to gather information, nothing more. Tonight is not the night we right the wrongs these people have done. That's still the plan, isn't it?"

"…Yes," Dumbledore said eventually, giving Ron's shoulder a squeeze. "You did well, my boy. I am proud of you for being the better man."

"For now," Ron added, and Dumbledore gave a soft nod.

"For now."

---

Albus Dumbledore's POV

Friday 30th April, 1994 (Gruev Manor – Night)

The party was now in full-swing, the sound of laughter filled the extravagant ballroom, but Albus couldn't bring himself to join in. He had been keeping his ears open, after all, and the things he had heard were at the forefront of his mind. There was discussion amongst the guests about Ronald, about some elaborate plan to humiliate the poor boy, and worst of all, Minister Grigorov was the one masterminding it. What this plan is, I cannot say, but I will not let it come to pass. I have seen how quickly a mob can form, and just how twisted people can become in face of what they hate most. Humiliation won't be enough for them; it will only be the beginning-…

"Do you want to dance, Sir?" Ronald suddenly asked, breaking him out of his thoughts.

"Dance? With you?" Albus laughed, enjoying the young wizard's merry mood. It is strange, however… He is more at peace here, in this den of vipers, than he is at home. Poor boy, to have grown so accustomed to hatred and conflict. "Ronald, I'm afraid that you wouldn't be able to keep up with me. Why don't you ask one of the girls waiting for you to approach them?"

"They aren't waiting for me to approach them, Sir," Ronald sniggered. "They're waiting for you to sod off. They're intimidated by you, by the looks of it." They are merely mimicking their parents, a trait that has led to many tragedies amongst the Purebloods. My reputation in the East is very different, but he will learn of that soon enough.

"Me? Nonsense!"

"I might be famous, but you? You're the greatest wizard this world has ever seen," Ronald said, it was impossible not to notice the reverence in his voice. "Even those who despise you would be fools not to respect you." It is not respect, my boy. It is dread. It is fear.

"Then, I shall leave you," Albus smiled encouragingly, patting the young man on his back. "Before their apprehension turns to outrage."

"If they start taking swings at me as well, come save me," Ronald grinned, before sauntering away.

Albus watched him leave in silence, before turning his focus back to the other guests. Their eyes, filled with disgust, followed the young redhead, their devious minds no doubt concocting imaginative ways to be rid of him. Their hatred of him, and his hatred of them, served to exhaust Albus more than he cared to admit. The cycle of hatred had continued to thrive, its survival made possible by the inaction of men such as him. Ronald was right… He is a monster of our own making. I could have done so much with the power and faith people bestowed upon me, but I was afraid… I was afraid of losing control, of becoming corrupt, and so, I let corruption thrive just so that I would be spared. I was a coward, and now, a boy must shoulder all this responsibility by his lonesome. I did this to him, and yet, when he speaks to me, when he looks at me, it is with admiration and respect… With love, even… I cannot help but feel ashamed-…

"If I were you, Dumbledore, I wouldn't let that boy out of my sight," came a familiar voice, and Albus looked to his left.

"Why do you say that, Corban?" Albus asked in response, studying the man's hard, blunt features and unpleasant smile.

"He has enemies here," Corban answered, turning to look at Ronald alongside Albus. "Powerful enemies that he hasn't even met yet. I've been asking about him, you see, and let's just say that these people are disgusted by the prospect of a Blood-Traitor gaining such renown. His fame eclipses their own, and that is an insult they will not tolerate."

"So, they are not so different from you, then," Albus smirked, enjoying the sight of Corban's false smile vanishing.

"You do not know me, old man," Corban said icily. "I respect that boy; despite the muck he comes from. I have not come here to trade insults with you. I have come to warn you-"

"You have come to whisper your own designs in my ear, nothing more," Albus shut him down, his eyes hardening. "Do not mistake me for a fool, Corban Yaxley. You see him as your enemy, as a threat to your plans, and you are wise enough to understand, and to fear, that he has a way of winning powerful people to his side. You want me to collar him, to keep him at my side, because you know that none of these other Lords and Ladies would ever dare approach me. I am revered in the West, but in the East, I am feared. I am the man who ended the Pure World in its infancy not once, but twice." Albus then shook his head, deciding to be on his way. "I am too old, and frankly, too tired, to indulge in such childish games." And it is not Ronald I worry for; it is all of you. He has survived a lot worse than any of you, whereas you have grown complacent in your power. You will not survive him, not a single one of you, not unless I find some way to bring him back to the light.

"Do not turn your back on me," Corban hissed as Albus turned to leave, irritating the old wizard.

"Stop me, then, if you are able," Albus challenged, before walking away undisturbed. By all accounts, this man should not be enjoying freedom, and yet, he is. Am I not responsible for the lives he will take in the war to come? I didn't believe I was, but now, I am not so certain. Still, brutality must not be met with brutality. If we adopt the enemy's methods, we become the enemy. The cycle of hatred will never end, not like that. Ronald is too young, too passionate, and too damaged to see this, so I must teach him. I must be patient with him. I must be kind to him. I must not judge him. I must not abandon him. He deserves to be saved just as much as those he wishes to save, and I must help him see that.

"Albus!" Horace called out, approaching him with haste. "Merlin's Beard, what a night this is! Lady Grueva never fails to disappoint!"

"She has certainly spared no expense," Albus smiled, noticing the man's flushed cheeks. "You are enjoying her hospitality without shame, I see."

Horace laughed wholeheartedly, patting his belly. "As much as I enjoyed the Far North, this is where I belong. If I ever see another fish in my lifetime, I fear I will become deathly ill." Horace then adorned a more serious expression, clearing his throat. "I've been trying to get a hold of you, Albus, and you alone. The boy… Ron… I read of his trial, and the tragic fate that he must endure. I am sorry for it, truly. Such a bright young man… To think that he was foolish enough to fall to the allure of the Dark Arts… Such a shame." Albus averted his gaze, his expression becoming distant. "Albus?"

"…Yes, it is a shame," Albus said, feeling regretful of the lie he had crafted to protect the peace. "…I have added much to his misery…"

"Pardon?"

"Never mind," Albus drew in a sharp breath, regaining himself. "Why are you coming to me with your condolences, Horace? Why not seek out Ronald himself?"

"Because…" the man chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his neck. "I sensed hostility from him before. He was not pleased to see me, I think, though I do not know what I might've done to offend him." You did nothing but accept an invitation.

"Ah, I see, now," Albus gave Horace a sorry smile. "Forgive him, my friend, but Ronald has changed drastically since you last met him. He has been put through far too many trials and tribulations, too many tragic events."

"Such as?" Horace inquired, curious.

"It is not my place to say," Albus replied, much to the man's disappointment. "You can ask him for yourself, however. He is in high spirits, tonight, and he may just humour you." And, it would serve you well to make a better impression with him. "Where is your friend, Horace? Sanguini?"

"He is enjoying the gardens," Horace sighed out. "I must admit that it was a mistake to bring him here."

"Why do you say that?"

"He is not used to crowds, he says," Horace answered, waving a dismissive hand. "The truth is that his hunger is too strong for him to control, which is entirely his own fault. He is a most disappointing Vampire, Albus… He drinks only the blood of animals, if you can believe it. Goats and pigs, nothing exciting." Exciting? Like people?

"Really?"

"It leaves him weak and frail, as you've seen for yourself, but yes."

"Then, being here must be torture for him," Albus figured, feeling sorry for the Vampire. "Do you know why he drinks only from animals?"

"He is happy to share tales of his adventures, but beyond that, I know nothing of the man's history," Horace shrugged. "I am growing bored of him, in all honesty. The thought of adventuring with a Vampire was exciting, at first, but now, it has become tedious. He is not what I imagined him to be when we first met." And what did you imagine him to be, exactly? Otherworldly? A blood-starved monster? Your disappointment is born from your own ignorance.

"He is a man, Horace, one who must endure a most terrible Curse," Albus said simply. "If you are bored with his company, then part ways with him."

"Thank Merlin, he plans to return home after tonight," Horace said, his voice filled with relief. "Italy, in case you were wondering." Italy?

"Where in Italy?"

"Rome, I think." Rome? Hmm… "What is it? I know that look, Albus. What are you thinking?" There are rumours about Rome and Vampires. More specifically, about Vatican City and Vampires. I wonder…

"It matters not, I was merely curious," Albus chuckled, feigning ignorance. "I hope he finds his way home unmolested. What about you, Horace? Where do you go from here?"

"Well, I won't be returning to Hogwarts, if that's what you're hoping for," Horace laughed, he was clearly flattered by Albus' attempts to rehire him. Flattered, but wary. It matters not, anymore. My offer still stands, but I will insist upon it no longer. I know how to destroy Tom, and that is all I ever wanted from him. "I think, I will retire to my family home in London, for a while. It will give me plenty of time to write of my adventures, and to rekindle old friendships with my favourite students."

"I look forward to reading your tall tales, my friend," Albus smiled, making Horace laugh, again. "Now, if you will excuse me, I want to find Vizier Ulusoy. I am most keen to meet her."

"I won't keep you, then," Horace stepped aside, beaming. "A very sharp woman, with some truly powerful friends." Powerful friends?

"And who might they be?" Albus asked, fearing the worst. Don't tell me they've gotten to her, as well.

"I'm sure you've heard of the Şehzade of Turkey," Horace teased, very pleased to know something Albus didn't. "She is the oldest friend of Mehmet Kartal, the most prosperous Bey amongst the Şehzade. Did you know that he is the most prominent producer of silk in Western Asia? Even in the Muggle World? He has his eyes set on the Chinese market, now! A very ambitious fellow, that one!"

"I had no idea," Albus faked a smile, whilst cursing inwardly. "How did she meet Mehmet Bey? Do you know?"

"They came up together!" Horace answered enthusiastically, before burping. "Oh, apologies… I think, I might need to go sit down-"

"Came up together?" Albus inquired further. "They were raised in the same house?" This must be a closely guarded secret if even I haven't heard of it.

"Yes, yes…" Horace cleared his throat, pressing his chest. "Merlin, I keep forgetting that I am no longer a young man…" Horace then drew in a sharp breath. "Don't tell anyone I told you this, Albus. It took me a long time to earn the trust of the Şehzade. They are a terribly paranoid lot, especially nowadays."

"I will not bring it up," Albus promised, and Horace let out a sigh of relief. "Drink some water and rest, Horace. If I come across Sanguini, I will send him to find you."

"Merlin's Beard, please, don't do that," Horace shuddered at the thought, before walking away to the nearest chair. It was foolish of me to assume that this new Vizier would be any different than all the previous. They must've put her in power to appease those who speak out against them. A clever tactic, one that I myself fell for. I must alert Ronald before he approaches this woman, or worse, before she approaches him.

Albus looked around for a head of red hair, spotting Ronald at the far end of the ballroom by his lonesome. He did not mingle the other children, after all. I should've figured. I had hoped that he would somewhat enjoy the night in earnest, but by the looks of it, he still cannot allow himself to feel anything but his anger. He will not be pleased to learn of Vizier Ulusoy's true allegiance. It will serve only to further disillusion him with the world, but regardless of that, he has to know.

---

Ronald Weasley's POV

Friday 30th April, 1994 (Gruev Manor – Night)

Ron let out a tired sigh, his face was starting to hurt from all the forced smiling.

He had been mere feet away from those his own age before he had turned on his heel and walked away, a strange sense of dread had washed over him on his way towards them. He knew what these other children would be like, already. They would be arrogant, cruel, and worst of all, the mouthpieces of their parents' vile ideology. They'll be how my friends used to be when I first met them. They will have Daphne's vanity, Draco's spitefulness, Theo's selfishness, Blaise's indifference to any beyond themselves, and Pansy's weak will. I am not the boy I used to be… I don't have his patience, nor his eagerness to be accepted… If I approach them as I am now, I will only be putting them in harm's way. Not just from me, but also from their parents-…

"You are Ronald Weasley, are you not?" came a girl's voice, and he swiftly turned on his heel. Damn it, I got distracted and someone snuck up on me!

The girl laughed at his alarmed expression, her dark eyes lighting up. A red, foreign dress. Heavily embroidered. She must be the girl the Headmaster spotted staring at me. She looked to be around his age, with a round, dark-olive face, almond-shaped, chocolate eyes, a button nose, and cherub cheeks. Besides her 'kaftan', she wore a headdress that was decorated with glistening garnets and unfamiliar, gold coins. You're staring at her, Ron. Stop staring, and say something-…

"May I have your autograph, please?" she asked, smiling from ear-to-ear.

"My autograph?" Ron blinked, before clearing his throat. "Um… Sorry, I don't have a quill on me."

"Shall we go look for one?" she asked, taking him somewhat by surprise. She's a bit bold, isn't she? She set me up!

"That was smooth," Ron commended, smiling back. "However, I must refuse your request. Sorry."

"Why?" she asked, more curious than upset. "I just want an autograph. Nothing more." An autograph is not worth angering your people.

"What is your name?" Ron asked, instead. "You know mine, so it's only fair that you even the odds."

"Mehtap Mataraci," she introduced herself, giving him an English curtsy. Yeah, I'm not going to remember that… "You can call me Met, if it's easier." Met, it is.

"Met, you seem like a sweet lass, but…" Ron didn't know how to explain his situation without sounding curt. "Look, I'm a Blood-Traitor. You don't want to be seen walking around with me."

"I know what you are," Met laughed without a care. "It's why I approached you, in truth. You might be the only one here without a wand up their backside." Oh…

"Are you also a…?" he trailed off.

"In a way, I suppose I am," she gave a nod, and Ron felt his shoulders relax for the first time since he had arrived. "My mother and I don't care much for 'Purity', or, whatever it is they call it, now." Really?!

"Then, why are you here?" Ron asked. "And, what of your father?"

"He passed away when I was little," she replied, not sounding very bothered about it. "I don't even remember him."

"Oh, I'm sorry-…"

"It's just my mother and me, and that's more than enough," Met continued. "And, we're here because we are one of Magical Turkey's most renowned families. My mother, and all her ancestors, have pushed the Art of Potion-Making further than any other. Hence our name… Mataraci." Ron gave her a pathetic smile, somewhat embarrassed by his ignorance of other cultures. "It means flask-maker, or, something. You should ask my mother; she's always going on and on about it."

"Your mother is friends with the… Oh, what was it, again? Shezaadeh?"

"Şehzade," Met said slowly, giggling.

"Right… The Şehzade," Ron repeated, scratching the back of his neck. "I'm not very good with other languages." Save for Parseltongue, but I shouldn't bring that up. It'll scare her off. "Your English is brilliant, by the way. You've been tutored well."

"My mother made sure of it," she beamed. "I hated it, at first, but that's only because my English lessons interrupted my dancing lessons. She'd sit me down for hours on end, sometimes."

"She taught you herself?" Ron asked, finding it strange. All my friends had tutors teaching them, not their parents.

"In matters of education, she trusts only herself," Met answered, rolling her eyes playfully. "It's why I'm being educated at home, with permission from the Turkish Ministry." I've never spoken to anyone who's been home-schooled, I think.

"You two sound very close," he said, curious about her despite his better judgement ordering him to walk away.

"We are, but we also argue a lot," she shrugged. "Are you close with your parents?"

Ron felt his smile weaken, shaking his head softly. "Not really, no…" They would've been better off if I hadn't been born, honestly.

"Oh…" she blinked. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

"It's all right," Ron assured her, regaining his composure. "You couldn't possibly have known." Way to make it awkward, you idiot… You could've just made up some lie, but no… You had to start moping, again. "Um… I'll keep an eye out for a quill, okay? It was nice talking to you."

"But we're still talking, aren't we?" she gave him a bemused look. "I have not dismissed you, yet." Dismissed me? I hope that was a joke. "It is rude to walk away from a Begum, Ronald Weasley." A what? "That means 'Lady'. You see? I cannot dismiss you. You have far too much to learn from me." She sounds just like Daphne used to when she was instructing me on 'proper etiquette'.

Ron felt his lips twitch upwards; her outspoken nature was rather charming. "I would hate to be rude."

"I would hate it too."

"Then, if it's all right with you, can I accompany you to the gardens?" Ron asked, offering her his gloved hand. "I could use some fresh air."

"Me too," she took his hand, tugging him after her. Oi! "Let's go!"

"Slow down," Ron chuckled, stumped by her brazen behaviour. "The gardens aren't going to disappear, you know?"

Met shot a cheeky grin back in response, before tugging him, again. Ha! Fine, I'll do my best to keep up! They managed to cross only a few feet before Ron spotted the Headmaster heading towards them, his brow furrowed. Uh-oh. What happened, now? Did someone slap him too? Ron stopped in his tracks, taking Mehtap by surprise.

"Why did you stop?" Met asked, gazing in the direction he was staring at. "Oh… Him, again."

"Forgive the intrusion," Dumbledore started, his voice gentle despite his expression. "May I borrow Ronald for a moment, young Lady?"

Met looked to Ron, her expression did little to hide her disappointment. "…Very well…"

"Sorry," Ron apologized, letting go of her hand and taking a few steps away from her. "Sir? What is it? What's happened?"

"The Vizier is compromised," Dumbledore whispered, giving him a meaningful look. What?! You can't be ser-…! Of course, she fucking is! Why wouldn't she be?! "We need more information. Do what you must." For fuck's sake… Back to work, then.

Ron gave a nod, feeling his temper flare. Fucking corrupt cunts everywhere. The first woman Minister of Magical Turkey? Fuck right off… Just another arselicker propped up by the arses. Without a word, Ron returned to Mehtap, putting on his best smile. Can't have two minutes of peace, can I? I bet Ulus-… Fuck, what was that tart Vizier's name, again?! Fuck it! She's the tart Vizier, now!

"I'm sorry about that," Ron gestured her to lead the way, somehow keeping his voice pleasant. "He feels the need to alert me every time he has to take a piss. Old people, eh?"

Mehtap fought the urge to laugh, averting her gaze a little. "…You shouldn't be so vulgar…" It's a vulgar world, init it? Why should I be any different?

"Let's um… Actually, can I ask a favour before we leave?" Ron requested, taking a step closer to her.

"Um… Sure…" she muttered, staring up at him with visible anticipation.

"Can you point out these Şehzade for me, please? I want to know which people to avoid, tonight," Ron widened his smile, though it never reached his eyes.

"What?" she blinked, her expression faltering. "Um… Okay… Sure, I can do that. Let's see… Um… You see that couple over there? At the edge of the dance floor?"

"I see them," Ron studied the pair, they were both dressed in foreign, yet eye-catching, outfits.

"That's Mehmet Bey and Zeynep Begum," Met continued, whispering. "Mehmet Bey is the most powerful man in all of Turkey, according to my mother. She doesn't like him very much, but she is friends with Zeynep Begum. They have a son together, he just turned three. Mehmet Bey and Zeynep Begum, I mean! Not my mother and Zeynep Begum." I figured, yes. "What else? Hm… Oh, Mehmet Bey is really rich! Silks, spices, jewels… All sorts of goods, actually. He owns a lot of properties and farming land, and…" she trailed off.

"And?"

"Mother says he stole it from the other Şehzade," she whispered even more softly. "Don't ever say that, though. He has a crazy temper. Mother says that he beats his wife often, even for the smallest of mistakes… She's always finding fresh bruises on Zeynep Begum whenever they spend time together." Fucking coward.

"She can't leave him, can she? Because of their son?" Ron assumed, and Met nodded. Even if she tried to, he'd do a lot worse than beat her. Bloody hell, I can't help but feel sorry for her-…

"It's common for men to discipline their women, especially the Şehzade," Met muttered, making Ron frown deeply. "It's just the way things are-"

"My father has never put his hands on my mother, not once," he blurted out. "Maybe, it's common amongst the Şehzade, but in the rest of the world, it's seen as cowardly and cruel. You don't hit your own wife, not for any bloody reason."

"I don't know much about the rest of the world, sorry," she simply said, deflating a little. "…Mother doesn't let me go out very often…" She keeps you locked up in your house? What about your friends? You have some, don't you?

"Met-"

"That's Afshin Bey over there," she quickly changed the subject, pointing out a rather burly man with a thick, black beard. "I don't see his wife, Dilara Begum, but I'm sure she's here somewhere. They just got married recently, and the wedding feast was amazing. I like him, as does my mother. He's very polite and handsome." Okay… "Oh, and he's a very skilled Duellist too!" Really? "Everyone says that Dilara Begum refused to give him her hand in marriage until he earned his own fame, so he trained really hard and won Turkey's National Duelling Championship! Isn't that so romantic?!"

"…Yes…" Ron said blandly, his job was getting harder and harder by the second. A skilled fighter… Brilliant… Still, Met mentioned that he's a decent enough bloke. Maybe, he's not like the other Şehzade? I shouldn't assume anything, but I'd prefer it if we didn't have to go against some Duelling champion-…

"Ah, look over there, Ronald!" she suddenly pulled at his arm, pointing towards an old man with a beard that rivalled Dumbledore's. "That's Aslan Bey, the oldest Bey in Magical Turkey. He is an Ozturk! His ancestry is the most well-recorded, and so, he's very well respected, even by Mehmet Bey. He's a very strict man, so I don't like him much. He scolded me for eating lots of dondurma at Afshin Bey's wedding… Said that it would make me fat and that no man would want to marry me after… It's the only time I've ever spoken to him, and he gave me the longest lecture of my life…"

"He sounds like a prick," Ron commented, and Met laughed mischievously. "Is he married? Any children? Or, grandchildren?"

"He has four children, and yes… He's um… He's married…" Met lost her mirth, sounding somewhat embarrassed all of a sudden. "His wife is over there, talking with that skinny, blonde woman."

Ron looked around, spotting Anastasia Yaxley speaking with a woman around the same age as her. Um… Hold on… She looks young… I can only see her face, but she looks-… This can't be right… Ron looked back to Aslan Ozturk, and then, back to the woman with Yaxley's wife. No fucking way-…

"…She just turned thirty…" Met whispered, pulling a face. Thirty?! But he's fucking ancient! "…Aslan Bey is seventy-nine…" SEVENTY-FUCKING-NINE?!

"What the fuck?" Ron heard himself mutter, sickened. "…Merlin's saggy sac…" That's fucking disgusting! He's old enough to be her bloody grandfather! "Is this also common amongst the Şehzade? To marry someone fifty years younger than you?" If it is, then I'm just going to kill them all. Fuck it… Magical Turkey will be better off without these fucking perverts! "Well? Is it common? Please, say it isn't."

"It happens from time to time," Met mumbled, visibly embarrassed, now. No! Why?! "Banou Begum's father was in debt to Aslan Bey, I believe… Like a lot of debt… Aslan Bey had no children, not even a wife, so they made a bargain. Banou Begum's hand in marriage would clear the debt, and the Ozturk bloodline would be secured."

"She was sold, then," Ron summarised, shooting Aslan Ozturk a look of utter contempt. He dies, no arguments. "How old was she when this bargain was struck? Four children, you said? She must've been quite young."

"Fifteen, I think… They didn't marry until she was eighteen, though…" I will have that man castrated for this. I'll do it my damn self. "Are you okay? You look…" she trailed off, letting out a sigh. "Things like this don't happen in your culture, do they?" She sounds embarrassed by her people, and rightfully so. Still, it's not her fault that the Şehzade view their women as nothing more than tools to further their bloodlines. I need to be a little more courteous for her sake, despite my own feelings on the matter.

"There's plenty of degenerates in my culture as well, trust me," Ron assured her, using his Occlumency to regain himself. "Sorry, I'm just… I feel sorry for Banou Begum. I mean, her own bloody father… That's so wrong."

"The Şehzade always get what they want," Met said, as if she were quoting someone. "They are the Masters of Turkey, of all men and of all women. To deny their will is to deny the will of our own ancestors, who themselves bowed to the Şehzade for protection and prosperity. There can be no greater shame than to strike at the hands that have fed generations of our people."

"Isn't that convenient for the Şehzade?" Ron challenged venomously, rolling his eyes. "The British Lords and Ladies are no different. They too want to convince everyone of how 'important' they are, how 'essential' they are, but it's all a big lie. They just want to keep their power and their wealth, nothing more. It's about time someone reminded this lot here that they're only human, no different from those they look down upon."

"But no one has managed it yet," Met pointed out, studying his face. "You really hate them, don't you?" You should as well, if you have any self-respect.

"Most of them, yes," Ron admitted openly. "Some of them are good, honest people, but the majority have become corrupt from centuries of unchallenged power and authority. It is my belief that, until we get rid of this majority, the Wizarding World will never enter its next era. They're holding us back from our true potential, Met, and we have to fight back. We have to rise up and defeat them before they bind us in chains and make us their puppets." Or, worse, they empower someone like the Dark Lord to fucking end us all.

Mehtap stared at him warily, clearly put off by his change in demeanour. "Um… Do you still want to go to the gardens…?" Fuck no, I want to start throwing out Killing Curses in every direction!

Ron drew in a deep breath, swallowing thickly. "…I'm sorry about that. I… I struggle with keeping my anger in check, sometimes. I didn't mean to sound so…" he stopped, drawing in another deep breath. "Let's go outside, eh? Some fresh air will cool me off, I'm sure." Don't make her miserable just because you're miserable, old boy. Don't prove Daphne right.

"Really? Okay, let's go, now," she said eagerly, already looking excited, again.

Doing his best to be decent to the blameless girl, Ron smiled and gave her a nod, but the rage brewing inside his chest refused to die down. Even as they made their way past all the guests, and towards the back of the ballroom, Ron couldn't stop thinking about the 'Pure' at his back. Let it go, for now. Just let it go. Remember Madam Pomfrey's teachings, remember Professor Snape's teachings, and control your emotions and mind. Deep breaths, old boy, deep breaths.

Stepping out of the manor, and into the starry night, certainly helped, as it gave Ron new sensations to focus on. The cold breeze. The smells of nature. The relaxing silence. Ron closed his eyes and opened himself up to the Magic around him, sensing about a dozen different Magical Signatures spread out throughout the extensive, candlelit gardens. We're not alone, but it's better out here than in there. Far, far better.

"Are you all right, now?" Met asked, breaking him out of his thoughts.

"I am," Ron smiled, opening his eyes and spotting a floating, gilded tray of drinks nearby. "Let me get us something to drink, and then, we'll walk around. Is Butterbeer all right with you?"

"Oh, no," she quickly shook her head. "Just sweetened water will do." Sweetened water? Over Butterbeer? Madness!

"I promise, I'm not trying to get you drunk," Ron joked, making her chuckle. "It would take three, or, four Butterbeers to even get a buzz-"

"I'm a Muslim, Ronald," Met explained, stopping him short. "We don't partake in alcohol, no matter the quantity. It goes against our beliefs." Oh… Ronald Weasley, you ignorant bitch…

"Sorry, I didn't know… Sweetened water, it is," Ron hurried away, before he embarrassed himself any further. A Muslim, she said. I don't know anything about Muslims. I'll ask her some questions about it, then. It's always easier for people to talk about themselves and their experiences, after all.

---

Corban Yaxley's POV

Friday 30th April, 1994 (Gruev Manor – Night)

It had taken quite a lot of effort, and luck, to bring together the most powerful Lords at this party, but Corban knew that it would be well worth it. Lord Conrad Rask of Magical Germany, Mehmet Bey Kartal of Magical Turkey, Lord Anatolie Hatmanu of Magical Romania, Lord Vladamir Volkov of Magical Russia, and, of course, himself.

"A group as organised, and as dangerous, as these 'Butchers' wouldn't simply disappear," Rask shared his thoughts, his voice was so soft that Corban had to lean forward slightly just to hear it. "Make no mistake, my brothers, this was not just an attack on Magical Britain's most illustrious, it was an attack on us all. My own cousin, and his beautiful wife, were amongst those that were slaughtered." The other Lords, including Corban, nodded their agreement. "We cannot tolerate this cruelty done to our people. If we do, then these 'Butchers' will become emboldened. And, it won't just end with them. The scum of Magical Germany already believe the attack to be justified, to be righteous. So much so that our own Ministry has been forced to silence the more outspoken dissenters."

"The Mudbloods and Blood-Traitors," Hatmanu figured, and Rask sneered in disgust.

"Some are already demanding that those who didn't even attend the festivities be put under investigation," Rask hissed, his grip tightening around his wine glass. "Lord and Lady Bierhals have been especially affected by this new rebellion. Their friendship with the Carrow twins was never a secret, and already, they've had their names besmirched in the streets. It's only a matter of time before our own names are under threat, as well."

"I still don't understand the point of this conversation," Volkov spoke up, finally breaking his silence. "What do you want, Rask? Do you want the killers caught? Do you want the dissenters punished? Make a point, already. We all know that the Butchers are a threat to us, so you're not saying anything new. Stop wasting our time."

Corban and the other Lords exchanged subtle looks, whereas Rask frowned deeply at Volkov. The Russian is the more powerful of the two by far, but Rask is as clever as he is ambitious. I cannot let them turn on each other, not when our enemies are gathering around us. Their pride could undo the alliance I'm trying to raise.

"Lord Volkov speaks bluntly, as ever, but make no mistake, Lord Rask, what he means to say is that he is with you, as are we all," Corban mediated, all eyes turning towards him. "A young Bey was murdered in the massacre, as was our hostess' husband. I lost dozens of friends and associates myself. We have all been wounded by this, and like you, we want justice."

"Is that true, Volkov?" Rask asked, and the Russian gave a half-nod. "Then, I will tell you what I want in simple terms, so that you understand me clearly. I want a bounty put out on these Butchers, a bounty that we will all contribute to as a sign of good faith. And, I want their actions to frowned upon in the court of public opinion. We can't have the Mudbloods and Blood-Traitors getting any ideas. We can't let them believe that they can rise up against us."

"Lord Zamfir has Minister Ardelean's ear," Hatmanu spoke up. "And I have Lord Zamfir's ear. A few choice words, and I can have the Romanian Minister himself denounce the Butchers publicly."

"I will speak to Vizier Ulusoy myself," Kartal gave Hatmanu a nod, his heavy brow furrowed. "But only after Minister Ardelean's denouncement, as to avoid suspicions of a conspiracy."

"Romania, Turkey, Bulgaria, Germany, Russia, and Britain… If all our Ministers label the Butchers as a public enemy, the people will think twice before praising them," Rask smirked, his blue eyes gleaming. "They will attack, again, but if we turn the people against them before they do, any further hostilities against our people will then be seen as acts of murder and cruelty." Agreed.

"Does the new British Minister understand the way of things?" Volkov looked to Corban, studying the man with his icy gaze. "I've heard that she's nothing like your previous Minister. She's strong, both in mind and conviction. Will she listen to you?" No… As far as she's concerned, I ought to be in Azkaban.

"She will not, I'm afraid," Corban admitted, deciding to be honest. "However, there are other ways to bend her to my will."

"And what ways are those?" Kartal questioned. "Now is not the time to be mysterious, Yaxley." Lord Yaxley.

"They undermine her," Corban explained, letting the unspoken insult pass. "Everyone is undermining her, even the Wizengamot have joined in. She will have no choice but to denounce them. Otherwise, she risks rebellion against the Ministry. I have a loyal man who can whisper this in her ear. It will take time, no doubt, but she will denounce them. You have my word."

"Then, we only have one more thing to discuss," Rask announced, did he already believe himself to be their leader? Let him have this, Corban. Once he stands before the Dark Lord, all of his ambitions will leave him. He will serve, just as we all will. "Who do we hire to hunt down the Butchers? I would recommend the Death's Hand myself; they are a most efficient band of mercenaries."

"Not them, no," Volkov rejected the idea immediately, making Rask frown, again. "They are loyal only to gold, and I cannot respect, nor trust, such an organisation. They will always serve themselves first, and us second."

"Not to mention their history," Hatmanu added. "They were vigilantes, were they not? Formed to combat the Dark Lord and his forces?" He is right. They might be empathetic to the Butchers, and that would serve us ill. "What's to stop them from taking gold from the Butchers? What's to stop them from turning on us?"

"Who would you recommend, Lord Volkov?" Kartal asked, turning ever so slightly away from Rask. Oh, so he's Lord Volkov? But I'm just Yaxley?

"Sokolov," the Russian answered, his stony expression never faltering. "He enjoys a good fight, and he's an excellent hunter. He will find them."

"From what I've heard, the boy is anything but subtle," Corban said, he was not sold on the idea. "His scandals have reached even my ears, Lord Volkov." They will see him coming from a mile away, and another young Pureblood will lose his life needlessly.

"His blood runs hot, so I understand your reservations," Volkov started. "However, you will not find a Lord as capable as him when it comes to hunting prey. He does not surround himself with vagabonds without reason. He has contacts in places we never will. He is relentless, ruthless, and above all, he is loyal. We will not need to pay him for his services, because he will hunt the Butchers for his own enjoyment."

"So, he is loyal only to his own bloodlust, not to us," Rask countered. "Forgive me, Volkov, but it sounds as though you are fond of this boy, and that is the only reason why you are recommending him."

"I am not fond of him," Volkov assured them, his voice as cold as the grave. "I am not fond of any of you, either, and yet, I'm willing to work with you. I can trust his passions, and so, I am recommending him over a group of men who only answer to coin."

"He is one of us, and that might be enough to focus him in his pursuit," Hatmanu said thoughtfully, stroking his sharp chin. "You have won me over, Lord Volkov. Speak to him, and tell us of his response."

Volkov looked to the others, and one by one, they each gave a nod, save for Rask. "Then, it is decided. I will go speak with him, now. Yaxley, walk with me." Lord Yaxley.

"We will speak more after dinner, my Lords," Corban bid the others farewell, before following after Volkov.

The Russian Lord led the way in silence, each step he took was with purpose, his icy gaze studying everyone and everything around him. Corban couldn't help but admire the man's intensity, even if he was put off by it. The most powerful man in Magical Russia, and for good reason. If the rumours about him are true, that he fed his own wife to a Manticore for birthing him a Squib heir, then I need to be very careful. A man who can murder his own wife and infant son so callously, even if he was a worthless Squib, is not to be trifled with-…

"Inviting Rask was a mistake," Volkov suddenly said, stopping.

"The German Lords and Ladies follow his lead," Corban explained, but Volkov looked less than impressed. "He is ambitious, I know, but I've no fear of him, and you shouldn't either."

"I suppose," Volkov said, something shifting behind his grey eyes. "The sight of the Dark Lord will dull his ambitions, after all."

Corban's eyes widened a little, but he was quick to regain himself. "…You know, then?"

"Rodolphus Lestrange has come to me, yes, demanding my allegiance," Volkov replied, sending a cold shiver up Corban's spine. Rodolphus… I've never crossed paths with a man so devoted to our cause. I am not eager to meet him, again. "I imagine, it will not be long before he finds his way to Rask as well."

"He is the Dark Lord's most obedient soldier, so yes," Corban agreed. "Did you give your allegiance to my Master, Lord Volkov?"

"Of course," Volkov whispered coldly, his expression unchanging. "Only a fool would have refused, and I am no fool. Tell me, is this why you were so adamant about bringing us together? I've been watching you, and you have been very busy, tonight. Whispering your schemes in the ears of any who will listen."

"I am preparing for our Master's arrival," Corban answered simply. "Once the Pure are all united under his leadership, nothing will stop us. Not even Dumbledore. We will finally achieve the dream of all our ancestors. We will build a world that puts Wizard-Kind first, and only Wizard-Kind."

"And you say that Rask is ambitious," Volkov commented, his lips quirking upwards for a second.

"He has grown bored of Magical Germany, and so, he sets his eyes to new horizons. We need men like him, men with vision. The Dark Lord will ensure that he doesn't step out of line. He will become a useful ally to us both, I assure you."

"Or, his arrogance will be his undoing," Volkov countered. "Regardless, I will do my part for the Pure World."

"I am glad to hear it."

"However…" Volkov took a step forward, displaying his taller height. "Should I find out that the English are using us, again, I will come for you. My countrymen will not be put last in the new world, not on my watch."

"Put last?" Corban asked, fighting the urge to frown at this invasion of personal space.

"The Dark Lord came to us long before he came to you," Volkov reminded him. "He ate at our tables, slept in our manors, and grew powerful in both power and fame at our expense… And then, he left for Magical Britain and never returned. Instead, he sent emissaries demanding payment and information. He used us to further his own ambitions. That cannot happen, again."

"If you are so offended by his actions, then bring this up to him."

"And eat a Killing Curse for my efforts? Do not make me repeat myself. I am no fool. The Dark Lord is not a man who tolerates being questioned, especially by those he deems weaker than himself. It is you I am bringing this to. You, who is his faithful servant. You will ensure that we are not disrespected, again." So, he will punish me, and my family, for the Dark Lord's lack of interest in his people.

"You have my word, Lord Volkov," Corban agreed, and the man stepped back. "We will be equals, your people and mine." Does he care about his people, though? Or, does he simply wish to make sure that he himself is not put last?

"Then, there is nothing more left to say," Volkov turned to leave. "I must find Sokolov before he gets overly drunk. Excuse me."

Once the Russian had left, Corban released a tired breath, unhappy about being put in such a compromised position. He might live half a world away, but there can be no doubt that he can hurt me if it pleases him. He is a man without a family, without any personal bonds to exploit, whereas I have people that I must protect. Anastasia, Lysandra, Felix… Now, I alone must make sure to keep the Russians happy-…

"Not an easy man to talk to, is he?" a lax, feminine voice came from behind him.

"No, he is not," Corban turned around, analysing the young pair that had snuck up on him. I know them. Lady Valeriya Drozdova and Lord Pavel Gusev. Both are the Heads of their very minor families in Russia, so how exactly did they get invited here?

The pair were starkly different, both in appearance and demeanour. The witch was beautiful with sharp, prominent features, provocatively dressed, and carried herself with confidence bordering on arrogance, whereas the wizard was dull-faced with round, weak features, dressed in modest robes, and carried himself with half the confidence of a common mouse. They want something from me. Either my patronage, or, a method to impress the likes of Volkov.

"Yaxley, Corban Yaxley," the British Lord introduced himself, kissing Drozdova's knuckles and letting his eyes wander a little. Such a fair complexion, without a single blotch in sight. Lovely.

"We know of you, my Lord," Gusev said, his voice meek and pathetic.

Corban ignored him in favour of the witch, an act that brought a knowing smile to her face. "How may I be of service to you?"

"You can give us a moment of your time, my Lord," Drozdova smiled, mischief flickering behind her dark eyes. You can have more than a moment, my dear.

Gusev looked between the two of them, becoming visibly uncomfortable with the intensity of their gazes. "Um… Valeriya and-… I mean, Lady Drozdova and I are a bit out of our element here-"

"What my friend is trying to say is that we are young, and as such, we are not being shown the respect we are due," Drozdova took over, tightening her hold on his hand.

"I see, and you have come to me for respect?" Corban asked, wondering what such a beautiful girl was doing with an oaf like Gusev.

"Amongst other things, yes," Drozdova replied, piquing his interest. "We wish to make friends, my Lord. Friends such as you. Men in positions of power and privilege."

"Power and privilege must be earned, my dear," Corban challenged, testing her resolve.

"We are only asking for a chance to prove ourselves, nothing more," Drozdova promised, her voice playful. Good answer.

"Why approach me? I live half a world away from you," Corban pointed out.

"Because those who have power in our homeland are not eager to share it," Drozdova explained, whilst the boy stood there quietly. "Pavel and I only have our names to set us apart from the Mudbloods and Half-bloods, but we want to change that."

"A name can only do so much for you, I understand," Corban gave a nod. "Very well, let's find a table and talk more, shall we? You have my full attention." A shame that Clementine didn't attend, but this girl will do quite nicely. Forgive me, Anastasia, but I am weak… I need this.

---

Ronald Weasley's POV

Friday 30th April, 1994 (Gruev Manor – Night)

"Can I ask you something, now?" Met shifted in her seat, they had found a gorgeous, ivy-covered gazebo to rest their legs in. "Not that I mind explaining my religion, but I'm curious about you too." That's fair. I've been picking her brain for a while, now.

"Go ahead," Ron gave her an encouraging smile. "Ask me whatever you like."

"Okay…" she sat up straighter, looking him dead in the eyes. "What was said about you in the Daily Prophet, after your trial…" Oh, fuck. "Was that all true?"

Ron felt his shoulders tense, his stomach twisting a little. Should've seen that coming, you fool. "Um… Yeah… I mean, a lot was said, right? You'll have to be more specific?" Specific? You know exactly what she's asking about, you daft twat.

"Are you… actually dying?" she all but whispered, and Ron couldn't help but let out a defeated sigh. "…I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked-"

"It's all right," Ron said, drawing in a deep breath. "I mean, everyone asks about it, eventually. Don't worry about it. And, to answer your question…" I'm not sure, anymore. "…Yes. The Healers tell me that it won't be long, now." Whereas Ravencunt tells me that they're all making a mistake because they don't understand what they're seeing.

"…Oh…" she visibly deflated, pity filling her eyes. There it is. Brilliant. "I'm sorry."

"Me too," was all he could think to say.

An awkward silence filled the air, with both teenagers just staring at each other. I should say something clever to break the tension. No, wait… That's a really stupid idea! How do you make things funny after telling someone you're dying? 'I hear that the Chudley Cannon caskets are on sale if you're under seventeen!' Yeah, no… That would just make things infinitely worse-…

"Did you really help Squib children find a home too? Just like the Werewolves?" she spoke up, breaking the silence.

"I… didn't do either of those alone," Ron replied, glad that she wasn't asking more questions about his imminent, yet not so imminent, demise. "Headmaster Dumbledore helped me with Priscilla and her friends, whereas a bunch of people helped me with the Werewolves. But, yes, I helped them."

"Why?" she promptly asked, and he raised an eyebrow. "Why Squibs and Werewolves in particular?"

Ron thought about it, realizing that there was no use in giving her a long-winded lecture on the injustices he'd witnessed. "Kindness."

Her sombre expression lightened, and she even smiled a little. "Allah always takes the kind and righteous, first, my mother says. He can't tolerate being parted with them." I wish I was going to your Allah, and not the golden bitch that haunts my dreams.

"I'll save you a spot up there," Ron tried to ease the mood, which seemed to work judging by her posture. "In… Jannah, was it?" No, wait, that's the Arabic word for it, not the Turkish-…

"In Jannah," she gave a nod, her smile growing. "You're a quick study."

"I have a good memory for words," Ron shrugged, his ears becoming a little more red. "But beyond that, I'm nothing special."

"You're nothing special?" Met asked, bemused. "There's modesty, and then, there's stupidity."

"Ah, stupidity is my forte," Ron joked, making her laugh. "There's very few people on this planet who can match me in it, believe me."

"You come across as a very different person in the papers," she told him as she finished giggling, shifting a little closer to him.

"Do I?"

"Definitely," she nodded. "In the papers, you're a prodigy who turns everything he touches into gold. At least, that's how everyone talks about you." Never heard of Rita Skeeter, then, I take it. "But, in person-"

"Everything I touch turns to shit," Ron grinned, making her burst into laughter, again.

"Stop that, my stomach is starting to hurt," she wheezed, playfully smacking his arm. "Ahem… No, I was going to say that, in person, you're very easy to talk to. You're not like the other boys I usually meet at these parties."

"I certainly hope so, because I've talked to the kinds of boys who attend these parties," Ron chuckled, thinking of Draco in particular. Arrogant little shits, the lot of them.

"They never let me get a word in," she rolled her eyes, still smiling. "It's always 'My family this', or, 'My family that'… This might be the first time I've actually spoken to a boy for more than twenty minutes." Really? That's… kind of sad, especially because it's me of all people.

"You mentioned that you're home-schooled," Ron started, and once again, she nodded. "Met, I'm not trying to intrude here, but… How do you make friends if you're always at home with your mother?" She deflated, again, and Ron grimaced internally. "…Sorry, that was rude-"

"I don't," she answered his question, her expression becoming crestfallen. 'I get to meet other children, but it's always at events like this one. My mother is-… She's very controlling… She makes all my decisions for me, actually… Says she knows better, and that she just wants to protect me… I don't mind it too much, because she loves me, but I do get lonely… Whenever I tell her that, she just tells me that I have her. She doesn't take anything I say seriously." No wonder they're close, her mother probably wishes that she never left the womb!

"Do you know why she acts like this?" Ron asked, feeling sorry for the girl.

"I think, it's because she misses my father…" Met replied, clearly not keen to talk about this. "…He got sick, but she couldn't save him with her potions…" Oh, I see. She couldn't save him, so she does everything in her power to keep her daughter safe. I mean, I can't completely blame her because of everything I've learned of these Şehzade who seem to enjoy demeaning their women-… "Did you really try to commit suicide?"

"…What?" Ron blinked, taken aback by the jarring question. Where did that come from?!

"Did you?" she asked, looking at him in a strange manner.

Ron swallowed thickly, feeling shame and mortification in equal measure. "…Um… Yes…"

"Why?" she asked, shifting even closer. "Was it because you were scared? Lonely? Did you feel like nothing you do ever matters?" Bloody hell, where is all of this coming from?! Why is she suddenly asking me these things?!

"…Met, I don't want to talk about-"

"It's important to me," she urged, the anxiety in her eyes convinced Ron that he was most definitely missing something important.

He stared at her, looking deep into her anxious eyes in search of whatever he was missing. Why did she approach me? Why did she insist we sit here, all alone? Why did she suddenly start asking me questions about my trial? What did I miss? Fuck it, I'll just ask her. "Met, why are you asking me about this? Why do you suddenly sound so… serious?" Where did the girl I met inside go?

She looked around, as if making certain they were alone. "…I think, I know how you felt when you…" she trailed off.

"You know how I felt? How would you know how I felt?" Ron asked, an ugly picture was starting to form in his head, now. "Met, you didn't approach me for an autograph, did you?" She shook her head meekly. "Why did you approach me, then? Tell me."

She averted her gaze, her hands fidgeting nervously. "…I thought that you'd understand me…"

Rob blinked, any and all mirth in him had entirely evaporated, now. "You… Are you saying what I think you're saying, Met? That you… You've also…" he stopped when she gave a shaky nod. "When? Why?"

"…I asked you, first…" Met mumbled pitifully, still refusing to meet his gaze. Merlin's Beard… She's not just going to confess to it, is she? Who the fuck would? You certainly wouldn't, so why are you asking her such stupid questions? C'mon, don't just sit there… Say something! If she's still feeling that way, then she's still in danger! Your duty is to protect others, isn't it?!

"Why couldn't you have turned out more like your siblings?!" his father's voice demanded, utterly terrified and hopeless.

Ron scratched the back of his neck, an uncertain look on his face. "…I was scared, yeah… And very lonely… And, yes, I felt like nothing I did made a difference… Someone really important to me, one of my best friends, got hurt because I angered a horrible person… I blamed myself, hated myself, so I…" he felt his throat tighten. "…I convinced myself that everyone would be better off if I weren't around, anymore…" She finally looked at him upon hearing that. "But, Met, I was wrong. I was selfish-"

"Selfish?" she recoiled, as if hurt by that word. "How were you selfish? You were in pain, weren't you?"

"I was, I'm not saying I wasn't, but that pain wouldn't have gone away if I had succeeded," Ron tried to explain himself. "That scary, absolutely wretched pain I was in; it would have just found others to latch onto. My parents, my siblings, my friends… I would've been free of it, sure, but only because I would have passed it on to them. They'd spend the rest of their days living with broken hearts, and all because I wanted to be free. I didn't even think about them, not really. It was all about me, even though it felt like it wasn't at the time."

"…Oh… I… I didn't think about…" she stopped, blanching. "…Oh…" I don't know your mother, but from what you've told me, she wouldn't survive losing you as well.

"I don't have all the answers about this sort of stuff, no one does, I reckon," Ron continued, keeping his voice as gentle as possible. "Most of the time, I don't even like to think about it, but I know that suicide is not the answer… Giving up is not the answer. It never is." He then drew in a deep breath, steeling himself. "Your turn."

Met shrunk in size and spirit, remaining silent for several seconds. "…My life isn't my own…" How so? "Everyone makes all my decisions for me, even people I've never met before."

"What do you mean?" Ron asked, his brow furrowed.

"I don't get to go to a school like other children, I don't have any friends besides my mother, I don't even get to choose what I wear…" she muttered, straightening out her kaftan with her hands. "…I hate wearing this… It's heavy, and the headdress hurts… It's too tight…"

"You mother makes you wear it? To impress the Şehzade?"

"To impress one of them, yes," she gave a weak nod. "Cemil Sadik-… Cemil Bey… He sent this to me, and my mother forced me to wear it." Please, don't say what I think you're saying.

"Why?"

"She and he are old friends," Met swallowed thickly. "And I'm… She promised me to-…" she stopped abruptly.

"Met?"

"She promised me to his son, Eldar Sadik," Met sniffled, clutching onto her kaftan. "…I just turned fourteen, and I'm already betrothed… And, he's only eight…" What?! She's promised to a child?! "…I'll never be free, and it's all because of my mother…" Bloody hell…

"I um… I'm sorry, Met, that sounds…" he trailed off. It sounds like madness, but I shouldn't say that. "Is that why you tried-?"

"Before that…" she interjected, he could barely hear her, now. "I just have these thoughts, sometimes… I know they're wrong, but I keep having them… I've tried-" she stopped, slowly pulling back her sleeve and showing him the faint scars across her inner forearm. Oh, Merlin… "I wanted to cut deeper, but I'm a… I'm a coward…" Why didn't she heal them, after? Why keep the scars?

Ron let out a shaky breath, feeling as though he'd been kicked in the head by a Hippogriff. Met quickly covered up her forearm, again, her eyes fixed to the ground. What do I even say here? This is horrible… I guess, we can never truly know how someone feels inside. Even as they're laughing and joking around on the outside, deep down, they're in more pain than we can imagine.

"They've been getting worse ever since my mother told me about Eldar," Met broke the silence. "The thoughts in my head… I don't want to feel like this, but I hate my life so much. I wish I were anyone but me."

"I understand that," Ron whispered, looking ahead. "You're not a coward, Met, but hurting yourself like this… It does no one any good, especially not you."

"But, that's the thing… It does feel good," she admitted guiltily. "I don't know why, but it feels… It feels like I'm…" she trailed off, unable to find the right words.

"It feels like you're in control, right?" Ron offered, and she looked back to him. "I know… Sometimes, when I get angry, and I start seeing red, I hit myself… Over the head, I mean. Really hard. It's better if I hit myself than others, right? At least, that's what I tell myself." Ron then drew in a sharp breath. "But, again, that's not right. I understand you, I really do, but unlike you, I've had the opportunity to talk to this wise woman about it, and she made me realize that I can't solve anything by hurting myself. It's not real control, not really. It does feel good, to feel anything but my anger, but the anger always comes back, regardless. It's a 'momentary relief', she said, it doesn't solve what's causing my anger. Or, in your case, sadness." Is sadness the right word for what she's feeling? Does it do justice to her being trapped the way she is-…?

"Did she tell you how to fix yourself?" Met asked, desperate. She's wise, but not that wise.

"People aren't objects, we can't be fixed so easily," Ron replied. "She hasn't given me a solution that would fix all my problems, no, but she has taught me methods of bringing myself back from the edge."

"Like what?"

"Simple things," Ron looked to her, despising the fact that she had no one to turn to. "Talking about it, like this, helps. Or, taking in deep breaths whenever you feel overwhelmed. Sometimes, I even count to ten in my head before I act, just to give myself more time to think. Talking is the best 'solution' so far, though."

"What if you don't have anyone to talk to?" she asked, looking put down by his counsel. "I can't tell my mother, Ronald… She… She would never understand… What I do to myself is haram… It's forbidden… She won't look past that…"

"You can talk to me," Ron suggested, surprising her. "The next time you feel that urge, you write me a letter instead of going through with it. You have an owl, don't you?" She gave a slow nod, still taken aback. "Then, send me an owl, and I will send it back with a letter of my own. I know it's not much, but I promise, I'll always respond."

"…I can't do that," she said hesitantly. "We only just met, and I-"

"You came to me because you thought I'd understand your feelings, right?" Ron asked, stopping her short. "Well, I do understand, Met, and I know you can't do this alone. Hell, there's so much I don't know myself, but maybe, we can figure it out together?"

Met managed a weak smile, but just as she opened her mouth to give her reply, they were interrupted by a group of rowdy teenagers. Met immediately put some distance between her and Ron, whereas the redhead looked to the intruders. They were being led by a blonde boy with sharp features and even sharper, blue eyes, an unopened bottle of Firewhiskey in his right hand. Following right at his heel was a pretty, raven-haired girl with shimmering, violet eyes that glowed in the dark, and further behind her were five others who were lost in their own conversation.

"Oh, what's this?" the blonde boy looked between Ron and Met, coming to a stop. "We've interrupted these two, all of you. It looks like this spot is already claimed." No accent. He looks familiar… But I've never met him, I know that.

"Leon, you know who that is, don't you?" one of the boys in the back smirked, stepping up to the blonde's side.

"I know exactly who he is," the boy named Leon chuckled smugly. "And, more importantly, I know what he is." All right… Time to go. Seven dead children would be tough to cover up, even for me.

"Met, let's be on our way, eh?" Ron stood up, offering her his gloved hand.

"No, no!" Leon moved forward, gesturing her to remain seated. "There's no need! There's plenty of space in here, isn't there? We can share."

"I don't vant to share vith the likes of him," the girl with the Magical eyes sneered, but Leon just waved a dismissive hand in her direction. "Ugh!"

"No need to be rude, Alice," Leon smirked, eyeing Ron up and down. "I've been wanting to meet him for a while, now. Don't ruin this for me."

"We'd be happy to share," Met spoke up, her voice upbeat, again. Yeah… Now isn't the time to make friends, especially not with this lot. "Isn't that right, Ronald?"

"She calls him by his name," the boy from earlier sniggered, his pointy nose and skinny face gave him the distinct look of a vulture. "Is the Blood-Traitor trying to cosy up to a Begum of Turkey? Scandalous!" I'll cosy up to your mother if you're not careful. Give you a little brother with far better manners.

Met blinked, and then, she let out a sigh. "We'll be going-"

"No, you'll stay," Leon all but commanded, vexing Ron. "Share this with us, please. I insist. Lady Grueva keeps nothing but the best, I'm told."

"I don't drink," Met stood up, taking Ron's gloved hand in hers. "Let's go."

"I've asked twice, now," Leon lost his mirth, adorning a rather deadly expression. "I'm trying to be polite, so sit back down. You're going to share a drink with us, and I won't take no for an answer."

"She just told you that she doesn't drink," Ron spoke up, keeping his voice even. "It's haram. Forbidden. Don't you know anything about Muslims, mate?" Met squeaked, barely holding back a laugh. "Ignorance is never pretty. You should do better as the son of a Lord." Why can't other people be as educated and worldly as me? Such a shame!

The older girl in the back laughed, which soured Leon's expression even more so. "He's got you there, Rask!" Rask?! He belongs to that cunt who works Muggles to death in his mines?! Yeah… Now, I know why I recognized him. He looks just like his father, only smaller.

"The wit of Slytherin's Prodigy," Rask whispered dangerously, no longer hiding his disdain of Ron. "The way everyone talks about you, Blood-Traitor… I thought you'd be ten feet tall, with arms strong enough to tear trees out of the ground."

"Sorry to disappoint," Ron shrugged, unbothered.

"I bet, everything I've read in the papers about you is a lie," Rask continued, sizing Ron up, again. "Resisting the Veela? Protecting those filthy, disease-ridden Werewolves? All of it is just a publicity stunt orchestrated by Lord Greengrass to further his own fame. You're just his fool, that's all." Is this supposed to bother me? Merlin, how jaded have I become, exactly? A year ago, I would've thrown a punch, already. "Do you deny it?"

"Dos it even matter?" Ron asked in response. "You seem to have made up your mind long before running into me. Now, excuse us. Met, come on-"

"He's scared of you, Leon," Alice laughed derisively, but Ron ignored her.

"You'll go when I say you can go," Rask hissed, shoving Ron back and frightening Met in the process. Oh, you little fuck… You don't want to do that.

"It's been a long time since anyone said no to you, hasn't it?" Ron frowned, moving between Rask and Met.

"I don't think he knows who you are, Leon," the vulture-faced boy laughed cruelly. This one… This prick is the one trying to escalate this mess. Who is he? And, what is he playing at? "Blood-Traitor, unlike you, Leon is a real prodigy! The youngest Duellist to ever make it into the German Nationals!" Is that so? That's actually impressive, but I can't say that out loud. Not right now.

"Did he win?" Ron asked, and judging by Rask's growing ire, he didn't. "That explains why I haven't heard of him. I've no time for losers."

"Loser?" Rask scoffed, his clenching right after. "In my bracket, I've no equal! None!" Something dangerous then flashed behind Rask's eyes, and he smirked, again. "A little test, then, to show you what this 'loser' is capable of… Ronald Weasley, I challenge you to a Wizard's Duel!"

Ron let out a sigh, his patience was beginning to wane. I should just grab that bottle and beat his skull in with it. When the others run in terror, I'll use Brachium Colubrum to seize them and crush them to death. Easy. It'll take me no more than a minute-…

"Well? Frightened, are you?" Rask laughed, and his lackeys joined in. "What's going through that ginger head of yours, Blood-Traitor?" I'm planning my one-way trip to Azkaban, that's what.

"What does this display of yours prove, eh?" Ron had to ask. "Are you trying to impress your friends? Because, from what I'm seeing, you could take your trousers off and shit right in front of them, and they'll still clap for you, regardless of the stench." Rask blinked, whereas the others were visibly revolted by the image. "I don't want to fight you, and no, it's not because I'm scared of you. You are small fish, and I'm too hungry to be satisfied by you. This is over. My friend and I are leaving, and you lot can enjoy that bottle with your teeth still in your heads."

As Ron took Met's hand in his, again, Rask suddenly brandished his ornamented wand with his spare hand and jabbed it into the Slytherin's neck. Okay… We're going there, then. Headmaster, forgive me, but I'm about to sodomize this boy with a bottle of Ogden's finest-…

"You really think you're something special, don't you?" Rask hissed, his handsome face contorting from outrage. "You-… You actually think you're my equal? You're nothing but a Blood-Traitor, and it just sickens me to know that you can walk free without a leash around your neck! You fucking filth… You disgusting, ugly, ill-bred dog!" Cutis Terra!

"Stop it!" Met shouted, panicked. "You're going too far!"

"What are you waiting for?" Ron provoked Rask, grinning as he felt his body become as strong as steel. "Do it. Go on. Try and put a leash around my neck." I need you to act, first, so you can better fit my code. Go on! Give me what I want so I can really hurt you-…!

"What foolishness transpires here, children?" came a familiar, sophisticated voice, and Ron looked to see Sanguini towering behind Rask's friends. How fortunate for you, little Rask. You've no idea how close you came to becoming a cripple. You'd be far less arrogant with just one eye left, of that I'm certain. "Sheathe your wand, boy, before you do something you'll regret for the rest of your life."

"This is none of your business, my Lord," Rask looked back, still keeping his wand at Ron's throat.

"I am Lord of no one, and I don't appreciate being mistaken for one," Sanguini said coolly, flashing his fangs.

Rask's cronies gasped, stepping away from the tall man. Sanguini, however, took a step forward, his dark eyes fixed solely on Ron. There's that look, again. He knows that I'm different, I'm certain of it, now.

"There is a lovely spot behind the hedges, and it is well-hidden," Sanguini advised. "Don't spoil this night over a silly game."

"Leon, ve should go," Alice urged, shoving the vulture-faced boy. "Cel-Tradat, say something to him." Cel-Tradat? This ugly prick is the son of Geofri and Maricara Cel-Tradat? From Romania, right? I don't know much about them, not yet.

"Leon, let's go," Cel-Tradat sighed out, visibly disappointed that their 'game' was over. "No point in wasting that bottle, right? The Blood-Traitor will get what he deserves soon enough." What's that supposed to mean? "If your father finds out that we stole from Lady Grueva, there will be consequences."

Rask growled at that, pulling the wand away from Ron's neck and sheathing it. "…You got lucky, dog. The next time we meet, you'll be wise enough to show me the respect I'm due."

"The next time we meet, I'm going to take your eye," Ron promised very calmly, surprising everyone. "The left one, most definitely. Not to hurt you, no, but rather, to humble you. To help you become a better man."

"Walk away, boy," Sanguini urged just as Rask went to retort, his voice shifting from sophisticated to almost-pleading. "Now."

"I'll be seeing you soon, dog," Rask sneered, turning on his heel and marching away.

The others followed after him, squeezing past Sanguini and rushing away. Ron relaxed his body and his mind, feeling the effects of Cutis Terra wear off. I held it for a little too long, but there's not much pain. I'll be fine once I've rested a little.

"Thank you so much, Sir," Met spoke up, stepping up to Ron's side. "If you hadn't come, that mean boy would've hurt Ronald."

Sanguini offered her a reassuring smile, though his eyes darted towards Ron wearily. "…Perhaps."

"What is your name, may I ask?" Met smiled back, her breathing out-of-sorts. "I will pray for you, tonight, in gratitude."

"I am Sanguini, and thank you," the Vampire bowed his head respectfully. "The thought is most comforting."

Met gave a nod, before looking to Ron. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, don't worry about me," Ron smiled, alarming her with his chipper tone. "Rask isn't the first Pureblood to get in my face, Met. I'm quite used to it."

"…That's terrible," her look of alarm turned to pity.

"Are you okay?" Ron asked her, studying her eyes. She's spooked, for sure. I doubt she's had a confrontation like this one before.

"Yes, I'm okay… I'm just sorry I didn't do more to help you," Met answered, exhaling. "I wanted to speak, but my voice wouldn't come out."

"You did the right thing," Ron assured her. "He's the sort that finds resistance to cruelty disrespectful. Your words would've just pushed him further."

"What a nasty, mean boy," Met frowned deeply, making Ron chuckle with her rather innocent description. "I hope he gets caught by his father and mother. Actually, we should go and tell them-"

"I would caution you against that," Sanguini interrupted, and Ron nodded his agreement.

"They won't take us seriously, and it'll just provoke him to come after us," Ron said, giving her arm a squeeze. "Let it go, Met. It's over, now." She glowered to herself, but eventually, she gave a nod. "Good. It's time to go back inside, I think. I don't want us to be out here when that lot is drunk."

"Your mother is searching for you," Sanguini told her. "It's why I came to find you. She threatened the House-Elf I was speaking to in a most frightening manner.'

"She was angry?" Met asked, sounding even more distressed, now. "I'd better go, then. She gets really worried if I disappear for too long." Worried? Worried people don't threaten random bystanders. "Oh, before I go… I'll um… I promise, I'll write to you, Ronald. About what we discussed, tonight."

Ron's smile grew upon hearing that, promising himself that he'd always respond in a timely manner. "And, I'll write back. Goodnight, Met. I'm really happy that you came over to speak to me."

"Me too," she shuffled her feet, smiling back. "I hope we can talk for longer the next time we meet."

"Likewise."

Sanguini and Ron watched the young Begum leave in haste, neither of them saying a word to each other for some time. I should just come out and say it. He's definitely not going to, he's too well-mannered. "Is it the smell? Or, my Magical Signature? What gives me away, Mr. Sanguini?"

The Vampire turned to face him, studying him keenly. "What are you? Where have you come from?"

"I asked first, Sir," Ron chuckled, grinning like an idiot. "Don't be rude, now. You answer my questions, and I'll answer yours. Let's keep this fair."

"Humans smell different to each Vampire, but it's always a pleasant aroma," Sanguini explained. "The sort of aroma that makes one's mouth water."

"And me?"

"You reek of rot, of decay. Not palatable in the slightest. I would even go as far as to say that you are the foulest thing I have ever smelled in my long, long life." That sounds awfully inconvenient for me.

"Ouch," Ron feigned hurt, deciding to be more careful around Vampire-Kind. "My turn, I suppose, and, of course, I will match your honesty, Sir. I am part-human, and part-God. I am-"

"Part-God?" Sanguini frowned, offended. "There is only one God, Mr. Weasley, and he does not smell like you."

"How do you know? You've sniffed his arse, have you?" Ron countered, it pleased him to get under this man's skin. "A man as travelled as you shouldn't be so small-minded, Sir. I remember you claiming that you've seen things even the Headmaster wouldn't believe. Well, as it turns out, he's friends with things you wouldn't believe."

"Or, you are both mad," Sanguini suggested, and Ron shrugged.

"I'm definitely mad, but that's the price you have to pay to know the secrets I know," Ron winked, he could see curiosity overtaking wariness in Sanguini's eyes. "Terrible, but marvellous, all of them. My secrets. I have seen things you would never believe, heard things you could never unhear, and lost things you will never understand. I tell you this, Mr. Sanguini, to add to your adventures. The adventures I'm most envious of. I want to become one of them, seeing as I can't have them myself." Ron then leaned forward, grinning, again. "Plus, it's not like anyone's going to believe you. They'll label you mad too, just another Vampire who's lived far too long for his own good."

Sanguini stared at him, his expression that of stone. "…If you are telling the truth, then, I would very much like to take my leave of you. I know better than to question things beyond my understanding." I see. The smell must be more terrible than I can imagine, if he's so quick to believe me. That's really fucking inconvenient.

"Then, off you pop," Ron gestured him to walk away. "But, before you go, answer me this. What's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen in my world? The most astonishing?"

Sanguini thought deeply about the question, and then, he stood up straighter. "My mother, may God rest her blessed soul." What a boring answer… I wanted to hear more about this 'Temple of Shadows' he mentioned earlier.

"You may go, now," Ron looked back ahead, already mentally preparing himself to re-join the party.

Sanguini wasted no time in leaving, but stopped and turned before he walked too far. "Why is one such as you here? At this gathering?"

"Oh, you know why I'm here," Ron said dangerously, his eyes glowing red, now. "You knew from the moment you first saw me. Or, rather, smelled me."

Sanguini drew in a shaky breath, losing his composure for the first time since Ron had seen him. "The girl too…?"

"The innocent have nothing to fear from me, only the guilty do," Ron assured him, adorning a friendly smile. "Goodnight, Sir, and don't ever let me see you at another gathering like this, socialising with these vile, cruel-hearted people."

Sanguini gave a firm nod, and then, he was gone. I like him, and one day, I'd love to hear of his adventures in more detail. It's comforting to know that, even in a place like this, there are people like him and Met. It's a good reminder that I have to be absolutely certain before I act, so that I save what can be saved and destroy what must be destroyed.

---

Amelia Bones' POV

Friday 30th April, 1994 (Gruev Manor – Night)

Amelia breathed in the cool air, glad to be out of the manor with nothing but her own thoughts. This night is progressing worse than anything I imagined. The other Ministers… They are avoiding me. Weber has his nose up Rask's arse, Grigorov might as well be one of Grueva's House-Elves, Ulusoy is outright ignoring my invitation to speak, Ardelean hasn't been seen for the last hour, and Ivanov hasn't even arrived yet. I will get no aid here, it seems. Damn you, Fudge… Damn your short-sightedness and your desperation for public approval. We are barely managing to keep the Ministry's most vital Departments afloat, several hard-working, loyal people have been sacked, and now, without the Americans, I will be forced to rely on the Sacred Twenty-Eight. I will be forced to bow to their every whim and desire, just like the incompetent before me.

Amelia chugged down her glass of wine, letting out a tired groan, after. "Becoming Minister was always part of the plan, but not like this. What do I do, now? How do I even begin to clean up the mess Fudge left behind?"

She wanted nothing more than to allocate all her Aurors to a single job; finding Fudge and dragging him to Azkaban under corruption charges. Unfortunately, however, the plump fool had gone into hiding, and no one knew of his whereabouts. Even his wife doesn't know where he went, such is his cowardice. He left her behind to suffer his debts alone. Merlin… I need another drink, and then, I need to make a decision about Harper's offer.

Just as Amelia was about to move, the sound of hurried footsteps caught her attention. She looked to the stairs leading into the gardens, only to see a tall, skinny fellow rushing towards the manor. Who's that? And why does he look like he's being chased by robbers?

"Is everything all right, my good man?" Amelia called out, and the pale man stopped abruptly, looking in her direction with a startled expression.

"Yes… Um… Forgive my haste…" the man muttered, looking quite dishevelled, as if he'd been running. "I um… I must be on my way…"

"You look as though you've had a fright," Amelia pointed out, noticing the sweat dripping down his temples. "What's the matter? What did you see out there?"

"Nothing," the man replied far too quickly, before clearing his throat. "I saw nothing. Goodnight."

Amelia opened her mouth to question him further, but he marched away without hesitation, utterly ignoring her. Strange… Amelia looked in the direction of the gardens, raising an eyebrow. Something feels off, all of a sudden. Why was that man in such a rush to leave? I should investigate, just to be certain that no one is hurt.

Putting her empty wine glass aside, Amelia descended the stairs and made her way into the extensive gardens. The area was too large to be covered by a single person, even one with as much experience surveying crime scenes as her, but for now, she decided that it was best she do this alone. There was no need to make a scene, after all, as that would only serve to alienate her further from her fellow Ministers. I can sense a few Magical Signatures, but nothing out of the ordinary.

Deeper and deeper into the gardens she went, past the various exotic flora and the marble statues depicting explicit images of an unsavoury act, but nothing stood out to her as particularly interesting. Instead, she soon found herself wondering about why she was doing this in the first place. Was it just to distract herself from the mounting pressure of her new Office? Was she expecting some sense of normalcy to re-enter her life by playing the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, again? This is pathetic… There's nothing out here, save for a cornered woman who is well out of her depth.

As she delved even deeper, she happened upon a beautiful, spacious, ivy-covered gazebo, but more interestingly, she saw that a redhaired boy stood at the entrance, adorned in a stylish, tailored, black suit. Amelia stopped in her tracks, taken aback by his presence. He smiled at her, a childish smile filled with endless glee, but his eyes were not that of a child, but rather, they were the eyes of a weary, old man. A man comes running out of the gardens, looking scared for his life, and what do I find at the heart of said gardens? Ronald Bilius Weasley… This boy… There's something not right about him. Rufus knew it… He sensed it right from the start. I should've listened to him, but I was too concerned with politics to trust my oldest friend. It's time I made up for that mistake.

Concentrating her mind, Amelia approached the abnormal boy with resolute, even steps, until she stood before the steps of the gazebo. Weasley's shadow engulfed her entirely, and as she stared up at him, she couldn't help but notice his very pale complexion. Bone-white… I thought that it was so because he was sick, but maybe, I was wrong. I've seen that complexion before on those who have cast the Killing Curse without remorse, without pity. That's the complexion of a killer. Is he capable of that, though? At fourteen? If so, then how? Is he deranged? Like Bellatrix Lestrange? Like Phillip Travers? No… It's something else entirely, but I can't quite put my finger on it.

"Minister Bones," Weasley greeted, studying her. "I was wondering when we'd finally meet, again."

"Once again, I find you lurking in a place that you have no business being in," Amelia said, not hiding her irritation. "Why are you here, Mr. Weasley? Surely, you must understand that these people loathe your ilk? Or, are you truly so arrogant as to believe that they don't pose a threat to you?"

"They pose a threat to everyone, not just me," Weasley shrugged, his smile growing in amusement. "I'm the sort to run into danger, rather than away from it."

"Why?" Amelia asked. "Are you mad? Stupid? Impulsive? Or, Merlin forbid, a combination of all three?"

Weasley sniggered, putting a frown on her face. Arrogant little shit… "Are you upset with me, Minister? You don't usually speak to me in this way."

Amelia drew in a sharp breath, forcing herself to settle down. "You have made my life very difficult recently, and I'm not even sure that you realize that."

"The Wizengamot," Weasley said, confirming her suspicions. "I'm tired of you making excuses, that's all. Those people displaced in the Ministry's unjust raid need help, and since your people are blocking mine from providing said help, I've decided to light a fire under you." I have never wanted to strike a child before, but right now, I want nothing more than to walk up these stairs and cuff him under the ear.

"You… foolish, ignorant child…" Amelia grit out, her square jaw clenching so tightly that her face began to shake. "Enough is enough. You will cease your constant meddling in the affairs of the Ministry, or, I will-"

"You will what?" Weasley interrupted, laughing at her. "Put me on trial, again? Label me a traitor to Magical Britain? Accuse me of fanning the flames of rebellion? Oh, please… If you do that, everyone will lose their minds. After all, you helped exonerate me before, remember? If you put me on trial, again, the people will accuse you of targeting a sick child, just like your predecessor, instead of solving the country's numerous problems. So, I will meddle all I fucking like, and you'll just have to put up with it." I hate this, but he's bloody right… He is adored by the people, they see him as a golden child, and if I put him on trial, they will demand my head in the streets.

"Fudge was right about you," Amelia realized, making him laugh, again. "As dim-witted as he was, as egotistical, he realized early that you were threatening his power… The Ministry's power."

"And you didn't," Weasley teased, tutting. "Doesn't that bother you, Minister? That even an idiot could see what you couldn't?"

"Why are you doing all of this?" Amelia demanded. "Do you even understand the position I'm in? You think I don't want to help my own people? You want me to go running to the same bastards who've turned the Ministry into their personal circus? Is that it? You serve the Purebloods, now?"

"My alliance, you mean?" Weasley asked, and she sneered at the thought of them. "What if I told you that I don't give two shits about them?" …What? "They might not be as twisted as some of their fellow Purebloods, but they are every bit as greedy and self-important. The more time I spend with them, the sicker I feel. Honestly, if I could have my way, they'd be stripped of all their influence at once." I… did not expect that… He's telling the truth, isn't he? "Look at you, now… You don't know what the fuck to think, anymore, right?"

"You're lying…"

"Am I?" Weasley leaned forward, his expression dead serious.

"Then, why are you pushing me to accept their help?" Amelia questioned. "Their gold? Gold that comes with the promise of bondage to their schemes? Don't you see that I'm trying to change who the Ministry serves?!"

"I'm not pushing you towards them, Minister, but rather, away from them," Weasley said cryptically. "I am guiding you to a better future." What are you talking about? Are you just talking rubbish?!

"Speak plainly, boy," Amelia threatened. "I've no more patience left for you. None."

"Do you know what I think, Minister?' Weasley asked in response, sounding whimsical, now. "I think, you're not really angry with me. No… You're angry with the system you've dedicated your life to. A system that is corrupt, broken, and built by those you are so desperate to get away from. The Purebloods… The cunts…" Amelia grimaced at that; she truly despised that word. "However, as angry as you are, you know you can't do anything to them. They're too rich, too powerful, and they can strip you of your Ministership within a few weeks if you dared to openly cross them. You are a slave to them, to their Ministry, and you're starting to realize that, now."

"You seem to have given my predicament a lot of thought, Mr. Weasley," Amelia all but whispered, still grimacing. "Perhaps, you should focus more on your own life. Or, rather, what's left of it." Petty, Amelia… That was weak and unkind of you…

"I'm right, aren't I?" Weasley grinned smugly, ignoring her insult. "Of course, I am, because you're also right, I have given it a lot of thought. It's all I think about, honestly. The state of the Wizarding World, and why it's so fucked up." Weasley then pointed right at her. "People like you are why, Minister. As terrible and self-indulgent as the Purebloods are, people like you are the root of the problem."

"People like me?"

"You yourself admitted to me that you did not do your job as the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to the best of your ability," Weasley reminded her of her exclusive with his magazine. "You put your political career above the lives of Muggles and Muggleborns, ignoring the Carrow twins and their friends even as they slaughtered hundreds over a bloody decade." Amelia couldn't help but avert her gaze a little, regret filling her. "You can blame me all you like, Minister, but the truth is the truth. You are in your predicament because people like you have served the Purebloods for centuries. Just because you've suddenly become the Minister doesn't change your past, I'm afraid."

"I am not interested in the past," Amelia looked back up, her resolve would not be shaken so easily. "It is the future of this country that concerns me, now."

"Then, we're more alike than you realize," Weasley shrugged, again. "I too care about the future of this nation, which is why I keep 'meddling' in Ministry affairs."

"If this is true, then help me," Amelia said firmly. "Don't hinder me."

"Again, I'm not hindering you," Weasley assured her. "I am pushing you to forge a new path, a path that the Purebloods won't see coming. Rip the Ministry from their grasp, Minister. Show them that they are nothing more than mere citizens, just like those they look down upon. Be free of them." Does he know about the Americans and their offer? No… No, Harper came to me, and I've kept that information between those I trust. "They will resist, the Purebloods… My alliance. Yaxley's people. They will all resist, but I promise you, I'll be rooting for you."

"You just said that I was the problem, remember?" Amelia narrowed her eyes, she had even more questions about Weasley than before. "People like me, you said."

"I am not a fool, not entirely," Weasley countered. "I know the Ministry is necessary for order to be maintained. Without it, every witch and wizard will be free to do as they please, and that would breed chaos and death on a scale that is frightening to even imagine. People are, after all, degenerates. You give them a tiny bit of power, and it goes right to their heads. So, I'm willing to look past the Ministries many failings, but only if it mends its ways."

"Only if it mends its ways?" Amelia frowned. "The sheer hubris with which you speak, boy… Who are you to dictate such terms?"

"Someone has to, so why not me?" Weasley asked in response. "And, Minister, what you just said to me… That's exactly how the Purebloods feel about you resisting them. Who are you to dictate terms to them? They look down at you, and so, you look down at me. How dare I question your precious Ministry, right? How dare I, a lowly Blood-Traitor, seek a better, more just government? How dare I?"

"I did not-…" Amelia started, but stopped. He… makes a valid point…

"I am young, I know this, but look at these eyes," Weasley said, opening them wide. "They've seen too much pain, too much suffering. They watched a young girl become an orphan in the camps your government is ignoring. You despise me because I don't want to see something so horrible, again? Why? Because it makes the Ministry look weak if it's questioned? Your mistreatment of Werewolves, Vampires, Squibs, Centaurs, Merpeople, and all other 'undesirables'… It has to be questioned, or, the mistreatment will never stop. The Ministry must mend its ways, or, like the Purebloods, it will have to go. I will tolerate it no further, and I'm not alone. Not anymore." The Quibbler… More and more people around the Wizarding World are subscribing to it, and by extension, to his beliefs.

Amelia drew in another sharp breath, thinking his words through very carefully. "If you feel so strongly about removing the Purebloods from power, then why did you bring them together? Why work with them?"

"Because we don't make peace with our friends, only our enemies," Weasley replied. "Their influence has been useful to me, but that time is quickly passing. I learned from them, I used them, and soon, I will discard them." They've taught you well, then.

"You realize that, by admitting this to me, you've given me leverage over you, don't you?"

"You won't use it."

"Won't I? What makes you so certain?"

"You're a good person, an honourable person," Weasley responded calmly. "And, like me, you too understand that things have to change. You understand that the power has to be shared with the people, and not just the elite few. Running off to my alliance won't change anything for you, save for you losing a potential friend." He's right. As troublesome as he can be, I don't want his blood on my hands.

"…You are an enigma, Mr. Weasley," Amelia whispered, taking off her monocle and cleaning it against her dress. "And yet, this conversation has been most enlightening."

"I'm glad," he smiled fondly. "You want to make the Ministry a government that serves its people, and for that alone, you have my respect, Minister. I want to see you succeed, so if I can be of any help to you, then come find me." And, how long will it be before you discard me as well? How long will it be before I too become a victim of your seemingly endless ambitions? You just admitted to me that you're willing to turn on those who have raised you up, so how am I meant to ever trust you? I can't… You are more dangerous than even Rufus realized, but I see you, now.

"Dinner will be starting soon," she said, turning to leave. "I'm told that Lady Grueva has prepared quite a feast. Come."

"I'll stay a bit longer, I think," Weasley refused. "I can't even begin to describe how much I despise these people. I much prefer being out here than in there."

"Very well, suit yourself," Amelia began to walk away.

"Minister…" Weasley called out, stopping her. "Mad-Eye, first, and then, someone less conspicuous?" Amelia turned around, her breath hitching. Damn it… "I've learned the game, and I've learned it well. I can be a powerful friend to you, but an even more powerful enemy. Don't make the wrong choice, please."

Amelia could do little but give a nod, before walking away. It's most strange… The way he talks, it doesn't sound as though he's worried about dying young. If anything, it sounds as though he's planning to stick around for a long time. Is it madness? Delusion? Has the brain-damage warped his sense of reality? Or, have the reports about his failing health been greatly exaggerated? So many questions… I think, it's best I go to the very beginning, instead of relying on an agent he'll see coming. I must go to Arthur, and hope that the man understands the mind of his son.

---

Corban Yaxley's POV

Friday 30th April, 1994 (Gruev Manor – Night)

"…it could all be arranged with a few choice words with the appropriate Ministry Officials over lunch," Corban continued, he had agreed to provide both Valeriya and Gusev with import/export licences. "However, be warned, that there is a legislation in place, at this current moment, that will greatly hinder you should you attempt to expand your business to Magical Britain. It was an unfortunate necessity, to stop a French plot, but it will soon be abolished."

"But these licences, my Lord…" Gusev fretted, he was a most timid fellow. "Do you truly have sway with the Russian Ministry? Even as a British Lord?" Gold speaks all languages, boy… I don't need sway with the entire Russian Ministry, I merely need to fatten the right person's pocket.

"Pavel, Lord Yaxley is a man of means," Valeriya reassured her partner, even as her eyes remained glued to Corban. "And he has a reputation of building others up, instead of tearing them down like our countrymen. I believe him."

"You are both Pure, and that is reason enough for me to help you," Corban said, suddenly feeling Valeriya's heeled foot running up his calf under the table. This vixen… I like her boldness. "Gusev, my good man, why don't you fetch us something to celebrate our new union? Brandy will do."

"Of course, my Lord," Gusev stood up, smiling gratefully. "Thank you, my Lord, for giving us a chance. We won't let you down."

Corban smiled back, turning his attention towards Valeriya the moment Gusev walked off. "You two make an unlikely couple, Valeriya, if I may be so bold as to make an assumption… Most unlikely."

"We're not a couple, my Lord," the girl chuckled, amused by the mere thought.

"Does he know that?" Corban raised an eyebrow. The boy is clearly lovesick.

"He is my-…" Valeriya started, but stopped. "My Lord, Pavel and I come from very minor families. Weak families. In Russian Pureblood society, the strong eat, but the weak starve. His father and my father were friends, and they planned to join our families into one through Pavel and I. We were raised together, and later, even betrothed to each other, but then, both our fathers died."

"Both of them?" Corban asked, curious. What a coincidence.

"They attempted to cheat a debt owed to Lady Agapov," Valeriya explained. "She had them both drowned, I'm told." What savagery… The Pure murdering the Pure. "I called off our betrothal, but my fortunes were already tied to his, so I let him follow me around. Like a pet, one that's quite good with numbers."

"So, you are free to pursue other men?" Corban liked the sound of that, he didn't enjoy unnecessary complications.

"Men, exactly," she smiled, pressing her foot against his inner thigh. "I don't want a boy, my Lord, and Pavel is just that. A boy. A pathetic, boring, weak boy. He has no power, barely any wealth, and if it weren't for me, he'd be sitting at home tonight with his nose buried in a book." So, she got them in here. I won't be so rude as to ask, but I imagine she did the right Lord the right favour. I doubt I'm any different, but that hardly matters. What she wants is easy enough to give, and I need relief.

"You want a man, you say, but surely, you know that I'm already taken, don't you?"

"I'm eighteen, my Lord," Valeriya laughed, not fussed in the slightest. "I'm not looking for a husband, just some fun." Good, that works in my favour. "And, even though you are taken, I don't see you resisting my advances."

Her foot moved to his manhood, pressing with just the right amount of pressure. "No, I am not resisting your advances."

"That pleases me more than any license ever could, my Lord," she whispered, leaning back in her chair. Such a beauty… If I'm not careful, she'll have me wrapped around her finger before long.

Corban drew in a deep breath, before reaching under the table and taking a hold of her foot. She raised a playful eyebrow, waiting for his next move most eagerly. "Not tonight, my dear. First, I will get you what you need, and only then will I enjoy my reward."

Valeriya blinked, taken aback. "…I don't understand, my Lord…"

"Where I come from, we protect our own," Corban explained simply. "You are Pure, Valeriya Drozdova. That's more important than wealth and fame. You must be treated with respect, always. I will not take advantage of you. I will do right by you, and should you still desire me, I will take you into my bed." Corban then moved her foot away, looking towards the approaching Lord Gusev. "Ah, he returns, at last."

"Forgive the delay, my Lord," Gusev sat down beside Valeriya, who was speechlessly staring at Corban. "Lord Sokolov has become rather drunk, and he… It doesn't matter…"

Corban studied Gusev's ruffled hair, frowning slightly. "Yes, Lord Sokolov is a most… unruly… guest."

"I fear that if he gets any drunker, he will start showing off his knives," Gusev muttered worriedly, offering Corban his brandy. "…The last party we attended with him; he proved his marksmanship by throwing one of his knives at an Elf… It was…" he trailed off, looking paler.

"It was cruel," Valeriya provided, breaking out of her stupor. "That Elf was a loyal servant of Lord Morozov, and Sokolov murdered him-"

"Don't say that," Corban advised. "Don't ever say that. If he hears you, or, if his friends hear you, even I won't be able to help you."

Valeriya gave a nod, accepting her brandy from Gusev. "Where's yours, Pavel?"

"Oh… I don't really like brandy…" Gusev admitted with a pathetic laugh, earning himself a pair of dull looks. "It hurts my throat."

Corban exchanged a look with Valeriya, but said nothing. A boy, indeed.

"To our new patron," Valeriya toasted Corban, smiling, again. "To his health, and to the health of our new partnership-"

"Mind if I join you?" came a familiar, icy voice, taking Corban completely by surprise.

He turned his head back, and found himself staring up at the ever-elusive Arcturus Carrow. You… Where the fuck have you been this last month?!

"Lord Carrow, we would be honoured-" Valeriya started.

"I was speaking to Corban, girl," Arcturus turned his cold gaze towards her, silencing her. "Take your friend and go."

Corban frowned deeply, but gave Valeriya and Gusev a subtle nod. "We shall speak more at another time."

Valeriya looked somewhat annoyed by this intrusion, but Gusev wasted no time in getting up. "Let's go, Valeriya. We shouldn't overstay our welcome."

"Very well, then," Valeriya rose up, holding Corban's gaze. "My Lord."

"Lady Drozdova."

The Russian pair left without another word, and once they were lost amongst the other guests, Corban stood up and turned to face Arcturus. "Where have you been, Arcturus? Why are you so difficult to find?"

"Unlike you, my friend, I care very little for the limelight," Arcturus 'smiled', studying him keenly. "She was pretty, that girl. Much prettier than your wife."

"Mind your tongue," Corban warned, making Arcturus chuckle. I'm beginning to truly despise this slimy worm. "You might be Pure, but if you insult my wife, I will kill you."

"I'm not the one insulting her," Arcturus remained unfazed, taking a sip from his glass of Firewhiskey. "But, enough of the niceties… Nott mentioned that you brought together the most powerful Lords at this party. How did that go? Can we count on their support?"

"…Yes," Corban answered coolly, swallowing his anger. "No thanks to you, of course. I figured that you had no intention of showing up."

"The start of these things is always dull to me," Arcturus said. "No, I much prefer it when the alcohol has done it's work. Drunk people are honest people. It makes my life a lot easier."

"Drunk people are easier to manipulate, you mean," Corban frowned, and Arcturus chuckled, again.

"Indeed."

"Then, here's some honesty for you, Arcturus. You, my slippery friend, have done nothing to help our cause, and I shall pass this on to the Dark Lord. He will know that your promises are empty, and he will not be as lenient as I am."

"Promises? What promises?" Arcturus asked, feigning ignorance.

"Ronald Weasley…" Corban sneered. "You promised to approach him on our behalf, remember? But then, you vanished, as you always do."

"I did approach him, though," Arcturus said, surprising Corban. "Or, rather, my people did."

"When?"

"When he travelled to the States," Arcturus replied, smiling innocently. "It was a most revealing encounter, if I do say so myself."

"And you didn't feel the need to inform the rest of us?" Corban seethed.

"He is not interested in our little club," Arcturus shrugged. "As a matter of fact, he despises it. Nothing you say, or, do, will make an ounce of difference, I'm afraid." Damn it all! I rue the day I heard that boy's blasted name! "So, no, I didn't inform you. What would be the point? You already know that he's not interested, don't you?"

"Are you with us, Arcturus?" Corban questioned, taking a step forward. "Are you truly with us? Because I get the feeling that you're not. You certainly don't act as though you are. No… You do whatever pleases you. You come and go whenever-"

"Are you accusing me of being a spy, Corban?" Arcturus asked, interrupting him. "If so, then for who? The British Ministry? The Russian Ministry? No, wait… I know! It's the Australian Ministry, isn't it?"

"Do. Not. Mock. Me," Corban grit out. "You have abandoned your people in their greatest hour of need, and I will never forget that."

"And, what have my people done for me, exactly, that I should put them before my own needs?" Arcturus asked in response, losing his mirth. "My brother and sister are dead, and what have you lot done? Nothing… You distance yourselves from my name, and yet, you still expect me to be your errand boy? Is that truly fair, Corban? It is my name that was dragged through the mud more than any other. Do you want to know why I vanished? I had no other choice. My business partners, my contacts, even my own shareholders… They've all distanced themselves from me. I fear that I will never recover from the scandal that surrounds the Carrow name, now. Never."

Corban felt himself cool off a little, realizing that he was, perhaps, asking too much of a man whose once-great name was now synonymous with scandal. "…You are not wrong, I suppose. Forgive me, I allowed anger to blind me to your burdens. Of course, we mourn with you… And, it is true that your name has taken the brunt of the assault."

Arcturus gave a nod, putting on another one of his unsettling smiles. "Do I need to worry about the Dark Lord ending what's left of my family?"

"No," Corban answered. "The Carrow name is a vital part of Britain's history. I will not allow it to fade so abruptly."

"And, for that, you have my gratitude," Arcturus said, gesturing him to follow. "Come, Corban, I did not come here to merely catch-up with you. Minister Ivanov arrived shortly before I did, and we should go give her our condolences." She's here, at last? Wait… What did he say?

"Condolences? Whatever for?" Corban asked, following the thin man.

"Rumour has it that Lord Volkov, the man with the heart of stone, has taken her precious son into his care," Arcturus informed Corban, shocking him. What? "He did not mention that when you spoke to him?"

"No, he did not," Corban replied, thinking. "Why would he do that? Was it before, or, after, Rodolphus approached him, I wonder?"

"Rodolphus?" Arcturus stopped, eye-brow raised. "The Dark Lord's 'most loyal' are up and about, are they? Already?"

"Yes, and they are secretly approaching the most powerful of the Russian Lords and Ladies. It will not be long before the Dark Lord has Russia under his banner." Corban then gave Arcturus a wary look, somewhat suspicious. "How did you learn of Volkov's actions before I did?" How are you so well-informed, despite being in hiding?

"I may have vanished, my friend, but my eyes and ears did not," Arcturus explained. "Volkov must've made his move before he was approached, I believe. This does create a dilemma for the Dark Lord, though… If Volkov has her son, then she'll be his lackey and not the Dark Lord's. Don't you agree?"

"I do." This is less than ideal, and the Dark Lord will see that. I'm certain of it.

"The Russian Minister might not be with us for long, then."

"No, he would not discard her so easily," Corban argued. "Volkov has given his allegiance, already. It would be wiser for the Dark Lord to take the boy into his own custody."

"Let's hope that he does," Arcturus said, his lips twitching upwards. "I'm certain that Volkov will just hand the boy over without making demands of any sort."

"He would not dare," Corban frowned at the thought of such impertinence.

"He is a very daring man, I assure you. We'll just have to wait and see, won't we? Come. She should be with her most trusted advisors."

"And, who would they be?" Corban asked, following, again.

"Yaroslov Kalashnik and Kseniya Chaban," Arcturus replied, once again making Corban wonder how he knew so much. "The Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the Head of the Department of International Magical Co-operation, respectively. Kalashnik is not a popular man, but he was friends with her father. He is quite protective of her, so be warned. As for Chaban, she's a crafty one, and her love for her Ministry is only rivalled by her love for the Russian people. She is more loyal to the country than to its Minister, in other words, but that's not to say that they aren't good friends."

"Anyone else that I need to know about?" Corban asked.

"Just one more… Lord Konstantin Rasputin," Arcturus shot a smirk back. Rasputin? Wasn't he the Russian wizard who attempted to infiltrate the Muggle, imperial family of Russia? "I know what you're thinking… It's not the same man, Corban. The one you're thinking of was a disgraced son who attempted to con a bunch of Muggles, only to get himself killed for his troubles. No, Konstantin is the current Head of the Rasputin family, though he's a younger man than either of us."

"What's his role? Why is he with Minister Ivanov, and not his fellow Purebloods?"

"They call him 'The Bridge' at the Russian Ministry. He has powerful friends in the Muggle government there. His name excites them, the Muggles. Don't underestimate him, however. He is not like the other Lords of Russia."

"How so?"

"He serves the Russian Ministry, and only the Russian Ministry. His influence is so great within Muggle Russia's government that no man, or, woman, is allowed to harm him by decree of the Russian Ministry itself. Without him, the Russian Ministry would be forced to recreate relations with its Muggle counterpart from the ground up." A Pureblood that has made himself untouchable through his relationship with Muggles? How absurd… And, how curious…

"You know far too much about these people, Arcturus," Corban pointed out. "Good. We'll need your knowledge if we're to navigate these uncharted waters."

"I will be happy to guide you all," Arcturus said, sounding amused. "Ah, there she is. The guest of honour herself, Samara Ivanov."

"Why Ivanov? Why not Ivanova?" Corban asked, watching the Russian Minister conversing with a well-groomed man. "Does her family not adhere to Russian traditions?"

"Her father wanted a son, and her birth did nothing to change his plans," Arcturus whispered. "Don't bring it up." Noted.

They made their way over to the Russian Minister and her entourage, stopping just far away enough to be noticed, but not interrupt her conversation. The plump, balding man behind her leaned in and whispered something in her ear, after which she looked directly towards Corban and Arcturus. So, she is the Dark Lord's agent in Russia. I've longed to meet her, I must admit.

"Try and enjoy the evening, Konstantin," Samara gave the well-groomed man an encouraging smile. "If not for yourself, then for me."

Konstantin Rasputin drew in a sharp breath, before giving a nod. "I will find Lord Orlov and his wife, they make for good company."

With that, Konstantin walked away, marching past Corban and Arcturus without even offering them a glance. They seem… close. Samara looked to them, beckoning them with a simple gesture.

"Corban Yaxley and Arcturus Carrow," she greeted them as they approached, her eyes sizing them up. "One of you I know a great deal about, but the other is a complete mystery. Care to guess which is which?"

"That's hardly difficult, Minister," Corban spoke first, his tone perfectly polite and jovial. "Even to his friends, Arcturus is a mystery."

"By design," Arcturus added.

Samara smiled lightly, amused by their answer. "What sort of man keeps secrets from his own friends?"

"The sort of man who's been disappointed far too often," Arcturus answered. Disappointed? "It is good to see you, again, Minister."

"Again? We have never met, my Lord."

"And yet, I've seen you."

"With your own eyes?"

"With eyes I own."

Samara's lips quirked upwards, but the plump man behind her seemed far less pleased. "Then, you have me at a disadvantage, Lord Carrow."

"I most certainly do, Minister," Arcturus chuckled, before turning a little in Corban's direction. "My friend and I were wondering if we could speak to you alone about some pressing matters. Would that be all right with your staff?"

"Pressing matters? Already?" Samara asked, intrigued. "Very well, then. Yaroslov, Kseniya… I will find you later. Mingle, please. Enjoy the night, and Lady Grueva's renowned hospitality." Her staff bid her farewell in Russian, before leaving the three to discuss matters without the need for secrecy. "Now, these pressing matters you mentioned… What do you wish to discuss?"

"May I start by congratulating you, Minister?" Corban asked.

"There's no need, my Lord," Samara said modestly. "This is all a bid to win favour from the Russian Ministry, nothing more."

"I wasn't speaking of the honours Grigorov wishes to bestow upon you."

"No? Then, what do you wish to congratulate me for?"

"For securing Magical Russia for our Master," Corban clarified, not failing to notice the sudden death of her mirth. "You have done what all others, including myself, have failed to do. You have secured an entire country for him. Surely, he must hold you in the highest esteem." But I can see that the feeling is not exactly mutual. Odd. He spoke most highly of his agent in Russia during the war, when she was still climbing the ranks of her Ministry. What's changed? Has she acquired a taste for power herself, and no longer wishes to share?

"He taught me well," she said simply. "And, it is my privilege to serve him."

"With Russia's backing, the lesser countries surrounding yours will yield to him in due time," Corban continued. "You are to be commended, truly. History will remember you as the mother of the Pure World, I will see to it myself."

"You give me too much credit, my Lord," Samara said, her voice lacking all emotion, now. "Perhaps, it would be wise not to discuss our Master here? Until we're certain that all those around us are with us?" What is this hesitance I sense from her? Is it doubt? Has she lost faith in our righteous cause? Has she become greedy? Whatever it may be, I don't like it.

"Of course," Corban maintained his pleasant demeanour. "And, although, Grigorov is trying to curry favour from you, I would still like to congratulate on tonight as well. I hope we can speak more later, once you've settled in."

"I would like that as well," she gave the pair a parting nod. "Lord Yaxley. Lord Carrow."

"Minister," they both said, watching in silence as she left to mingle with those who had been awaiting her arrival.

"It appears that Minister Ivanov might not be the loyal agent the Dark Lord painted her as," Corban whispered, frowning. "Did you see her, Arcturus?"

"I did," he replied, his voice distant. "Interesting…"

"Interesting?" Corban looked to him, and Arcturus shook his head clear.

"Sorry, but I was expecting someone a lot more… in control. You are right, of course. Her mood soured at the mention of the Dark Lord, and that is not a good sign for our common cause."

"What's changed? Was it not his counsel and teachings that propelled her into her Ministership?" Ungrateful woman. I must alert the Dark Lord of this. He must know that she could be compromised.

"Perhaps, she too realizes that her son's life is nothing more than a bargaining chip, now? Whoever holds him, holds her reigns too." Arcturus then tapped his sharp chin, clicking his tongue. "Do you know what's strange, Corban?"

"What?"

"From what I've gathered, the identity of her son's father is not known to anyone," Arcturus hummed, 'smiling' at him. "However, around a year before he was born, Minister Ivanov made great strides in furthering her Ministry's relations with its Muggle counterpart."

Corban blinked, before being filled with revulsion. "…You're not implying that-…? No… Surely, she would never sink so low!"

"Who knows?" Arcturus shrugged. "Actually, it was her personal decree that Konstantin Rasputin be protected against all forms of attack. Perhaps, he is the father? Or, he knows of the father? Either way, I don't think the Dark Lord can trust her. You should make him aware of this, just so that we avoid another disaster." He's right. If there is even a shadow of a doubt, then I must make certain that we are not betrayed.

"Thank you, Arcturus," Corban said, patting the thin man on the arm. "Forgive me for how I treated you earlier. You have proven most valuable, tonight."

"I'm just here to help," Arcturus said nonchalantly. "Now, if you will excuse me, I should find my wife. She has been pestering me to take her dancing, and I'd like to put a stop to that."

"I should find Anastasia myself. I will see you on the dance floor, then."

"You certainly shall."

---

Albus Dumbledore's POV

Friday 30th April, 1994 (Gruev Manor – Night)

"Minister Ivanov!" Albus greeted, beaming when her piercing gaze cut through him. "We meet, again! How fortuitous! A truly remarkable coincidence!"

"I very much doubt that," Samara said icily, before looking back to Lady Dolohov. "Mila, I'm sure you know who this is."

"Yes, I know exactly who he is," the slender witch whispered dangerously, her scornful eyes scanning him. "At least, he dresses better than Karkaroff." Yes, I thought I saw him lurking about. "Smells better too, actually."

"I am glad you approve, Lady Dolohov," Albus chuckled, he did so enjoy the venom in her tone. "Are you enjoying the night?" Because it doesn't look like you are.

"I don't like crowds," Mila admitted easily enough. "And I especially don't like being near Blood-Traitors." Really? I could never have guessed. "You have insulted us all by bringing that boy here, Dumbledore. You have insulted us greatly, and we will not forget your impudence."

"Mila is blunt with her words, but she speaks the truth," Samara added, sounding a lot less threatening.

"All that power, wealth, and influence, and yet, one boy's presence insults you?" Albus asked them, he had grown weary of the insults being hurled at his friend all night. "Ronald is a perfectly-"

"He is filth that is bred from filth, and I will not have you refer to him as anything but," Mila cut him off. "You may as well have dragged mud into Lady Grueva's home." Careful, girl. Be very careful.

The temperature around them changed, the air suddenly became denser and colder, something that they both noticed immediately. Everyone I've spoken to tonight has ridiculed him, and I am growing tired of it. Such hatred and contempt for someone they've never even spoken to… Albus drew in a deep breath, promptly regaining his composure. Relax, Albus. You change nothing by falling to their level. You knew how they would react, already. Don't let a few drinks make you lose sight of what's important.

"Hatred does nothing but weaken the soul, Lady Dolohov," Albus stated simply. "But I will not lecture you, as you are not my student. May I speak with the Minister alone?"

"Mila, please, give us a few moments," Samara intervened before Mila could retort. "I will find you shortly, I promise."

"…Certainly," Mila Dolohov said coldly, not hiding her disgust of Albus before walking away.

"Why did you bring that boy here?" Samara asked, sounding more curious than angered. "You are willingly putting him in danger, and for what? I can't imagine that it's all for the satisfaction of insulting our host and her guests."

"Is that concern I hear somewhere in there?" Albus asked, a twinkle behind his eyes. "If I were you, I wouldn't worry too much about him. Ronald has endured far worse than the petty insults that have been thrown in his direction, tonight. No, Minister, if I were you, I wouldn't worry about him at all. Instead, I would worry about myself… I would worry about my own boy, and the terrible danger my choices have put him in."

"This, again?" Samara mood darkened immediately. "What. Do. You. Want. From. Me? Do you want to use my son against me, is that it? Do you want to twist my love for him into your weapon?" She sneered at him, utter contempt in her eyes. "You and he are two sides of the same coin, Dumbledore. He wants to use Alexie as a hostage, while you-"

"I want to protect him," Albus promised, adorning a more serious expression. "And I want to protect you as well."

"You want to weaken your enemy, nothing more," Samara countered. "Do you truly believe that he is not capable of protecting me? Of protecting my son? When my own father treated me no better than a House-Elf, it was the Dark Lord who comforted me. It was the Dark Lord who tucked me into bed, who read me stories to sharpen my mind, who taught me the wonders of Magic… He has my undying loyalty, Dumbledore, and I will not turn from him, now."

"You are too clever to be fooled by nostalgia, Samara," Albus urged, taking a step forward. "Those memories… They are of a lonely child, and a manipulative man. You know in your heart that he does not care for you, nor does he care for you son."

"And you do?" she hissed, before drawing in a sharp breath. "…Leave me… I will not indulge you for another second-"

"Please, do not give him what he wants," Albus continued. "You and your son deserve better than him. He will destroy you, just as he destroys all those he comes across. Your people, your son, even you… You are all kindling to him-"

"Enough!" she commanded, gaining the attention of those around them. "No more! Stay away from me, Dumbledore, or, I will have you escorted from the premises!"

With that, she stormed past him, leaving him with only the stares of the curious few around him. Fear has her in its grip too tightly… It seems that I cannot set her free, despite my best efforts. The more he thought of her position, the more certain he became that she was destined for destruction. If Emilia Travers and Artyom succeeded in their mission, then Tom would kill her just to protect himself from a potential betrayal. If their mission failed, then Tom would have her heart in his hands, and eventually, he would grow bored of her and squeeze. So, my only course of action is to abandon her, then… I can only save her innocent son, shelter him as best I can, but the boy will grow up an orphan. Once again, Tom proves that no matter where he goes, only death and broken hearts are left in his wake-…

"That's quite the intense look you're wearing, Headmaster," came Ronald's voice, breaking Albus out of his sombre thoughts. "I'm not interrupting you, am I?"

"Ronald, where have you been?" Albus sighed out, looking in the young wizard's direction.

Ronald blinked, before adorning a rather concerned expression. "Sir, what's the matter? Tell me."

"I just spoke to Minister Ivanov, my boy," Albus composed himself, deciding to lament later in his office, when he was alone. "She will not budge, not until her son is safe, but should that happen, she will not survive her Master's ruthlessness."

"Professor Snape was right, then," Ronald whispered, looking for the dark-haired witch. "She has to go… One way, or, another."

Albus felt weariness set into his bones upon hearing that. "…She is afraid, Ronald, and rightfully so-"

"Her fear is going to get a lot of other mothers killed," Ronald stated bluntly. "What of their lives, hm? She's made her choice. It's her son's safety that should concern us, now, and only his."

"He will grow up an orphan-"

"He will be fine," Ronald interjected. "There are worse fates than growing up an orphan, Sir. She made her choice, so let her enjoy the consequences." Cruel… He can be so cruel, sometimes, but I must not give up on him. He needs me, just as much as the world needs him.

"Ronald, if a single life has no worth, then none of them do," Albus said, placing a hand on the redhead's shoulder. "People do change, and I believe, she did change. She allowed love into her heart, and that is not something you should ignore. She became more than just Lord Voldemort's puppet, she became a mother, and I fear that he will murder her for it. Do you think that's fair? That she should die because she loves her son more than her Master?"

Ronald shifted in his spot, losing some of the coldness behind his eyes. "…No."

"Good," Albus smiled encouragingly. "Remember what I told you? We must save what can be saved, always. That is what sets us apart from him. We don't fight because we hate someone, or, because we blame someone… We fight because it's the right thing to do, because it's decent. We fight so kindness can triumph over cruelty."

"…I get that, I just… It's not always so clear, you know? Our mistakes can cost lives, Sir. What if she wants us to take her son into custody? She knows you won't harm him, which will give her the freedom to serve her Master without any distractions." That's what Severus pointed out, and sadly, he might not be wrong.

"It is a risk we must take, because we cannot lose hope in people," Albus said sagely. "If we lose hope in them, then what's the point of fighting for them?"

Ronald gave a slow nod, looking thoughtful. "Good people can be found in even the darkest corners of the world, right?"

"Exactly so," Albus felt relieved to hear that. "Now, tell me, where did you run off to?"

"I found a good person," Ronald smiled, and Albus couldn't help but smile back.

"I'm glad to hear that, dear boy."

---

Ronald Weasley's POV

Friday 30th April, 1994 (Gruev Manor – Night)

"Please, will everyone take their allocated seats?!" Grigorov announced, gathering their attention by the use of the Amplifying Charm. "Please, everyone! You will find your names upon the back of your chairs!"

"It's about time, wouldn't you say?" Dumbledore chuckled, nudging Ron. "Come, let's find our seats, my boy. I could use some bread to soak up all the wine I've had, tonight."

"I hope they serve more Butterbeer, honestly," Ron finished off his current tankard. "I don't usually get to indulge in sweet things." Plus, I've got a nice buzz going, now, and unlike most alcohol, Butterbeer doesn't taste like cat piss.

"Then, you should lift that restriction from yourself," Dumbledore laughed, both of them looking for their names. "When I was your age, Ronald, I ate more sweets than I did actual food! And look at me, now! Sweets are Magical, and they will take you further than any other form of sustenance!" He's drunk, for sure. That, or, he's taking the piss, again. With him, it's impossible to tell.

"Every time I eat a sweet, I worry that Madam Roberts will spring out of the shadows, put me in a headlock, and then, snap my neck," Ron sniggered, he missed her lessons terribly. "The discipline is good, though, and my teeth are also grateful."

"Strange boy," Dumbledore smiled fondly, patting his back. "I will send you a jar of Lemon-Drops, I think. It can be another one of our secrets. Madam Roberts will never know, I promise."

"If you are really planning to send me a jar of sweets, then why not send me something good?" Ron teased, grinning when Dumbledore lost his mirth. "Lemon-Drops are foul, Sir."

"…How dare you, Ronald?" Dumbledore stopped, a look of utter disbelief on his face. "You take that back at once." Um… I can't tell if he's joking, anymore.

"I said what I believe to be true, and I will not take it back."

"It's true what they say, then… It is not our enemies that cut us deepest, but rather, our own friends."

"Don't be so dramatic," Ron laughed, gesturing him to follow. "C'mon! Before Grigorov finds another reason to reprimand us-"

"Pardon the intrusion," came Grigorov's voice, as if he'd been summoned by the use of his name. Fuck me… What do you want, now?

"Now, look at what you've done," Ron chastised the Headmaster, who was already focused on the Bulgarian Minister.

"I'm afraid that there is a slight complication with the seating arrangement," Grigorov addressed Dumbledore, and Dumbledore only. "We planned for you, of course, but your guest… I'm sorry to say that there is no place set for him." Ron and Dumbledore exchanged looks, before looking at all the empty space around them. "I know what you're thinking, but Lady Grueva has painstakingly organized the seating arrangement for the sake of everyone's guaranteed enjoyment, and had you alerted us earlier about your guest, we would have set a place for him at your table. As it is, that table will be occupied by the British Minister, her staff, and yourself, but there is no space for another."

"That's a lot of words just to tell me to go fuck myself," Ron muttered, and Grigorov frowned at him. Shit, I said that out loud! Damn you, Butterbeer!

"Ronald… Language," Dumbledore semi-scolded, though his hardened eyes remained fixed on Grigorov.

"Sorry, that was supposed to be in my head," the redhead scratched his temple, giving the Headmaster a cheeky smile.

"I can easily change the size of the table, Minister," Dumbledore told Grigorov. "There is no need for your apologies-"

"That just won't do," Grigorov interrupted, shaking his head. "The wood is quite expensive, I'm told, and Lady Grueva will not tolerate it being mishandled." Mishandled?! He's the God of Transfiguration, you twat! "Worry not, however, for I have already come up with a solution. Minky! Come!"

A frail Elf suddenly popped up at Grigorov's side, there was a bloody bandage covering her left eye. "…Minister Grigorov summoned Minky?" What happened to her eye?!

"I did, yes," Grigorov looked down at her, gesturing towards Ron. "This is him, Minky. You are to take him to the kitchen, and provide him with whatever he wishes to eat." Ah, I'm to go eat with the 'slaves', eh? What a terrible, terrible insult… Pathetic, this lot.

"You are sending him to eat in the kitchen?" Dumbledore questioned, not hiding his displeasure in the slightest. Wow, he's more upset than I am. "I will not stand for such an insult, Grigorov. Go find Lady Grueva, so that I may speak to her myself."

"She is currently occupied with Minister Ivanov and her staff," Grigorov said, his lips quirking upwards. "Minister Ivanov will be presented with her honours after dessert, so Lady Grueva has little time to waste."

"Tell her to make time, or, I will shrink her manor down, put it in my pocket, and take it back to Hogwarts with me," Dumbledore warned, his eyes becoming as hard as diamonds. Fucking hell… He can't actually do that, can he?! No… No, he's bluffing, surely…

Grigorov lost his mirth under the searing gaze of the Grand Sorcerer, swallowing thickly. "…T-That would b-be ill-advised, Headmaster…"

"Sir, you're scaring him, I think," Ron commented, smirking. As funny as this is, I can't let them get a rise out of him. If they were insulting him alone, he'd be fine, but he's rather protective of me, especially tonight. "It's all right, Headmaster, I'll go."

"No, Ronald-"

"Headmaster, I'll go," Ron said more strongly, giving the man a meaningful look. "It doesn't bother me, not really. I'll go with Minky here, and explore the darkest corners, eh?"

Dumbledore looked to him at that, studying his expression. I could learn more valuable information from the Elves, so don't let this get to you. We might as well take advantage of this petty nonsense, right? As if he'd read Ron's thoughts, Dumbledore visibly relaxed and gave a soft nod.

"Very well, if you think it best, my boy." Yeah, he's still pissed, but, at least, he won't level the building, now.

"Lead the way, Minky," Ron smiled at the Elf, who kept her eye fixed on the ground. Look at her… Doesn't Grueva feed them? And why are they all injured? Every Elf I've seen tonight either has scars, or, is wearing bloodied bandages.

"…This way…" Minky squeaked, leading him away from the old man.

Ron followed after her silently, not failing to notice the smirks and sneers aimed at him from the other guests. They're so pleased with themselves, aren't they? 'Look, the Blood-Traitor is going to go eat with the slaves. It's what he deserves.' I can't help but pity their lack of ingenuity. If I were them, I'd sneak bits of turd in my food, or, something. I'd be clever! I'd be funny! Such a wasted opportunity for a good gag… That what really offends me about all this!

From the corner of his vision, he saw Met sitting with her mother and the other Begums, all of them watching him being escorted out. Met's mother, Nuray Begum, looked rather uninterested, but her daughter was giving him the sorriest look he'd ever seen. He decided to ignore them as to not get Met into any more trouble, keeping his eyes ahead. Maybe, this truly is a great insult, but I'm just too fucked up to care… Damn, now, who's the pathetic one?

Minky led him out of the ballroom, and then, through the long, dark hallways. They spent most of the journey, which was much longer than Ron had anticipated, in silence, until, at last, his curiosity got the better of him.

"Forgive me for being so forward, but what happened to your eye, Minky?" Ron asked, and the Elf froze in her spot.

She shot a frightened look back, before hurrying forward, as if she was too scared to even speak of her injury. Ron promptly felt a great deal of pity for her, and all those under Grueva's cruel service, but he decided not to relent so easily. So, he chased after her, keeping up with her with relative ease due to his longer strides.

"I won't tell anyone, I promise," Ron assured the Elf, who remained silent. "Was it your Mistress? I couldn't help but notice that you're all injured in one shape, or, another. Does she hurt you lot? Whatever for?" Silence was his answer, again. "Minky, please… I only ask because I'm worried-"

"The B-Blood-Traitor will not address Mistress' Elves!" Minky suddenly shouted, sounding as though she were ready to break into tears. "The Blood-Traitor will be silent!"

Ron let out a long sigh, knowing that she was just trying to protect herself from further punishment. "…I'm sorry. I'll be quiet." Your questions are not worth her safety, you moron. Plus, it's quite clear that Grueva is an evil bitch who hurts them for kicks. She'll pay for that soon enough, though.

Minky brought them into the kitchen, wasting no time in running as far away from Ron as possible. The other Elves, all of them hard at work, cooking and cleaning and darting about, took no notice of him, which was for the best, as Ron found himself horrified beyond words when his eyes fell on a limp Elf hanging from the ceiling, a jagged meat hook piercing through both his wrists. What… the fuck…? Ron blinked repeatedly, wondering if he was seeing things, again, but no matter how many times he cleared his vision, the dead Elf remained, bruised and battered and naked, hanging above the heads of his fellow Elves as a reminder to not fail in their duties.

And that's when it hit him… This is why he'd been sent here, to show him this gruesome sight as some sick form of punishment for daring to crash their party. They-… No… No, even they wouldn't murder an Elf just to-… Ron blanched, was this his fault? Had this Elf paid for his and Dumbledore's actions? …Cruelty against Elves isn't uncommon, but never have I seen something like this. Greengrass, Longbottom, Prewett, Fawley… All these families have Elves under their employ, but they would never do something so wretched… Ron took a step back, drawing in a sharp breath. Grueva… Vile, evil bitch… We will not forget this, nor will We forgive this!

Ron felt his hand reach for his wand, planning to remove the Elf from the meat hook and cover him so that he could have the dignity in death that he was denied in life, but Ron was stopped when an Elf approached him with a plate brimming with burnt scraps of meat and misshapen, poorly-cooked vegetables. Ron looked down at the Elf, at his scarred face and bandaged fingers, though what truly caught his attention was the sheer disdain behind the Elf's large eyes. The Elf spat at his feet, before setting the plate down on the floor, as if Ron were nothing more than a dog.

"Blood-Traitor…" the Elf grumbled, walking away without another word.

"…What was his crime?" Ron heard himself ask, and the Elf stopped. "What did he do to deserve that? Answer me this, and I'll go. I promise." Was it me? Am I the reason why he was murdered?

"Tabby wanted to be free," the Elf growled, not looking back. "Now, Tabby is free. Get out of Zaddey's kitchen, Blood-Traitor."

Ron closed his eyes, his head feeling a little light. Right… He didn't want to live in pain and fear, anymore, and that warrants such brutality? This is… unforgivable…

Ignoring his sorry excuse for a meal, Ron turned on his heel and walked out of the kitchen, sealing the door shut behind him so he could lean against it. "…Fucking twisted cunts… They've no idea how it feels to be-…" he stopped abruptly, clenching his fists. …He just wanted to be free, like all living things should be…

He slid down until he was planted on his arse, wishing to Merlin that he had some Calming Draught with him to silence the torrent of emotions rising within him. Tabby… I'll remember that name, so I can carve it into Grueva's forehead before I take her head. Tabby. Tabby. Tabby. Tabby, the Elf who wanted to be free… Free… He just wanted to be free, like me… Just like me… But they fucking murdered him! Ron shot back up to his feet, his rage overwhelming every other emotion. I'm not leaving him in there to rot on that fucking hook! I'm going to bury him somewhere where the sun will shine on him! It's the least he deserves!

Ron brandished his Cypress wand, before barging back into the kitchen, much to the shock of the Elves within. Without a word, Ron severed the rope attached to the hook, using his spare hand to levitate Tabby's body down gently. Careful, or, that hook will do even more damage. The living Elves shouted their protests, but Ron ignored them all, marching over to Tabby's body and kneeling down beside it. Sorry about this, mate, but I have to pull that out. I won't bury you with it.

Pocketing his wand, Ron took a hold of the jagged hook, prying it out of Tabby's wrists with a sickening squelch. Cold blood squirted up and splashed against his cheek, but Ron thought nothing of it, throwing the bloody hook away with a look of utter disgust. Was he alive when they strung him up like that? He must've begged them to stop, to show mercy, but they don't understand the meaning of the word!

"Blood-Traitor, Zaddey will not warn-!" the Head Elf continued barking at him, but Ron had had enough.

"SHUT UP!" Ron roared, silencing them all. "You don't even understand what they've stolen from you! But he did! That's why they did this to him! That's why they hung him over your heads like that! He was one of you, wasn't he?! He was-!" he stopped, realizing that there was no point in yelling his frustrations and grief at them. They were born into slavery, it's all they've ever known… To them, this is exactly what he deserved for wanting more… "I'm taking him with me, and if any of you attempt to stop me, I will strangle you with the chains you've all grown so accustomed to."

His viscous gaze travelled from Elf to Elf, and when he was certain that none would move against him, he looked back to Tabby. We're leaving, mate. I'll take you someplace beautiful, someplace quiet. A place where you can be free, at last. Reaching down, Ron put one arm behind his knobby knees, and the other behind his fragile neck. Tabby weighed next to nothing, as malnourished as he was, but even still, it broke Ron's heart to realize that, perhaps, he had yearned for freedom because of something as basic as a desire to eat.

Holding the lifeless Elf as tightly as he could to his chest, Ron walked out of the kitchen and into the hallway. It was time for them to leave this horrible place behind; he'd had his fill of Purebloods and their twisted traditions for one night, and Tabby had earned the right to be free of his cunt of a Mistress. I should just kill them all, tonight. Walk into the ballroom and hurl a lightning bolt right at Grueva, and in the panic, butcher my way through the rest of them! Grigorov, Yaxley, Sokolov, Nott, Rowle, Rask, Jäger, Waldvogel, Egorov, Agapov… All the 'Pure', and all their fucking inbred children too!

Ron sniffled, his eyes stinging from angry tears. But I can't, can I? Because people like Met are in there, and if I give in, I'll just kill them all! I won't spare a single soul in that fucking place! The good, the bad, the unfortunate… I'll gut each and every one of them if I don't walk away, now!

"Fawkes!" Ron called as he neared the ballroom, and with a flash of fire, the Phoenix appeared above him, flying down onto his shoulder. "…Look at what they did, Fawkes… Look at him…"

The Phoenix stared down at the broken Elf, shrieking at him to wake up. He's gone, my friend, but don't worry… Those that did this to him, they'll follow shortly. One-by-fucking-one, they'll all follow!

"I don't care what the Headmaster says," the Champion told the Phoenix, his eyes flashing red. "When the time comes, we're going to kill these people, and if their children rise up in retaliation, we'll kill them too. We'll kill, and kill, and kill, until no one is left to fight Us. Do you understand Us? Do you?!"

Fawkes shrieked, again, flapping his wings fiercely. GOOD! It's decided, then!

The Champion marched straight into the ballroom, ignoring the gasps and whispers as he made his way towards the Headmaster. The old man was speaking with Mad-Eye, but the moment his eyes landed on the Champion, his mouth dropped open mid-sentence.

"Ronald?!" Dumbledore shot out of his seat, rushing over to him. "What is this? Who did this?"

"We're leaving, now," the Champion ordered, his entire body shaking from rage. "Get your shit, and let's go. Or, We swear, We'll fucking start with you." All that tripe about hope… About fighting for kindness… We're fighting to stop these evil fucks before they get everyone killed! That's why We're fighting! Because We want to kill them all, before they kill Our fucking family! OUR BROTHER!

Dumbledore recognized the crazed look in his eyes, and without a word, he gestured the Champion to follow him. What the fuck are you all staring at?! Enjoying the show, are you?! We'll take your fucking eyes from you!

"Stop right there, boy!" Mad-Eye barked, and the Champion heard the Head-Auror approaching fast. "Are you deaf?! I told you to stop!" Cutis Terra!

The Champion spun on his heel, backhanding Mad-Eye across the face with his left hand. There was an uproar almost immediately, but the Champion ignored it in favour of watching Mad-Eye collapse onto his side, knocked unconscious in a single blow, his Magical Eye rolling away under a table.

"WHO ELSE?!" the Champion barked, his manic eyes shooting from one terrified face to another. "Who else, you fucking cunts?!"

"Ronald, stop!" Dumbledore urged, moving between him and Mad-Eye's unmoving form. "Ronald, look at me! I'm here! Don't look at them-!"

"What is this commotion?!" Grueva ordered, as many others rose from their seats and unsheathed their wands. "What is that in your arms, Blood-Traitor?!"

"Alastor! Alastor!" Crouch was now kneeling besides the incapacitated Auror, shaking him. "He's barely breathing! Get some help!"

"What is that in your hands?!" Grueva shouted over the commotion. "That Elf! That's my property!"

"Your property?!" the Champion barked, making her flinch a little. "He's fucking dead, you bitch! You murdered him and strung him up like a piece of meat! What else do you want to take from him?!"

"Mr. Weasley, you will control yourself!" Bones ordered, her expression both fierce and stern. We'll break your man-sized jaw, that's what We'll fucking do! Fucking incompetent cunt! Go fuck yourself!

"Call him your property, again," the Champion hissed, moving around Dumbledore, who was failing to pull him back. "Take a good look at the greatest Auror of all time, and fucking SAY IT!" Grueva had turned bright-red in the face, now, and yet, her mouth remained sealed in the face of his murderous expression. "Your husband was a child-diddling degenerate, but you… FUCK! YOU!"

"Ronald, we are surrounded by the Bulgarian Aurors," Dumbledore implored, somehow finding the strength to pull him back. "Fawkes, away! Now!"

Fawkes screeched at the guests, making them cover their ears in pain, before bursting into flames. The Champion was suddenly hit with the cool air of Prosperity Farm, finding himself standing where they had first departed from. His heart was pounding in his throat, the sound of it was all he could hear, and his vision had turned blurry. In the background, he could hear Dumbledore speaking to him, trying to calm him down, but all he could do was pull Tabby closer to his chest, afraid that if he let the Elf go, Grueva would throw him to her hounds to sharpen their teeth on.

---

Albus Dumbledore's POV

Friday 30th April, 1994 (Prosperity Farm – Nearly Midnight)

"We should bury him, Ronald," Albus broke the silence, they were both sitting on the porch. "Please, my boy… Say something… Your silence is beginning to scare even me." The rage in his heart, it's more dangerous than Fiendfyre, and twice as destructive. He was ready to kill everyone in that room, of that I have no doubt.

Ronald remained silent; his only response was to tighten his hold on the Elf in his arms. Albus let out a tired breath, taking off his spectacles and massaging his eyes. I shouldn't have let him go to that kitchen alone, but even I could not have predicted that they'd go so far as to try and scar a child for a laugh… And this poor Elf… His scars, his bony body… The horrors he must've endured his entire life under that despicable woman… It makes my blood boil just to think of his needless pain and suffering.

"Ronald, what you did to Alastor… There will be consequences-" Albus started.

"If he comes here, he'll die here," Ronald broke his silence, his voice raspy. "If he sends his Aurors here, I'll bury them all by the lake."

"You'll kill them, will you?" Albus asked, tired. "For what? Doing their job?"

"Yes."

"That's your anger talking-"

"…No…" Ron shook his head, before looking towards Albus with tear-soaked, agitated eyes. "Your way of doing things leads to this… And I'm tired of watching innocent people die… Mad-Eye is your friend, so you'll go to him when he wakes up, and you'll tell him that if he's smart, he'll stay the fuck away from me. Or, so help me, I'll kill him and anyone who comes with him."

Albus stared into the boy's eyes, and he saw right through the anger and pain. "You won't, because that's not who you are. Tomorrow, when you've calmed down, you will come to regret what you did to him. You won't apologize, of course, but you'll regret it, nonetheless. I know you, Ronald, far better than you realize."

Ron looked away, sniffling. "…I'm not going to Azkaban… My work is not done, yet…"

"You won't go to Azkaban," Albus promised. "I will speak to the Minister, and to Barty, and I will explain what you saw in that kitchen. They will not be pleased, but I have more than enough sway in the Ministry to have this swept under the rug. However, the other Ministries… The Purebloods we left behind… There will be scandal, Ronald, they'll see to that."

"I don't care about scandal… Other people's opinions mean nothing to me. Let them talk all they like; they'll be in Hell soon enough."

"And Alastor will not forget this," Albus added. "His interest in you will become cemented, now." When he wakes up, that is. "He is a proud man, one that holds grudges."

"Show him the golden memory, then," Ronald suggested. "Show him that his ego is not more important than my mission."

"That is not a wise decision, my boy," Albus cautioned. "However, perhaps, a version of the truth could help… alleviate… his suspicions."

"Whatever you like, he's your friend," Ronald muttered, suddenly rising to his feet. "I'm going to go bury Tabby, now. I'll put him at the top of the hill, so he can see the sun every morning."

"I will help you-"

"No…" Ron interjected, stopping him. "I am the Champion, and this is my responsibility. I have to protect the weak, even in death." He blames himself, doesn't he? Noble, but entirely pointless and cruel to oneself.

"You are not alone, Ronald," Albus rose up, giving him a meaningful look. "I will help carry the burden forced upon you, whether you approve of it, or, not."

"Why? Because we're friends?" Ronald asked, his eyes devoid of life.

"Yes, because we're friends, and I'm not going to give up on you." Nor will I let you give up on yourself. I've made a vow to myself, and I will see it through until my very last breath.

Ronald averted his gaze, walking away towards the darkness, and Albus wasted no time in following after him.

---

AUTHOR'S NOTES: You get a pimp-slap! He gets a pimp-slap! She gets pimp-slap! Everyone gets a pimp-slap!