As it turned out, the next day's Prophet did not, in fact, report on the capture and gruesome execution of Sirius Black. Nor did the day after that's or any other for another twelve days. Finally, in an edition that would go down as one of the newspaper's most widely shared, it was reported that Sirius Black, the notorious mass murderer, had voluntarily turned himself in to the Ministry and that he was to finally face trial for his alleged crimes. Successive editions gleefully reported on the Ministry's incompetence, loudly proclaiming the lack of evidence to justify his extrajudicial imprisonment in the first place, rapidly stoking the flames of outrage into a furor. Sirius's upcoming trial promised to be the most widely attended since the end of the war, and Violet suspected that if he somehow was not acquitted, the Ministry would be facing a riot.

To someone capable of reading between the lines, it was easy to see the influence of a powerful man behind the inflammatory rhetoric. Personally, Violet suspected Dumbledore. Sirius had seemed to have some sort of hold over him, and the mighty warlock certainly had the political capital to force through a trial the Ministry would have preferred to brush over. But if Violet could come to that conclusion, the Ministry surely would too, and she doubted they appreciated Dumbledore's interference in their affairs. How much political capital was he sacrificing to ensure that justice was done?

Certainly, the Ministry made no secret of their resentment over the coming weeks. Even as they acquitted Sirius, compensating him with towering piles of gold, an Order of Merlin, Second Class for killing the traitor and murderer Peter Pettigrew, and an all-expenses-paid stay in a world-renowned German clinic for mental recovery, Cornelius Fudge and other high ranking Ministry officials dropped not-so-subtle hints in press releases and public statements that any goodwill Dumbledore may have once enjoyed were now lost.

At the same time, Dumbledore and his political allies lent fuel to the flames of rumors hovering around various officials, especially Bartemius Crouch. It was good old fashioned political mudslinging, and Violet found it more than a little amusing. It reminded her of the petty feuds common in fae Courts, only with fewer assassination attempts.

With her parents avenged, Violet was able to throw herself fully into her duels with Martin Erst. He was a magnificent opponent, endlessly inventive and deliberate in his every motion. She won more often than she lost, thanks to her speed, power, and superior knowledge of the Dark Arts, but time and time again he would pull a new trick, one she hadn't seen before, and more than once he had managed to get the better of her. Violet memorized every trick and strategy he showed her, while developing plenty of her own. She had a particularly interesting one she wanted to try today, and her excitement grew as they exchanged their opening spells.

She ducked a Reductor, glided around a Stunner, and flicked her wand to disrupt a Banisher. As she did, she called on Winter, feeling the icy power swirling through her. She normally avoided Winter magic in these duels, as it would defeat the purpose of training in wand dueling, but this was something of an exception. Rather than lash out with corroding light or cutting wind, she forced the cold power through her wand, long yew coating with frost. Winter magic mingled with mortal magic, creating an ecstatic feeling. When she could wait not longer, she released it in a great surge.

"Auguamenti!"

Erst was a cunning duelist, and he immediately realized that she wouldn't cast such a harmless charm if she didn't have something up her sleeve. He quickly cast a powerful, esoteric shield. Then the earth wrapped around him, transfiguring into interlocking steel plates.

It didn't matter. The colossal wave of freezing water that issued from her wand held as much resemblance to the standard Water-Making Charm as a spring mist did to a typhoon. Great chunk of ice were borne by the wave, each as hard and sharp as a spearpoint.

The surge collided with Erst's defenses with a grinding roar. Steel buckled under the crushing weight of water, and shards of ice ripped through plates thick enough to withstand field artillery. Yet, the transparent shield beneath only rippled and creaked under the attack, and as the water finally cleared, Erst stared out from under his cracked shield in wonder.

"Damn. That's a new one."

Violet smirked. Erst looked very worried. Unlike a standard Water-Making Charm, Winter magic still infused every drop of conjured water, every shard of splintered ice. Once more, Violet channeled Winter through her wand.

"Ohhhhhh shiiii…" said Erst, as the water reversed its course, reaching for him once more. Again, and again, it pounded on his shield. Spells of flame and heat issued from his wand, colliding with the water in great burst of steam, but he lacked the raw power to defeat her spell. Finally, his shield collapsed, and water drenched him, immediately freezing solid. He moaned piteously, shivering beneath the ice.

He gave her a reproachful look as she laughed, but she couldn't help it. He bore a strong resemblance to a drowned and frostbitten rat. Finally, she flicked her wand, and the ice melted away. Erst immediately began casting Warming Charms on himself.

"What was that?" he said, sounding genuinely curious.

Violet shrugged. It wasn't like she could explain that she had access to a form of magic unknown to nearly all wizards.

"Fair enough. 'Suppose I'd keep my secrets too, if I thought it'd make a difference." He wrung out his shirt, spraying more water on the sodden ground. "I'm not sure what you're getting out of this. There's not much more you can learn from me, I don't think."

"Well, I don't know about that," Violet said. "You make a great target, if nothing else."

"Bloody wonderful," he said acerbically. "But I had an idea, actually. A way for you to get some real experience with people who can put up a proper fight, and make some gold while you're at it."

Violet motioned for him to continue.

He smiled, a strange expression on his usually dour face. "How would you like to try your hand in the fighting ring?"

Violet hummed. It wasn't like she hadn't considered the idea herself, but it had never seemed practical. "Would they let someone so young in?"

"Normally, probably not. But if I vouched for you, yes. Besides, you look a lot older than you are." He grimaced and muttered, "Probably all the dark magic aging you prematurely."

She rolled her eyes. "Sure, say I'm interested. What're you going to in exchange for continued lessons in mental magic? Assuming you're still interested, that is."

"I am," he said shortly. Even the rudimentary amount of Legilimency he had managed thus far was a great advantage in dueling against opponents who were unable to counter it. "I was thinking I could handle the organizational end of things. Pick your opponents, that sort of thing. I can't imagine you want to deal with that yourself."

Violet snorted. Anything remotely resembling bureaucracy was repulsive to her. "Fair enough, I suppose. You mentioned gold?" It wasn't that she strictly needed gold, but she wouldn't mind replenishing some of the inheritance she had spent over the last few years.

"There will probably be a lot more in it for you than me," he admitted reluctantly. "You're better, so you can take tougher fights that will get more bets. The winner gets a percentage of the money the house makes from the gambling. Loser gets nothing."

"Guess I can't lose," Violet said with a grin.

He snorted, obviously doubtful, but Violet didn't bother correcting him. She'd never fought him to her fullest, in consideration for his health, but in Ivan's duels, the loser was all but expected to have to be carried off the stage.

"I'm in. When can I fight?"

He laughed. "I'll talk to Ivan and let you know. Now can we move on to Occlumency, or do you want to use me as a target some more?" He motioned to his still-sodden robes, the conjured water seemingly immune to Drying Charms.

"Agreed. Clear your mind. Legilimens!"

~#~

Violet slashed her wand, dissolving a blazing orange curse at the last possible moment, before returning with a curse of her own, a storm of black lines streaking towards the witch opposing her. Fighting under nom de guerre of "Morrigan," the witch opposing her had earned a dangerous reputation over her several duels for her often reckless use of dark magic. Already, she had cast several curses that could conceivably be immediately lethal. Several lines of Violet's curse punched through her shield, drawing blood from her shoulder and waist. The crowd roared as blood spattered on the stage, and Violet had to suppress the urge to whoop. She had never imagined how exhilarating it would be to fight for the entertainment of a crowd, but after a few duels in Ivan's ring, she was gladder than ever that she had accepted Erst's offer.

Malleus!

She allowed a thread of Winter magic to empower her Bludgeoner, the curse smashing into Morrigan's weakened shield. It was barely repelled, Morrigan adopting a triumphant expression. Violet counted in her head. One, two, three…

Right on cue, Morrigan hissed as insidious Winter magic crept though the cracks in her shield and began to rot her skin. She tried several spells, but Violet maintained a fierce offensive, unwilling to give her the chance to counter the magic.

Morrigan was beginning to panic now, barely able to repel Violet's spells. Suddenly, she threw her wand to the ground, throwing her hands up in the air. Violet barely managed to hold her last curse, instead summoning the fallen wand to her hand. She turned to face the cheering crowd, soaking in the adulation. She would make good money from this match, as Morrigan had been the clear favorite to win.

She was idly aware of dark robed attendants carrying away the defeated witch. Violet wondered how long it would take them to break the corrosive curse. She hopped down from the stage, merging with the crowd. Several witches and wizards offered their congratulations for another decisive victory. To be honest, she was a little disappointed in the quality of opponents she had faced thus far. None of them had truly challenged her nearly as much as Martin Erst, but she maintained hope that as she built he reputation, she would get the chance to fight more dangerous opponents.

She collected her winnings from the bookkeeper in the antechamber and Apparated home to her room above the Old Oak. Even though she recognized the utility of the Wizarding method of teleportation, it still felt extremely uncomfortable. Still, she was pleasantly weighed down by a sack of gold, and Jon had furnished her flat lavishly after receiving his frankly excessive payment for assisting her against Aryssa. If this was what she had to look forward to for the rest of the year, she had no complaints whatsoever.

~#~

Violet sat at a table tucked well into a corner of the Leaky Cauldron, as far away from any other customers as possible, staring sullenly at a bottle of Butterbeer. The insipid liquid daring to masquerade as proper alcohol mocked her, and she was seriously reconsidering agreeing to this whole affair. She hadn't been to the Leaky Cauldron for years now and was of the firm opinion that the dark, dingy, dubiously cleanly pubs of Knockturn Alley were far superior. At least they weren't picky about serving her real drinks, especially since most of them had seen at least one of her duels.

Finally, she noticed a tall, black haired man enter the pub. Several patrons greeted him, and he responded cheerfully. The extensive media coverage of his unjust imprisonment had ensured that even now, several months after his acquittal, he was a hot topic in the Wizarding world.

Sirius slid between the tables, pulling out a chair and sitting next to Violet. He looked astonishingly good compared to when she had last seen him. Clearly the German facility had been good for him. His gaunt frame had filled out, and though his eyes still held the shadow of madness, his skin no longer had an unpleasantly waxy appearance. He grinned broadly. "What'd that Butterbeer ever do to you?"

Violet growled, eyeing the dark liquid in Sirius's glace that assuredly was not Butterbeer. "Exist."

He smirked, catching her meaning, and took a long drink, smacking his lips obnoxiously. "Ah, that hits the spot."

Violet's eyes narrowed. Under the table, she flicked her wand, casting a nonverbal spell. Then she took a satisfactory drink of her "Butterbeer."

"Wait," said Sirius, looking at his now much lighter colored drink. "What happened?"

Violet smirked. "Switching spell."

"Nonverbal too? Scary witch." For a moment, his expression darkened, but he shook it off quickly. "I'm not even going to bother telling you off for drinking."

"I assure you, underage drinking is probably the least of the crimes I commit on a regular basis."

"Yeah, that's my point," said Sirius. "It's all right, though. I like Butterbeer."

"Madman."

"Not anymore," he corrected. "Got my clean bill of health. Man, Azkaban was almost worth it just for the free resort."

"Resort?" asked Violet, amused. "I thought it was a clinic."

"Oh, sure, that's what they tell everyone," Sirius said. "But believe me, things got pretty crazy there," he added with a wink.

"I'm sure." Violet was pretty sure he was exaggerating, but it wasn't like she had ever been to a renowned German clinic for mental rehabilitation.

A slightly awkward silence fell between them as they struggled to find a topic while making sure not to bring up the Dark Arts or Pettigrew.

"So, uh, how have you been?" asked Sirius.

"Good," replied Violet. "I'm competing in an illegal underground fighting ring."

Sirius choked on his Butterbeer. "Tell me I misheard that. My old heart can't take it."

"I haven't lost a match yet. Had a close call a few weeks ago when I got hit by a Blood Freezing Curse. Luckily, that one doesn't work on me properly."

He mouthed the words 'Blood Freezing,' a disturbed expression on his face. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised," he said finally. "Maybe I'll watch one sometime." A wistful expression came over his face. "I used to be quite the duelist, you know."

"I can get you an invitation," in the polite fashion common when a person was well aware that their invitation wouldn't be accepted. Sirius nodded equally politely. Silence fell once more before Violet said, "So, what exactly did you want to meet me for?"

Sirius sighed heavily, fiddling with his glass. "I suppose… I suppose I wanted to apologize. I haven't been much of a godfather for you."

Violet shrugged. "Apology accepted, though it's not like you could have done much else, given the circumstances."

"I could have," Sirius said, shaking his head. "If I'd been less of an idiot about it." He sighed again. "But that's in the past, now. What I really want is a chance to get to know you better. If that's something you want, of course."

"I meant what I said, Sirius. I don't need a guardian."

"I know. That's not what I meant. Damnit, how do I put this?" He paused, thinking for several seconds. "Look. I know that you've… crossed some lines you don't go back from. Hell, I have too now, I suppose. And I know that, for better or worse, you've managed to find your own way in life. But that doesn't mean you can't have other people in it. And I'd like to be one of them."

Violet gazed at him for a long moment. He was clearly anxious to hear her response but trying to hide it. "Fair enough," she said.

"Wha—really?"

"Really. You seem more tolerable than the average fool on the street, and we've already had one bonding experience… of a sort. I would be amenable to meeting like this again, though I insist it be somewhere other than the Leaky Cauldron."

"That's great," Sirius said, with a sigh of relief. Then he gave a barking laugh. "What exactly are we supposed to talk about now?"

"Well…" Violet said. "You were friends with my father, right?"

"Best mate I've ever had."

"It would be nice to know a bit about him. I've never talked to someone who knew him well, you see." Violet said, carefully controlling emotions that threatened to surface.

"Right," Sirius breathed. "Of course. Let me tell you about how I met James. It was on the train to Hogwarts, and…"

~#~

Relashio!

The grasping, strangling branches of some accursed plant reeled backward. The wizard's wand spat black flames that engulfed the plant. Wood hissed and split, evoking the sound of screaming. Irritated at yet another petty impediment in his path, Tom Riddle examined the shallow scratches on his arm from where the plant had grabbed him. He was just about to heal them when he cursed. Rather than blood, wispy shadow leaked from the wounds. His time was running out; a fragment of a soul could function independently for only so long, and it was approaching a full year now since he had spread terror throughout Hogwarts and taken physical form.

But he was so close.

He could sense the master soul. Voldemort. The name still sent shivers of euphoria down his spine. That all of Britain still feared his name, even after over a decade in disgrace… It was perfect. And soon he would have all that and more, once he merged with Voldemort, returning them both to power. He just had to find him before his fragment of soul dissolved to nothing.

He continued to cut his way through the cursed Albanian forest. He had encountered innumerable fell beasts lurking between the ancient trees, but none had been a match for the boy who would become Lord Voldemort. There was a great exhilaration in being able to openly cut down ones foes. In Hogwarts, he had always had to hide his true nature behind false smiles and honeyed words. Here, the dark power of the master soul hung over the forest, an almost oppressive sensation promising endless power and profane knowledge.

Tom forced his way through a patch of thick undergrowth and froze. Dangling from a branch, forked tongue inches from his face, was a black adder. But it was not that sight alone that provoked such a reaction, for the snake's eyes were a deep, impenetrable red.

The snake hissed, a sound that Tom translated as amusement. It seemed that, after spending the best part of a year searching for Voldemort, Voldemort had found him.

"How fitting," hissed the snake, "that, in the end, the only one who comes to aid me is myself."

Tom shrugged. "You can trust only yourself."

The snake made another sound of amusement. "Yes, we know that, don't we?"

Tom said nothing, for there was nothing to say. Oh, he had countless questions for his older self—such as, how had he been defeated by a baby? But it mattered not, for he would soon become one with the master soul.

"What will we need?" asked Tom. There was no need to clarify what he meant.

"Several components, all of which may be found in this forest. As you already possess a body compatible with us both, it will be simple."

Tom nodded, and the snake slithered onto his shoulders, resting around his neck. Together, they set off to gather the ingredients required to restore them to greatness.

~#~

After several days of preparation, Tom took the gently simmering potion off the fire and decanted it into a small glass. It was a transparent light purple color, and, if he were inclined to be fanciful, quite beautiful. "It is ready," he hissed.

"Excellent. I would congratulate you, but given our circumstances, it would be excessively narcissistic."

Tom chuckled and drank the potion in a single motion. It burned on the way down, and he coughed heavily. His vision began to fade, and he realized he had collapsed. The snake was inches away from his face, deep red eyes staring into his own. And then Tom knew no more.

Lord Voldemort clambered to his feet. He remembered. He remembered a childhood he would prefer to forget. He remembered his years in Hogwarts, where he had learned just how special he really was. He remembered uncovering dark secrets the world over. He remembered his rise to power, and the heady feeling of seeing the terror in the eyes of Britain's witches and wizards. He remembered his defeat, freezing agony beyond anything he had experienced before. He remembered beguiling Ginny Weasley, opening the Chamber of Secrets, and seeking himself out.

It was ironic that Lucius' negligent handling of his Horcrux had worked out so well for him in the end. He hadn't felt this good even before his defeat. Perhaps the Horcruxes had affected him more than he would have liked to think, but if they had, the situation was resolved now. His diary had always contained the most soul of any of his Horcruxes. It was the only one that could possible have taken a life of its own as it did. And now he was reunited with it once more, in a body in its prime.

There would be much to do. As pleased as he was to once again possess a body unmarred by ill-advised rituals, it would not be suitable for him in the long term as it was. He would perform more refined rituals of speed and strength and healing, and he would age his body as he did, for a teenager's appearance was not well suited to the kind of terror he aimed to inspire in his enemies.

He would have to contact his old followers and break free his most loyal. The thought of his greatest followers languishing in Azkaban grated at him, but he knew they would willingly, eagerly, wait until the moment was ripe for them to be freed. Until then, he would sort through those of his followers who had escaped imprisonment to determine who among them remained loyal, deserving of a place in his inner circle.

He was Lord Voldemort. And soon, the world would be reminded what that meant.

Far away, a dour faced man swore abruptly, clutching his left forearm. Without a word of explanation, he swept from his classroom, leaving his students to whisper among themselves in speculation over his unusual behavior.

As soon as he was free from prying eyes, Severus Snape rolled back the sleeve of his robes. Dread and adrenaline coursed through him, though he showed no reaction outwardly. The Dark Mark, dull and faded for over a decade, now burned black as pitch. Despite himself, Snape realized that he had begun to hope that the Mark might never burn again.

The Dark Lord was not calling him, yet. But in time he would, and Snape would have to play the most dangerous game once more. A part of him looked forward to it, the thought sending a dark thrill down his spine. After over a decade of educating ungrateful and incompetent fools, he would finally have a chance to test his skills of deception once more against the most dangerous man alive. But for now, he had a headmaster to speak to.

AN: A shorter chapter than usual, but a prelude to something greater. We're approaching the start of the main plot, when the story will slow to a more typical pace. As always, thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed.