Some books, Violet thought, should be burned.

William Slinkhard's treatise on defensive theory certainly fell into that category. She would even go so far as to suggest that perhaps the author should be burned with it. Its existence was pointless. It was neither a useful academic resource nor a masterfully crafted work of misinformation. It was simply bad. A waste of time, but ultimately harmless.

Not like Umbridge.

Umbridge was clearly a politician, but not the kind who achieved her aims through guile or intrigue. Her hatred of Dumbledore was proud and unhidden. Her purpose here, not as a teacher but the long hand of the Ministry, was equally overt. She had no subtlety, but she was the Minister's Senior Undersecretary all the same, and that she had achieved such heights despite her deficiencies of charisma suggested an aptitude and predilection for more unconventional means of political advancement. The plebs cried out for honest and uncompromising politicians who wore their motives on their sleeves. Violet thought that if they saw Umbridge, they might reconsider.

None of that should have mattered. Umbridge was Dumbledore's problem, and Violet had no doubt that he was more than up to the challenge. Unfortunately, during the Opening Feast and now, in her class, Umbridge had shown a clear interest in Violet. Perhaps she wished to use her as a political pawn in the game she was playing with Dumbledore, or perhaps she simply was as caught up in the legend of the Savior as anyone else. In any case, Violet suspected she would have to deal with it, sooner or later. It was a problem she really, truly did not need.

The clock advanced like a fish in molasses. She could feel the faint hints of weariness pulling at her, the reward for her nighttime excursion. She had only slept for about three hours the previous night. The coldness within helped though, and she had only to think of eerie happenings of the last night to shake her to alertness with a burst of adrenaline.

Tick. Tock.

Most of the students appeared to have fallen into quiet despondency, flipping between the pages of the useless textbooks with something between disbelief and depression. Granger was staring at Umbridge with murder in her eyes. If Violet were her, she'd start checking her goblet before drinking.

Violet hadn't opened Slinkhard's book, instead laying it on her desk in a clear challenge. Umbridge had merely smiled mysteriously when she saw it despite giving Dean Thomas a detention for doing the same thing. It was just typical that she'd choose that moment to practice a little discretion. Violet had wanted to try Legilimency, but the risk was too high that Umbridge would be able to notice. No one sane would go up against the likes of Albus Dumbledore without being able to detect a mental intrusion.

Another minute ticked by.

Umbridge coughed softly into her sleeve. The classroom perked up, hoping that perhaps she was about to say something that would break up the monotony. She didn't.

Esrid.

Violet's thoughts had begun to wander again. She kept coming back to the Forest, Winter, the profane arch, and its significance. She had only one theory, and it wasn't a pleasant one.

She really needed to tell Satria. It was the sort of conversation best had in person, but that would require her to find another arch, and for that, she would have to return to the Forest. She was still waffling between contacting her by mirror and risking kicking off another of Maeve's signature clusterfucks and waiting until she could find a natural arch and properly explain what she'd experienced. She certainly didn't relish describing Winter's manifestation through a pane of glass. Her foot tapped a rhythmic staccato on the floor. Everything seemed to be coming to a head at once.

The class ended almost without her noticing, taking note only as the wave of students began to pull themselves out of their stupors, gathering their books and bags. Violet got up too, though she left Slinkhard's textbook behind. She had no need of it, and serving as a petty message to Umbridge was a higher cause than it deserved.

She was halfway to the door when a polite cough interrupted her. She sighed.

"Yes?" she said.

Umbridge smiled. "Miss Potter. I was hoping to have a word?"

"I have Ancient Runes," Violet said. "I wouldn't want to be late." She knew it wouldn't matter, but it was about playing the game. It wouldn't do to acquiesce too easily.

"Oh, don't worry about that. I shall write you a note."

The other students filed out of the room. Seamus chuckled as he passed her by and muttered, "Better you than me."

Violet took a seat across from Umbridge and allowed the silence to stretch. Umbridge's chair was elevated, but she still only just met Violet's eyeline.

"I couldn't help but notice you weren't reading your textbook," Umbridge said, words saccharine but slightly halting as if she were an actress forgetting her lines. "I hope the content wasn't too challenging?"

"Not at all," Violet said, voice dry as the ash-dust that had surrounded the arch. "I've memorized the book, you see. I was just reading in my mind's eye."

"Oh, very good," Umbridge said. "But in the future, you really should read the book. Not everyone has such a remarkable memory, and the other students might get the wrong idea."

Violet sighed again. "Can we not?"

Umbridge giggled. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"This," Violet said, gesturing with her hand. "Where we say one thing and mean something else. The game of words and lying truths. Frankly, you're not very good at it."

Umbridge seemed to sink an inch into her chair, and when she spoke again, her voice was a bit less high. "I'm not your enemy, Miss Potter."

"No," Violet agreed. "You're not." Yet.

"Good. I'm also not a fool."

"I would have thought that obvious," Violet said.

"You'd think, wouldn't you?" Umbridge said with a giggle. "But I have a good idea what the students think of me. It's all right. They're children and can't be expected to understand."

Violet made a vague sound that could possibly be taken as agreement.

"But you have to understand that Albus Dumbledore is not the man the world believes him to be. For years, he has worked to undermine all that the Minister has accomplished. And, if I may trust your discretion, he has been spreading some very unsavory rumors of late. I realize that he has probably shown a very different face to you, but men like him are capable of great deceptions. If you have any concerns at all—"

"He hasn't," Violet said.

"What?" Umbridge looked a bit flustered at the interruption.

"Shown a different face. Shown any face, really. I only met him a few weeks ago."

"You—really?"

Violet could practically see Umbridge's spiel derailing. She took the opportunity to stand. "It's been a pleasure, really. But I do have Runes soon."

"Of course," Umbridge said. "But stop by my office one of these weekends for tea, won't you? I believe we could find a lot to talk about."

"Fine," Violet said curtly. Halfway to the door, she paused and turned. "I could, perhaps, offer some small advice?"

Umbridge leaned forward, eyes seeming to bulge slightly. Her hunger for any information possibly related to Dumbledore was as apparent as her fondness for pink. "Yes?"

Violet smiled without the slightest trace of humor. "If Dumbledore wanted you, the Minister, or the Ministry gone, there wouldn't even be ash left."

With that, Violet took her leave, feeling Umbridge's eyes on her all the way. Dumbledore's problem was quickly starting to look more and more like her problem after all.

~#~

The mirror was dead. It was still beautiful, all swooping lines and glittering silver, but it was dead all the same. There was no life to it, no light frosting of condensation or spark of potential. Something uncomfortable and heady crawled down Violet's spine. Satria had enchanted the mirror herself. A Winter Lady's magic didn't just disappear. Mortal magic had many advantages over fae, but longevity of enchantment was truly the domain of the eternal beings of the Wyld. Mountains should have risen and fallen before the enchantment failed.

And yet, it was gone. It could not have been a coincidence.

"Fuck," Violet hissed, vehemently enough that her breath fogged despite the summer heat. Esrid, or whatever had left through that accursed arch must have caused this. Its howls had carried a palpable weight, striking unnatural fear into her. She had assumed it had affected Malfoy too, but what if his reaction had just been a natural response to the unsettling noise? None of the other countless magics around Hogwarts had been affected. It had destroyed Satria's Winter magic alone.

"'And thus, by iron, eternity was cut short.' Damn you, Maeve. Couldn't have just got along with your brother, could you?"

Violet began to pace, instinctively tracing the shape of her wand in her sleeve. She was cut off from the Wyld. Not from Winter, that much was clear, but until she could find an arch, she would have no idea what was happening in her adopted homeland. She still had access to the arch she had used for years, but it was in southern England and she Scotland. Apparating there in a single bound was beyond her. It would be better to try to find an arch in the Forbidden Forest. But even if she did, she couldn't afford to disappear to the Wyld for days or more either, not with Umbridge breathing down her neck and presumably Dumbledore's as well.

"Violet?" came a hesitant voice. Parvati stepped through the door into the dorm. "Is everything all right?"

Violet sighed and sat down on her bed. "Yeah."

"Okay," Parvati said, retrieving something from her trunk. "If you want to come down to the common room, Lav and I are going to play cards, and we can deal you in. I just have to write a letter home first."

Violet perked up. There was something tickling the back of her mind that seemed important, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it.

"What did you just say?" she asked.

"We're playing cards in the common room—"

"No, after that."

"Oh. I was just saying that I was writing a letter home, and I needed some more ink. Mum worries like mad if I don't write every week."

Violet grinned widely. "Bloody hell, Parvati. You're a genius."

"I am?" she asked, but Violet was already gone. "Thanks, I guess."

~#~

In retrospect, it was obvious. Violet had been so concerned by the prospect of not being able to warn Satria of what was no doubt coming that she had entirely forgotten to consider the possibility that she might be able to send a message after all. Years ago, an owl had delivered Violet's acceptance letter to Hogwarts, and if the peculiar magic of the mail owls had successfully bridged the gap between worlds once, there was no reason to think it could not be done again.

The Owlery stank, and if this means of communication was to become standard, she would probably look into purchasing a personal owl just to avoid it.

She wrote her letter with deliberate vagueness, narrowly balancing the need to warn Satria to be on guard with the risk of the message's interception. She had no idea what the path of a mail owl to the Wyld looked like, and she had to assume the worst for what it might mean for the information's security. The last thing anyone needed was for an unambiguously written letter to somehow end up in the hands of Summer. Mortal interference was less of a concern—even if they got hold of it, they'd have their work cut out deciphering the fae language.

She sealed it with a drop of her blood that expanded into a foam, then hardened into a remarkable imitation of sealing wax. For a moment, it flashed an electric blue, then faded back to red. Violet smiled. Anyone other than Satria who tried to read it would have an unpleasant surprise if they didn't take great care opening the envelope.

A great horned owl with a heavy, noble brow cocked its head in silent arrogance, its clawed leg extended. Violet stroked its soft feathers as she attached her missive.

"It's for a Satria," she said softly. "She's very far away. You'll find her, won't you?"

The owl flapped its wings, demonstrating its impressive wingspan and hooted. Violet thought it was rather looking forward to the long trip. Not that she actually knew how long it would take, or how post owl's magic interacted with the separation of worlds. Perhaps it would in fact be an easy journey, though she doubted it.

The owl disappeared into the great blue sky, and Violet felt a heavy weight she hadn't even realized was there go with it. She'd done all she could to alert Satria. What would be would be, and she had complete faith in Satria's ability to make the most of a bad situation.

For now, she only had to worry about the Dark Lord who had defeated Death. She snorted, but there was real amusement in it. The prospect of war held no fear for her. Not like the thing in the Forest.

On that note, she took the opportunity to write another letter, one she probably should have sent some time ago.

Jon,

So, you've managed to insert yourself into another war. I can't say I'm surprised or even disappointed. The fight wouldn't be the same without you.

With that said, I'm sure it goes without saying that I have my own plans, independent of the wider circle you joined. If and when they come to fruition, there will be a place for you, if you want it. Talk to the one to whom I first introduced you, and he will be able to explain more that I can't in a letter.

There is another matter, of which you should speak to no one. Recall the unusual events of yesteryear that gave you an excuse to renovate the old shack you call a business. There is a chance—for now, small—that I will need assistance in a related affair at some point in the future, if you have the taste for it. Don't think on this too much. With luck, you'll never hear about the matter again.

Do stay alive.

Warmly,

V

Thinking of that surly, noble man brought a smile to her face as she sealed the letter, this time without blood or curse. She dispatched that letter too and returned to Gryffindor Tower with a new spring in her step. Maybe she'd join Parvati and Lavender for cards after all.

~#~

It was almost too easy.

The only real risk was that her dormmates would notice her empty bed. Since these nighttime excursions seemed to be becoming a habit, it might be wise to preemptively come up with an excuse more convincing than suspiciously frequent trips to the bathroom. Violet wasn't terribly concerned, though. Even though the other Gryffindor girls were starting to get used to her presence, she was still the Savior to them, and she suspected she could get away with far more than breaking curfew if she wanted to.

The Library was empty and silent, dimly lit by pale moonlight that streamed through great arches of stained glass in the towering ceiling. The weak light carried only faint hints of the glass's vibrant colors, mottled patterns in the dark rather than true color. The dark didn't have anything on the Forest. Violet could see quite well.

Violet wasted no time before making her way to the restricted section. Her invisibility cloak was wrapped around her, light and ethereal as a halo, as it had been since before she left Gryffindor Tower.

She stopped outside the restricted section, prodding and feeling the protective magics that surrounded it. She would freely admit that they were beyond her, but she knew enough to tell that they could have been a work of art. They were subtle and refined with obvious, standard protections obscuring newer, more elegant ones added by a true master of magic. Dumbledore was the obvious suspect, and some of the spells were so undetectable that she was certain there were still more beyond her ability to even detect. None seemed to be aimed to directly bar entry, but she was sure that Dumbledore or one of the professors was notified each and every time someone crossed the border of the restricted section.

That is, they would, if the trespasser didn't possess an artifact capable of rendering even the most cunning magical protection impotent. She crossed the line and the latent magics didn't so much as twitch. It was as though she were a void in the world, or perhaps in another world entirely. It was a slightly unsettling thought, and she was sharply aware that someone she didn't even know the identity of had given her this cloak. Even if it had indeed belonged to her father, returning it was an act of generosity few would choose.

There were a lot of books, and it quickly became clear that not all of them were restricted because they contained controlled knowledge. Plenty were simply ancient and tattered, too historically important to allow greasy-fingered children to handle unsupervised. Others seemed to be there for no reason at all, or at least none Violet could discern. A few were obviously concerned with the Dark Arts and wouldn't have been out of place in the Black library.

Others were evil.

It was not a term Violet used lightly. She was not in the habit of passing moral judgment, on herself or others. But no other word adequately described the sheer malevolence of a few of the books. Some of them she was sure without even touching were fully able to think and plot for themselves. Some of the most foul books of the Black library had violently resisted attempts to prise their secrets free. These books, she suspected, would be all too eager to be read.

They were just what she was looking for.

Immortality.

It would take arrogance beyond arrogance to pursue it in its fullest form. Even the fae died in the fullness of time. But Voldemort had succeeded where all others had failed. A dream like that must have started young, perhaps even in this very corner of the Hogwarts Library.

Several hours later, she left the Library none the wiser as to how Voldemort might have returned to life but considerably educated in many extremely unpleasant things that definitely wouldn't have worked but had nonetheless been attempted at some point in history. One particularly disgusting example was the "research" of a man known as the Brazen Bastard that had involved surgically removed brains and amniotic fluid. Suffice to say that his eventual death at the hands of a sentient hive mind formed of his test subjects' brains had been suitably ironic. What even was the point of living forever if you were literally a brain in a jar, anyway? She doubted Voldemort had pursued anything so limiting, and he clearly wasn't a brain in a jar.

The first rays of dawn were threatening to peak over the horizon any moment, so Violet returned to Gryffindor Tower to get at least a few hours of sleep. It was a good thing she'd decided to put off the Library visit to actually get a full night's sleep the previous night. Sleep deprivation and malignant books were probably not a good combination.

~#~

"Hey."

Violet turned around and returned the greeting with a nod.

Tracey was perched on the sill of an arched window like a cat. When Violet met her gaze, she turned away, looking down at the dark grounds. Even from only halfway up the Astronomy tower, the view was impressive.

"I didn't see you earlier," Violet said. The Gryffindors had Astronomy with the Slytherins, but she was certain Tracey hadn't been present.

"Eh," Tracey said. "Astronomy's a bore. I dropped it before third year so I could take another elective."

"I thought it was required?"

Tracey shrugged. She was chewing gum, and she blew an improbably large bubble that rapidly shifted between several vibrant colors before popping with a snap. "Strings, y'know?" she said.

Violet nodded. Their floor of the tower was empty except for them. Violet had lingered for several minutes to talk to Professor Sinistra, and the other students had already returned to their dorms.

"Just like the view, then?" Violet asked.

"Yeah. Sometimes." Tracey blew another bubble. "My housemates' company is best enjoyed in small doses. But tonight, I came because I figured I'd run into you."

Violet made an amused sound. "Found me."

"Yeah. Didn't get a chance to you since Dumbledore's little bombshell before the opening feast. Fuckin' hell of a surprise, that."

"I did tell you," Violet said, sitting on the opposite side of the window sill. The window was several meters wide and recessed a full meter into the thick stone wall of the tower, creating a sizable area to sit on.

"Suppose you did." Tracey smirked. "Did you see Umbridge when Dumbledore introduced you? She was pissed. Probably thought that Dumbledore not telling anyone you were, well, alive was just cocking a snook at the Ministry. 'Course, it probably was."

"Yes. It does seen that I have gained the pleasure of her attention. It's not really a surprise, and I can't complain too much seeing as the whole feud started because of my godfather."

"Hey, that's right," Tracey said. "Forgot about that entirely. Crazy world, huh?"

One corner of Violet's lips curled into a half-smile. "You don't know the half of it," she said.

"Heh. Probably better that way."

She leaned back against the stone and traced a finger through the faint dust on the window glass. "I know some things, though," she said. "Hear things. I'm good at listening, and some of the older Slytherins like the sound of their own voices a bit too much for their own good. And, maybe, they don't notice me like they should. Just a halfblood, and maybe a bit of an airhead too, yeah? But I can listen."

It was clear that Tracey was getting to the real reason she'd camped outside the Astronomy tower. "Hear anything good?" Violet asked.

Tracey made an uncertain gesture with her hand. "You hear a lot," she said. "Most of it's not worth listening to. Like I said, Slytherins like to talk. Doesn't mean they have something to say. But yeah, maybe something's different. Same old, same old, only they're saying it a lot more often now and they aren't smiling when they do."

"And what are they saying?"

"Posturing. Talking big. Bruised egos wondering what might be if things had gone a bit differently a decade and a half ago." Tracey gave Violet a meaningful look.

"And, maybe, my name's come up a few times?" Violet asked.

"Yeah. Maybe." Tracey shrugged. "Probably nothing, yeah? Only, you got my bag for me, so I figured I'd give you a heads up. Watch your back, I guess."

Tracey slipped down from the stone sill. "Nice seeing you," she said, and started heading toward the stairs down the tower.

"Hey, Tracey?" Violet said.

Tracey turned, tilting her head. "Yeah?"

"Thanks."

She shrugged again. "'s what I do. Don't mention it. Really."

Violet watched her go. Tracey's warning raised interesting prospects. If even the children of Death Eaters were starting to realize something big was coming, it had to be close. She grinned. She always enjoyed the anticipation before a fight, and this was that a thousand times over.

Maybe it was some instinctual Divination or simply the instincts of an upbringing rife with political intrigue, but she had the distinct feeling that something very significant was going to happen soon.

~#~

High above all, the man watched, hanging in the air like something out of a surrealist painting. His robes snapped in the high-altitude winds that played a whistling, atonal song in his ear. Far below, jagged cracks of black rock thrust into oncoming waves. Spears against a cavalry charge. Azkaban was a fortress that faced both inward and out, and she would not relinquish her prey lightly. The unmistakable melancholic presence of the Dementors could be felt even from here. It tugged at him, seeking to fray his thoughts and weaken his resolve. But weakness was intolerable, so they did not affect him.

He breathed deep, the sharpness of the sea air a revelation even after over a year in his new body. Something burned in his blood, be it magic or fury. That lump of unassuming rock held his most loyal who had chosen damnation over dereliction. It was true that many of his followers who had evaded prosecution had worked their way into favorable positions over his long absence, and it was Lucius who had set in motion the forces that led to his revival, and that wily instinct for self-preservation had its place too.

But the Death Eaters imprisoned in Azkaban were his, their loyalty making them practically an extension of himself. He told himself that a little more patience was not too much ask so that he would not raise his wand and stride alone into the island fortress, slaughtering any who dared to oppose him. The stage was not yet set for his return. There was still work to do in the dark. A quieter, more patient approach would be needed to set free his most loyal.

"Soon," he said. The roar of the sea was the only reply.

AN: Two chapters for one, though the first hardly counts. As always, thanks for your feedback and support.