MASSIVE AZKABAN ESCAPE, NATIONAL SECURITY THREATENED!
Violet could see the news spreading like ripples in a lake. Students with subscriptions to the Prophet silently passed copies of the paper along the tables. The still ongoing morning post delivery was all but forgotten. Someone was crying.
The faces of the Dark Lord's finest glared out from the pictures on the page: Antonin Dolohov, as poised and regal as a king; Augustus Rookwood, who even in chains looked like he knew something she did not; Bellatrix Lestrange, whose expression held nothing but hatred; and a motley assortment of others. They were out of date. Most of the prisoners hadn't been photographed since their trials.
The article's tone was grim, almost panicked. Half a dozen guards had been killed. There was a conspicuous absence of detail about their deaths, and Violet doubted they had been quick. The Ministry was refusing to comment on exactly what had happened, but there was a damning photograph of Azkaban with its left wing caved in and alight with flame.
About twenty other prisoners had been released as well, seemingly at random. Most, the article claimed, hadn't made it off the island, but it was proving difficult to figure out exactly how many had been Kissed or killed in the fighting, were crushed by the collapsing section of the prison, or had actually escaped.
"Blimey," Alicia Spinnet said, looking slightly ill. "This is real. That's Bellatrix Lestrange."
Violet sipped her pumpkin juice. The unusual flavor had grown on her over the last two weeks. She pulled the Prophet nearer and eyed the picture of the wild woman. She looked more like a beggar than a murderess, but appearances could be deceiving. She knew Bellatrix had a special significance to Sirius. This news probably wasn't stirring good memories for him.
A glass shattered, and with the current tension, almost everyone at the Gryffindor table jumped at the sound. A puddle of orange juice slowly spread across the table. Neville Longbottom was staring, transfixed, at the paper, seemingly unaware of the pumpkin juice that was dripping into his lap.
"Merlin mate," Seamus said, clapping him on the back. "How about you leave the loud, sudden noises to me?"
Neville put down the paper, moving as if he were dreaming. "Sorry," he said. "I've—I've got to get to c-class. Sorry." He all but ran from the hall, leaving a trail of pumpkin juice from his dampened robes.
"What's he on about?" Fred said. "Classes don't start for half an hour."
"Looked a bit peaky, didn't he?" George said, looking a little peaky himself. "Oh, Violet—look out."
Violet cursed, hastily putting down her glass as a heavy weight settled onto her shoulder. Its sharp claws dug into her arm even through her robe. The great horned owl hooted once and dropped a letter into her lap, then took off, its impressive wingspan blowing her hair askew.
The letter was heavy parchment and sealed with black wax that bore no sigil. The Winter courts didn't use heraldry. Violet slipped it into her robes.
"More bloodsuckers?" George asked.
Since making her appearance known, Violet had been the unfortunate recipient of correspondence from quite literally hundreds of reporters, politicians, socialites, and utterly unremarkable members of the Wizarding public. It was profoundly annoying, but at least it provided a convenient explanation for more clandestine communications.
"Looks it," Violet said, then frowned, attention turning to the staff table. Dumbledore was standing, and he looked somber. "Here we go," she muttered.
Dumbledore's shoulders rose and fell, and Violet felt rather than heard the sigh.
"A moment of your attention, please," he said.
Some of the room's trepidation seemed to go out at his words. Whatever one might think about his politics, Dumbledore had always been a shining light in Wizarding Britain's darkest hours. Surely, his words would soothe the fears of the students and reassure that all would soon be well once more.
Violet knew better.
"I see that you have all heard of last night's terrible tragedy," Dumbledore said. "It is an injustice, made all the crueler by the personal losses many of us have suffered at the hands of these servants of Lord Voldemort."
Dumbledore took a deep breath, and when he continued, his eyes were hard. "But make no mistake. Hogwarts is secure. For as long as I or my fellow professors live, no one seeking to harm the wards of Hogwarts will set foot on her grounds. For now, you are safe."
A quiet sigh went through the students. Violet waited for the pin to drop.
"Alas," Dumbledore continued, "I cannot say the same for the future."
Fred swore under his breath, and George met his eyes, expressions stoic. Their parents were in the Order. They knew what was coming.
"It was not my intention to share this news publicly," Dumbledore said. "But those to whom the task should fall have amply demonstrated their unwillingness to fulfill their duty to the Wizarding public. It is so very much easier to do nothing than to do what is right, but in the coming days, it will be more important than ever for us to exercise our courage and follow our hearts."
He gazed out at the students, and though he looked at no one in particular, Violet imagined that she could feel his gaze.
"The man who calls himself Lord Voldemort has risen once more to power. There is no doubt. In the face of the coming darkness, it is imperative that we come together and—"
"Enough!"
Umbridge had risen to her feet. She was flushed red, as if having just completed a sprint, and even from this distance, Violet could pick out a vein throbbing in her forehead. Her voice was strident and passionate, almost manic.
"This is a lie! There is no threat. You-Know-Who is dead. This is just yet another attempt by Albus Dumbledore to undermine the Ministry by spreading rumors and fomenting fears. The Minister of Magic has given me his personal assurance that there is absolutely no validity to this claim."
"Professor Umbridge," Dumbledore cut in, without a hint of kindness or warmth. "Unless new legislature has been passed by the Wizengamot with historic swiftness, I am still the headmaster of this school. You will allow me to speak."
The words had no bite to them. Dumbledore's voice stayed level and controlled, but his command hung in the air as if it had a physical presence. Umbridge collapsed back into her chair as quickly as if her legs had been cut out from under her. Her head whipped around in confusion, unsure what had just happened.
Dumbledore took a moment to collect himself, then continued. "There is nothing I can say to change the terrible reality of the situation. But if there is one thing I would like for you all to remember, it is that help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it. To anyone."
With that, he sat back down and returned to his breakfast as if nothing had happened. The other professors were more visibly disturbed, McGonagall's lips pursed so tight that they had turned white. From the silence of the hall, you might have thought they'd witnessed a murder in broad daylight. Horror didn't begin to describe it.
A sound broke the stillness. Someone was clapping. Violet craned her neck, searching for the source of the sound, and her eyes fell on a Gryffindor student, maybe a year or two younger than her. He had curly hair and spotty skin and a slightly comically serious expression on his face.
Someone else started clapping too. Slowly, it spread throughout the Great Hall, even a few Slytherins joining in before falling under the withering glares of their housemates. Dumbledore chuckled at the sight and mimed a bow. Umbridge could only look on in apoplectic horror.
~#~
By the time Violet got around to opening her letter, it was almost noon. Classes had been canceled for the day after Dumbledore's proclamation. Seemingly, even Snape couldn't expect people to concentrate on academics after that. It had been only a few hours, but it was already clear that things wouldn't just be going back to normal. The fear and uncertainty reminded her a little of the hours immediately following Mab's death and the associated massacre, when no one was quite sure just how badly Winter had been wounded. It wasn't quite that bad here, but there was always time for things to get worse.
It was still an open question just how many of the students really believed Dumbledore. His timing had been perfect, of course. The prospect of the Dark Lord's return must have seemed much more believable on the back of almost a dozen of his followers escaping from a prison previously thought impregnable. But, between the next morning's cleansing light and the Ministry's inevitable attempts to restore a sense of normalcy, how many would choose to remember the fear?
She supposed it didn't matter. Students weren't going to win or lose the war, and Voldemort would reveal himself eventually, or be revealed. That was a thought in itself. With his followers freed, things were going far too well for him for her tastes. Hopefully, with the Esrid situation resolved, even temporarily, she would be able to do something about that.
She slit open the envelope and cursed.
Violet,
I admit, it feels slightly ludicrous to pen a letter for an owl, but if it delivered yours, hopefully it will work in reverse.
Regrettably, I was unable to pass it on directly to the Lady. Summer has launched their invasion in force, and the news from the Southern courts is not good. The Lady left three days ago to convene with the Queen to discuss a counteroffensive. I have dispatched a rider with your missive, but it may take days or weeks for him to catch up with the Lady if she is on the move.
Loyally,
Armen
When she finished reading the letter, she realized she was laughing. It wasn't that anything about situation was funny, really, but the timing of it all was so unfortunate that she couldn't help but appreciate the irony of it. Comedy was tragedy from another perspective, after all.
It shouldn't have been such a surprise. Summer's offensive had been inevitable since the Massacre of Lords, and with Satria's new position, it was logical that she would work with Maeve to rally the scattered and disorderly forces of Winter. It was just… frustrating. Even if she did have ready access to an arch, she wouldn't be able to track down Satria any faster than Armen's rider. There really wasn't a great deal she could do besides wait.
She did write a short response to Armen, politely demanding, in sharp, slanted, and curving letters, any further information he may have on the state of the war with Summer. She pocketed the parchment, intending to try to find the same owl again. If it had managed the potentially perilous trip once, it stood to reason that it would have a better chance of repeating the feat than the rest of the school owls.
~#~
Dumbledore's statement had certainly set the cat among the pigeons. No sooner than that night, an emergency-convened midnight session of the Wizengamot, consisting of barely enough members to form a quorum, voted to indefinitely suspend him as Chief Warlock until a full and proper investigation could be made into his claims. "Full and proper" was, of course, sufficiently vague that any investigation could be prolonged and contested for as long as necessary. Even a number of his usual allies had abstained or voted against him, citing unsubstantiated claims of a dire nature and a lengthy period of increasing uncooperativeness with the Ministry. It was all terribly emblematic of bureaucratic inefficiency and democratic systems as a whole.
The real problem, though, at least as far as Violet was concerned, was that whatever Umbridge's mission had been now appeared to have been kicked into overdrive. She had been appointed "High Inquisitor," a position so tastelessly titled it could only have come out of government. Apparently, the professors were to be inspected. Violet was morbidly interested to see the result of Umbridge trying to inspect Snape's class. She might actually have to start checking for poison after that.
That wasn't what was on the forefront of Violet's mind, though. If there was one thing the Azkaban escape had proven, it was that Voldemort wasn't planning to act anymore. He had acted, was acting, and damned was anyone who wasn't acting. Hesitation wasn't in Violet's nature—in her experience, when one had an enemy, they should strike first without warning and with such destructive intent that their foe would never be able to seek vengeance against them. But, she doubted a half-cocked attack against Voldemort, who she still knew so very little about, would end well. Hence, hesitation.
It was high time she determined just what her relationship with Dumbledore would be. Hopefully, they could be allies. Even aside from his power, she strongly suspected that Dumbledore would know more about Voldemort than nearly anyone else. If such an alliance was in the cards, it would be best to get it sorted out before things got truly chaotic. It would be rather unfortunate, not to mention embarrassing, if the Order were executing their plans, and she hers, only for both to collide and ruin each other. A little coordination could go a long way.
The gargoyle guarding Dumbledore's office shifted at her approach with the sound of rumbling stone. Its eyelids slowly slid open, revealing shiny black spheres that shone like polished obsidian. They stared at her intently.
"Good morning?" Violet tried after a moment. "I need to speak with the headmaster, if that would be possible?"
The gargoyle stared at her.
"So if you could let him know I'm here…"
It stared.
"It's important."
Stare.
"Oh, for Merlin's sake," she muttered. "What's even the point of you? Glorified lock, I say. Only, if Dumbledore's to hear me knocking from here, I'd probably have to use Blasting Curses, so maybe we could just avoid that entirely?"
A tired chuckle reached her from down the hall.
"That would be best, I think," Dumbledore said. He'd clearly been in the rain, judging from his damp robes, which was odd because it was the sunniest day all week. The tip of his pointed hat was sagging under its own waterlogged weight.
"I hope you haven't been waiting too long," he added. "I was at the Ministry, hoping to straighten things out, but I do believe they were giving me the runaround." He gave a rueful smile as he wrung water out of his hat. "It was all going well until they left me in an antechamber for half an hour. I thought they might have just forgotten about me until the weather charms malfunctioned, which is when I finally, as they say, got the hint."
"You know, that's not actually a bad idea," Violet said. "If we could get Umbridge her own personal raincloud to follow her around, she might just up and leave."
Dumbledore laughed. "Tempting as it may be, I don't think that would be the most diplomatic option."
"Alas," Violet said. "In any case, I think we need to talk, in light of recent events."
He seemed to grow a degree more serious and nodded. "Quite so."
The gargoyle stepped aside and he led her to his office. It looked much the same as the last time she had been in it with the exception of a polished stone basin pushed to one corner of Dumbledore's desk. Pale smoke rose from it, seemingly without source, and for a moment, Violet thought she saw it form a face.
"It is a Pensieve," Dumbledore said, noticing her interest. "A balm for even the most troubled of minds."
"How does it work?"
"One may place their memories within to view them from a different perspective. Observe." Dumbledore put the tip of his wand to his forehead and extracted a sliver of smoke or mist that curled, serpentlike, around his wand. It dropped into the Pensieve, rippling the pool of smoke, and arose into a recognizable scene. Violet saw herself in a heated argument with the gargoyle before it vanished in a puff of nothing.
Violet frowned. "But that wasn't how it happened. I wasn't yelling."
"Indeed," Dumbledore murmured. "It does us good to remember that no one's memory is without inaccuracy. In this particular case, I would hazard a guess that as I didn't witness the beginning of your confrontation, my subconscious devised a probable scenario to explain what I did see. I have discovered over a great many years that many of the details of our memories never, in fact, existed anywhere outside of our own minds."
He shook his head and stroked his long, white beard. "But you did not wish to discuss Pensieves, I don't think."
"Well, it's very interesting," Violet said. She'd never seen anything like it. "But, no." She paused, contemplating how to begin. Eventually, she decided on a direct approach. Fortune favored the bold.
"I trust you are aware of the prophecy?"
In a moment, Dumbledore's demeanor shifted completely. His calm, relaxed manner sharpened into something more focused. After a moment, he began to laugh.
"It's not every day I'm surprised so thoroughly," he said. "If I may ask, where did you learn of it? And have you heard its contents?"
"My mother, who I presume heard it from you," Violet said. It was true, after a fashion. "And yes, I've heard it."
"Who else knows?" Dumbledore asked.
"Sirius. Remus. One other."
"Good," he said. "It is very important that knowledge of the prophecy is not spread widely, as even Voldemort has not heard it in its entirety. This third person is reliable, I trust?"
Violet grinned. "Oh, I'd say so."
"Very good," Dumbledore said, taking his seat behind his desk and leaning backward. "And what, in your opinion, is the significance of the prophecy?"
"Well," Violet said, "seems a bit self-explanatory, doesn't it? 'Neither will rest while the other survives?'"
"Perhaps. But prophecy has always been a deeply uncertain field of magic. If you choose to oppose evil, it is thanks to your courage, not the inescapable hand of fate."
Violet shrugged. "Same thing, really."
A strange expression crossed Dumbledore's face and he sighed. "Very well, then. How much do you know of the man who became Lord Voldemort?"
"Too little."
Dumbledore nodded. "The first thing to understand is that he was not always Voldemort. His name was once Tom Marvolo Riddle, and if you arrange the letters rightly, you will see how he came upon his nom de guerre. As far as most know, Tom Riddle was a prodigiously brilliant student who regrettably disappeared without a trace some years after graduating Hogwarts. In truth, he did return, with a new name.
"Tom is a duelist without compare; even Gellert would likely have fallen to his wand if events had conspired to see the two collide. But the greatest threat he poses is not this, but his unrivaled understanding of the darkest parts of magic, his ability to inspire genuine loyalty in his followers, and the genius brutality with which he wages war. It is not without reason that most still fear to speak his name, though I do encourage against it. There is no reason to give him yet more power by shying from his adopted name."
"Did you know him well?" Violet asked.
"Better than most, I would say, but not well enough."
Violet nodded. The two of them were being studiously watched by the portraits of the former headmasters of Hogwarts, austere in their silence. One, Phinaes Black, she recognized from a portrait in Sirius's home. It her bothered on an instinctual level to have so many listening to a conversation that should have been private, but if Dumbledore allowed them to be present, they must be bound to him in one way or another.
"Do you know how he survived?" Violet asked. "Did he really come back from death?"
"That's a question of philosophy, really," Dumbledore said. "If he lives now, did he ever really die? But for our purposes, yes, he died. His body was found, after all, frozen to its core. As for how he did it…" Dumbledore trailed off and shook his head. "Alas, I can only speculate."
Phineas's nasally voice interjected. "You should probably be asking her, Dumbledore, with her reading habits. It seems Sirius has given her something of a free hand with the Black library, not that that should surprise anyone. You must be overjoyed. My great name, left in the hands of a muggle lover and a Potter."
Dumbledore adjusted his glasses and gave her a quizzical look. Violet shrugged. "Knowledge is always useful," she said.
"It is at that. And terrible in equal measure. As for Voldemort's claims of immortality, I promise that I will inform you when I learn anything concrete. Wild speculations would likely do more harm than good right now." He sighed. "It would do much good for my old heart if I knew you were not attempting to research the subject yourself. Some secrets are not worth the price."
"Right. I'll leave it to you," Violet lied.
Dumbledore nodded, though whether he actually believed her or was just trying to convince himself was an open question.
"So," Violet said, "what's your move? Voldemort's obviously influencing the Ministry, and I'm sure he'll be happy to operate from secrecy for as long as it continues to benefit him. My understanding is that the Order is mostly only guarding the prophecy right now, but I assume you'll step things up after the Azkaban escape?"
Dumbledore ran his fingertips through the Pensieve's smoke, the white mist clinging to his fingers for longer than it rightfully should. The curling tendrils briefly formed faces that Violet didn't recognize before fading to nothing.
"Your interest is understandable, of course," Dumbledore said slowly.
Violet started to get an uneasy feeling.
"Even if not for the prophecy, you would be more affected by the first war than most who lived through it. But the Order of the Phoenix does not recruit any and all. For one, only adults are eligible, but even if this were not so, any potential member would have to be trusted implicitly. I mean no offense by this. In the first war, the Order was betrayed by the man we now know was Peter Pettigrew, and many good witches and wizards paid the ultimate price for it."
Dumbledore peered at her from over his spectacles. "You are, essentially, a stranger. Out of politeness and recognition of my own failure to protect you as a child, I have not attempted to pry into your past. But now you ask for trust and offer none of your own. What is more, how can I entrust you with the Order's secrets, the weight of which is literally measured in lives, when you have already begun to undermine it?"
As Dumbledore delivered the polite rebuke, a hint of the coldness that he had shown when he commanded Umbridge's silence returned. Violet felt the fine hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, and she pressed her arm against the wand in her sleeve, feeling the smooth wood against her skin. And if the air grew a little cooler, well, it was probably just the breeze.
Bugger.
"How did you know?"
"I'm afraid," Dumbledore said, chuckling, "that however old Remus may become, I will always see the same awkward schoolboy who couldn't help but go red when he thought he had done something wrong."
Violet made a quiet, exasperated sound. She should have known better than to involve him.
Her voice taking on an acerbic note, she said, "Funny how much easier it is to make those sorts of observations when you're a Legilimens, isn't it?"
Dumbledore shook his head, ignoring her comment. "I truly wish you had not done it. It doesn't only affect you. I can no longer offer Remus or, presumably, Sirius, the same implicit trust I once did."
Violet snorted. "If you trusted Sirius implicitly before, you're mad. He's had it out for you since you left him to rot in Azkaban."
"Ah," Dumbledore said, sounding genuinely saddened. "I was not aware."
Violet stared, incredulous. Sirius was not exactly known for his subtlety. She also noted that while Sirius and Remus had been named, and would presumably not be given access to anything sensitive for fear that they might pass it on to her, Jon had not, as Dumbledore had no reason to connect him to her. Of course, Sirius had vouched for him, but that had been over a year ago now, and if Dumbledore viewed anyone Sirius or Remus had interacted with with suspicion, the Order would probably fall apart of its own accord.
"So that's that, then?" Violet asked. "Fair enough."
"That's right," Dumbledore said with insufferable cheerfulness. "If the situation changes, I would be happy to revisit the topic, but for now, precautions must be taken."
"Wonderful," Violet said. "Great cooperation. I'm so glad I decided to spend the year on awkward teenage socialization and academic busywork."
"Oh, one other thing," she added.
"Yes?" Dumbledore said, one eyebrow raised.
She nodded toward Phineas Black's portrait. "You know he has another portrait at Grimmauld Place, right? And I'm pretty sure he's technically bound to answer to the head of the family, so if you're going to act all clammed up, you should probably put him somewhere dark and silent for the next few months."
She gave the portrait a final nasty grin on her way out, the painting spluttering furiously behind her.
~#~
"Sirius," Violet hissed. "Answer the fucking Floo."
She shifted, trying to take some weight off her knees that were pressed uncomfortably against the brick of the Gryffindor fireplace. The common room was empty with the students off to dinner. She had assumed that would easily have provided enough time to make a private Floo call, but that had been almost five minutes ago that she had spent with her head stuck awkwardly into the green flames.
A voice reached her, sounding like someone shouting from a very great distance.
"Is someone there? Remus?"
Violet sighed and waited another minute. Finally, a harried and red-faced Sirius came into view, his normally gelled hair askew.
"Violet?" he said. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing, except I'm a damn idiot who recruited the world's worst spy. Why do you look like you just fucked a tornado?"
"What?" Sirius exclaimed, looking down at himself. He continued in a slightly petulant voice. "I just ran down four flights of stairs to get to you. I'm still trying to clear out all the dark artifacts from the attic. Why do you look like you want to kill someone?"
"Tell you later. Meet me at the Leaky Cauldron in forty-five minutes. We're going to bloody well do Dumbledore's job for him."
She pulled her head out of the fire, and the green flames flared once before returning to their normal color. The Hogwarts Floos were configured to only allow communication, so she couldn't travel through it.
Instead, she grabbed her invisibility cloak and climbed out a window, levitating slowly to the ground. It was no true unassisted flight, but the sensation of weightless vertigo was exhilarating in itself. She pulled the cloak around her, disappeared without a trace, and started off toward the edge of the grounds.
~#~
Forty minutes later, Violet entered the Leaky Cauldron, glamoured as a bleak older woman with cheek bones that could have been chiseled from marble. She ordered something unpleasantly strong and settled into a corner chair to wait for Sirius. The alcohol's burn mingled with the quiet satisfaction of taking action at last, and she could feel herself properly relaxing for the first time in weeks. Hogwarts was pleasant enough, but idleness always put her on edge. A little excitement would do her good. Even Dumbledore's infuriatingly reasonable reticence and Remus's guilty conscience couldn't ruin her mood now.
She saw Sirius enter the tavern and look around uncertainly for her. His eyes slid past her, then snapped back as his connection to her and knowledge of her presence helped him pierce the glamour. He blinked, squinted, and headed over.
"Could have sworn you looked older for a moment," he said.
"Projection," Violet retorted. "You're getting old and wrinkled, so everything else is starting to look that way too. Quite silly, really, getting old. Don't know why anyone does it."
Sirius chuckled.
"Seen much of Remus lately?" Violet asked.
Sirius shrugged. "Suppose so. Why?"
"Best I don't see him for a bit or I might not be able to resist the temptation to offer a handshake with a silver ring."
Sirius's eyes narrowed. "What's wrong with Remus?"
Violet raised an eyebrow. "You haven't heard?"
"What?"
"Your friend couldn't keep a straight face. Or maybe couldn't clear his mind. Either way, Dumbledore's convinced we're plotting against him somehow. It'd be hilarious if it weren't so fucking annoying. The Ministry's paranoid of Dumbledore, he's paranoid of us—I bet Voldemort doesn't have to deal with any of this. Perks of the crown, I suppose."
"Huh," Sirius said. "Well, bollocks. I guess that's why we're going renegade now?"
"Pretty much." Violet finished her drink with a long gulp. "How would you feel about paying the Ministry a surprise visit?"
Sirius grinned. "Oh, now you're speaking my language."
~#~
A sharp snap broke the silence as Sirius Apparated into a narrow street in the outskirts of Whitehall. Violet followed in his wake a second later, quieter but with a brighter flash.
"This is it?" she asked. The mostly abandoned office buildings and general demeanor of urban decay certainly wouldn't have led anyone to guess this was the entrance to the Ministry of Magic. At the end of the street there was a telephone booth with peeling red paint.
"Yeah," Sirius said. "This is the visitor's entrance. You need a token to go through the main one." He glowered at the phone booth. "Last time I was here, it was in chains. Thirteen years I waited for a trial, and they couldn't even do me the decency of bringing me through the front door."
He spat on the asphalt and said, "Come on. Let's smash a bloody prophecy."