There was a distinct sense of déjà vu as the Hogwarts Express squealed to a stop at the Hogsmeade station, steam rising from the tarnished steel rails. The rain was there, though colder than last time. The crowds of students were there, though gloomier than before. The castle still cut an imposing silhouette beneath the dark sky, but its shape was subtly different. The Divination tower, heavily damaged in the fighting, had been completely replaced by two shorter, thicker ones.

The strange symmetry with her first time arriving at Hogwarts continued as she stepped into a carriage and narrowly avoided colliding with a downward-facing Tracey Davis. Greengrass, her perpetual shadow, was already seated in the back, shrouded from the weak lantern light.

Tracey muttered an apology, shuffling over to the seats. As she did, she glanced upward and gasped. "Violet?"

Violet acknowledged her with a nod. "Lovely weather, isn't it? Seems to be a tradition."

Tracey blinked and shook her head. "I wasn't sure you'd be coming back."

"I wasn't sure either, honestly."

Silence ensued, until Tracey leaned out the window and said in a dull tone, "I can see them now."

"The Thestrals?"

"Yeah."

Violet raised an eyebrow. She hadn't thought Tracey had stuck around after giving her the warning, but apparently that wasn't the case. She must have watched from the forest.

"You warned me about the Death Eaters," Violet said. "I won't forget that."

"I guess I did, yeah," Tracey said. Her eyes flickered about, unable to settle on anything. "Didn't think it would be… real. Bellatrix Lestrange. Fuck."

"If you think that was a surprise, imagine it from my perspective," Violet said dryly. "When you warned me that some of your housemates had it out for me, I assumed it would be some sort of juvenile prank, not my godfather's mad cousin out for blood."

"I saw you kill them," Tracey murmured. "The Slytherin boys, I mean. Snape just said that they wouldn't be coming back, but I saw it. Some of the others know too. Merlin, they didn't have a chance, did they? Why would the Death Eaters even involve them in something like that?"

Violet shrugged. "I suppose they wanted to be sure they found me. Or maybe it was an initiation test." An icy smile graced her lips and she added, "I don't think any of them expected it to go the way it did."

"It got so cold," Tracey said, shivering involuntarily. "Like the whole world was about to stop. I didn't know magic like that was even possible."

Violet said nothing, silently prompting her to continue. The carriage lurched, and there was a leathery rustling of wings as the Thestrals glided into motion.

"They think of it as some sort of—some sort of fucking crusade. The Slytherins, some of them. That another war could somehow be a good thing. It's mad. They think that with the Dark Lord on their side, they can't possibly lose." Her voice dropped off. "Pellers and Rosier must have thought that too."

"Funny thing about war, that. No one ever thinks themselves on the losing side."

Greengrass cleared her throat. Her pale face leaned forward out of the darkness like a crescent moon out from clouds. "That include you, Potter?"

Violet turned. "I suppose you could say that. But there's a fundamental difference between me and them. They think they'll win. I'm why they're wrong."

Immediate skepticism crossed her face, but Greengrass seemed to think better of delivering whatever venomous barb rested on her tongue. Instead she retreated back to the rear of the carriage as the path wound by. Tracey glanced between them with narrowed eyes before settling on Violet.

"It's true, then?" she hissed. "People say that if you somehow managed to defeat him as a baby through accidental magic of all things, you could do it again—for good. Do you really have some power over him?"

The carriage rattled to a stop. Violet stood and gathered her things. "It's true." Wryly, she added, "You might even say it's a power he knows not."

Stepping into the rain, which had lessened to a fine mist that crept through folds in fabric and forced you to frequently blink, Tracey looked at her as if she wanted to say something of terrible importance, but Greengrass's voice cut her off.

"Tracey! Let's go."

"It's fine, Daphne. I was just—"

"No," Greengrass snapped. "Look, Potter, I don't care about the Slytherins you killed. Frankly, if you manage to beat the Dark Lord, I'll thank you as much as anyone. No one sane wants the future he promises. But Tracey, you'll get between their wands over my dead body."

A few other students glanced over at the commotion before moving on. Even the most dedicated gossip was eager to get out of the cold.

Tracey bit her lip and looked between them. "I'll talk to you later," she quickly whispered, but she didn't sound certain. "Sometime."

As she moved to join Greengrass, who wrapped one arm protectively around her, Violet shrugged and dipped her head. "Like I said, I won't forget, Tracey. Greengrass."

Ahead of them, Hogwarts glowed like a golden crown in the dark. Violet did wonder whether any of the students would be able to forget that the same hall that would hold the well anticipated and historic second Welcoming Feast of the year had just weeks ago weighed heavy with the stiff, forever terrified corpses of the Ministry's finest.

~#~

Dumbledore's office seemed to be a regular hub of activity. Classes hadn't even started yet, and Snape was already storming out, looking deeply vexed even for him. He glared at her, and Violet smiled beatifically before brushing past and closing the door behind her.

"Charming fellow," Violet said. "Really. You can truly feel his love and passion for education."

"He has had some choice things to say about you too," Dumbledore said, sighing. "I believe the phrase 'the devil with Lily's eyes' has come up on occasion."

"He knew my mother?"

"They were acquainted when they were younger, but I'm afraid that for any details, you'll have to talk to him."

Violet snorted. "Sure. Right after I invite Voldemort over for tea. He is what you wanted to talk about, right?"

She perched on the corner of the desk, ignoring the chair that was still overturned from Snape's dramatically incensed exit, and displacing Fawkes, who fluttered off in a huff to knock some sort of glass and metal contraption off the mantel to smash against the floor. Dumbledore sighed.

"There is that, but I also wanted to ensure we had an understanding about the Defense situation. For obvious reasons, there's little chance of finding a new professor until the end of the year at the earliest—the previous professor's untimely demise appears to have disturbed any potential applicants. Ordinarily, I would simply fill in the role myself, but due to my unofficial commitments, your assistance will be crucial." He winced and rubbed his blackened hand. "And, alas, I am not so young as I once was."

"Oh. Right."

He raised an eyebrow. "You did finish your end of the bargain, I hope?"

"Absolutely. Totally, without question. Best lesson plans ever. Those firsties are going to learn all about the Dark Arts."

"You are aware—"

"Yes, yes, defense, yes. But you know what they say about a good offense, don't you?"

"Some might say that applying an adage fit for the battlefield to a classroom would be ill-considered."

"Ah," Violet said. "But in my experience, there's not a human interaction that can't be called conflict by another name."

Dumbledore chuckled. "I once knew a man who told me something very similar. I'm afraid I am less inclined to agree now than then. Now, on to the matter at hand. As as you clearly have an unusual depth of practical experience in subject, and in light of the presently elevated likelihood of a student actually needing to apply their lessons in defense of themselves or others, I think it would be best if you focused on practical subjects while I cover theory that you might find, ah, trying."

"Yeah, fine," Violet said.

"Wonderful. There's just one other thing," Dumbledore said, tapping his fingers against the desk.

"What's that?"

His hand went still. "What can you tell me about the Cold Room?"

A moment passed, and Violet realized that there was abruptly a tension in the air. Although Dumbledore was outwardly calm, she detected a certain rigidity of his posture, like a wire trap poised to spring. It was as though he believed she might at any moment attack him like a wild animal.

She slid off the desk and began to pace. You couldn't have an alliance with someone who saw you as a ticking bomb, and she was under no delusion that she could successfully deceive Dumbledore. Bizarre as it was, the best course of action might actually be to tell the truth.

Even so, it wouldn't do to disseminate too easily.

"I don't know, Dumbledore. What can you tell me about the Cold Room?"

"Supposition only, I am afraid. I was hoping that you could ease an old man's confusion."

Violet spread her arms. "Indulge me."

Dumbledore's eyes gleamed. However mild his outward manner, it was clear he relished this game of words. "As you wish. The story, I suppose, began at your inexplicable disappearance. No matter how hard I searched, however many favors I called in, I found not even a whisper of reliable information. If you'll forgive my morbidity, even your death would have left traces. The remnants of Voldemort's movement would have been all to eager to display the evidence of their perceived victory, and any more common sort of criminal would have been all to eager to collect a generous ransom for your return. In absence of either, I was forced to consider that the truth was something beyond conventional knowledge. This was only compounded when your acceptance letter was sent, for its address was deeply cryptic and, as far as I could tell, unrelated to any place on Earth.

"Furthermore, there is the fact that your mother's parents, although muggle, were unusually accepting of the existence of magic. It is normal for there to be a certain resistance among the families of muggleborn students, but this was not the case for her. Indeed, I recall Minerva remarking on the strangeness of it. I personally had the good fortune to meet them on one occasion at your parents' wedding, and I was struck both by their acceptance of the magical world and by their adherence to odd, almost superstitious practices to try to make us comfortable.

"For instance, I remember noticing that the cutlery given to Wizarding guests was entirely silver, while the muggles made do with steel. At the time, I assumed it was simple generosity, but the alternate explanation that they may have been laboring under a misconception about our nature presents itself. I find it entirely reasonable that Lily may have inherited an interest in certain folk tales that have fallen out of favor among the Wizarding world from them, and it was never in her nature to accept the textbook answer for anything."

He took a breath and continued. "It is a certain thing that wizards frequently overestimate our own knowledge of the world and fail to consider uncomfortable possibilities. The idea that there may exist a race of beings far more ancient and terrible than our own would offend the sensibilities of many.

"Lastly, there is the matter of Voldemort's failed attempt to murder you as a child. Immediately after you were taken from the house, I detected a type of magic lingering around and within you that I could not identify."

Tenting his fingers, Dumbledore leaned forward. "All these separate observations, though of little help on their own, came together with the Cold Room. Rumors among the Unspeakables of strange and inhuman beings, cruel bargains and twisted words, all associated with the room that by all accounts was the most dangerous of the entire department… And this room has an undeniable connection to you that you were somehow able to leverage to escape a Department of Mysteries in lockdown, vanish for weeks on end, before reappearing none the worse for your experience. All this leads to one question."

With the air of an attorney delivering their closing argument, Dumbledore finished with, "I ask you this: Were you born Violet Lily Potter?"

Violet whistled and shook her head in wonder. "Wow. You must have been dying to let that out."

"Unbearably," Dumbledore said. "At times, my own cleverness—if you excuse the immodesty—can feel like a burden. However, I'm afraid I cannot be dissuaded. I must know whom I am speaking to."

"All right. You got me. I'm really a changeling sent to infiltrate the mortal world as a prelude to an invasion." She sarcastically wiggled her fingers as if telling a ghost story.

Dumbledore's eyes narrowed.

"I'm also Celestina Warbeck's illegitimate daughter. And the sky is red, and everything I've told you—this sentence included—is untrue. My tongue isn't tied, Dumbledore." Violet laughed. "I'm as mortal as you. Well, maybe not quite, as neither of my hands are black and desiccated, but definitely enough to duck when I see green light coming my way."

"So I was wrong, then?" Dumbledore asked. Violet thought she could detect a hint of disappointment in his voice. "The Sidhe really are but a myth?"

Violet scoffed. "A patently ridiculous question. Whence would the Red Cap or pixie hail if not from the twisted forests of the Wyld? It's possible all magical creatures are distantly descended from Sidhe. Whether you call them by that name or not, their existence is hardly in doubt. The question you should be asking is whether among number are some far fairer than the rest. And as to that, I can say only this." She smirked.

"Put it this way. I didn't have to wonder for a moment what the 'power he knows not' might be."

~#~

Classes began the next day, and someone had arranged for the first Defense Against the Dark Arts class to be the fifth years, which she couldn't quite convince herself was a coincidence. Dumbledore was probably trying to do her a favor by stacking the first lesson people she knew. It didn't really matter to her, but either way, when she entered the classroom a few minutes early, she was confronted by a surprising change of furnishing.

Gone were the garish pinks, and in their place were charcoal grays and understated blues. The room had easily doubled in size through some arcane means, and twice as many chairs and desks were set out. The reason for that was clear, as members of all four houses could be seen tentatively entering. Tracey gave her a brief wave before looking away and Ron nodded to her.

"Does anyone know who's teaching?" someone asked. "I heard they couldn't find anyone."

"Well, that'd be all right, then," Ron responded. "We could just have Violet teach."

Violet flashed him a grin. "Hem, hem. Careful what you wish for."

Everyone groaned, except a few of the Slytherins that she was pretty sure had been on the briefly-lived and ill-fated Inquisitorial Squad, who merely regarded her with surly expressions.

"Seriously, though. I got Dumbledore'd into helping out, so I guess I'm some sort of bloody teaching assistant now. Full disclosure, if he makes me grade your papers, I will be grading everyone without reading a word. And if any of you even think about calling me Professor, I'm going to find something worse than a T."

"Dumbledore's teaching?" a student asked, eyes wide. "And you're helping?"

"Yeah, it's almost as if he thinks I might have something to add on the subject," Violet said, spinning her wand around her hand and winked. "I can't possibly think what might have given him that idea."

Some of the Slytherins glared darkly and she returned a cold look of her own. Even if she had promised Dumbledore do things properly, she still wasn't pleased by the idea of helping potential future enemies become more dangerous.

The clock's hands ticked steadily on until Dumbledore finally arrived, several minutes after the class was set to start. He stepped through the door, stooping to avoid brushing his pointed hat against the frame. He looked pained, and, noticing a few students about to ask awkward questions, Violet spoke first.

"You're late," she said. "Great start. I was about to start ad-libbing, which you probably wouldn't want to see the results of."

He gave her a grateful look and took a moment to collect himself. "I think you'll find that a wizard is never late and, in fact, arrives precisely when he is meant to."

"You stole that!" Dean Thomas shouted from the rear seats.

Dumbledore chuckled. "Mr. Thomas, given my rather impressive age, who do you think stole that turn of phrase from whom?"

With Dumbledore having taken the attention, Violet took the opportunity to slink off to a corner of the room to observe as he turned to regard the students, a genuine smile shining through his wiry beard.

"I have missed this," he said, rubbing his hand through his soft white glove. "I'd like to thank you all for allowing me the opportunity to teach again. Hopefully I haven't forgotten anything too important about it. Every year, I feel as though more of my thoughts are replaced by dust and bits of fluff."

As he began to outline how the rest of the course would go to the collectively entranced audience—the four houses had been combined to allow for more double classes, both in response to the threat of Voldemort and, though it went unspoken, the need to make up for Umbridge's incompetence—Violet settled into her chair, content to watch Britain's greatest wizard in recent history lecture with a passion usually reserved for midnight rendezvous and the pitched battlefield. Somehow, she didn't imagine he would be so excited by either.

~#~

"Try putting a little twist at the end of the wand motion—ooh, like that, yes. We possibly shouldn't be doing this indoors."

Ron coughed, waving a hand to clear the smoky train his spell had left. He eyed the scorched stone. "Blimey, I don't think that would be fun to be hit by."

"Seconded. Try it again."

"Radius Calor!"

A fiery point flashed from his wand, trailing black smoke and roaring like a bonfire. But his concentration must have slipped, because the curse wandered from its course and, instead of striking the thick castle wall with enough thermal mass to shrug it off, careened into a freestanding blackboard. Red light flared as the curse delivered its charge, heating the slate to a cheery yellow, which immediately began to ooze. By the time it had cooled enough to hold its own weight again, it was rippled and warped.

"Bloody hell, I thought I was starting to get the hang of it," Ron groused. "Reparo."

The blackboard remained stubbornly deformed.

"Seriously?" Ron said, giving his wand a doubtful look. "I can't even do that right now?"

"It's not your charm," Violet said. "It's your curse. There's not much point doing that to a person if they can just go and fix it with a single spell, is there?"

"Oh," Ron said. He looked vaguely ill as he considered the implications of that. "Well, what do we do about that, then?"

Violet shrugged. "Deny, deflect, and distance. Seeing as Dumbledore managed to secure a free teaching assistant, I'm sure he can find a way to stretch the school budget to include a new blackboard. Or maybe he'll be able to fix it. I don't know if you've noticed, but he's rather good at magic."

"Heh, I suppose so," Ron said. They left the Defense classroom. It was a little odd to think that the only reason they had this time free was because Trelawny had been abducted and was likely languishing in a dark, moldering pit. It was also irritating that in her efforts to prevent Voldemort from learning the prophecy, she had overlooked something so obvious, but at least the trap had fulfilled its purpose. Dumbledore had informed her that Voldemort had finally revealed himself to his followers after a lengthy period of recovery from his encounter with the false prophecy, the thought of which gave her no small satisfaction.

"You didn't seem to have too much to do this class," Ron commented. "Though I suppose if anyone could show you up in Defense, it's Dumbledore."

"Don't worry. I have plans for all of you. It'll be fun."

"Yeah?" Ron said, frowning. "Like what?"

Violet smiled. "Just some ideas from my childhood. Nothing to worry about."

"Huh."

They exited onto the grounds and were immediately greeted by a cutting wind that made Ron shiver and curse. Fat snowflakes drifted lazily downward, though they weren't yet accumulating on the grass.

"It's weird," Ron said.

"Yeah?"

"It just all seems so normal. The castle's all cleaned up, and almost everyone was in Hogsmeade on Halloween, so they didn't see anything. And now almost everyone's going about their day like dozens of people didn't die. It's fucked. One of the Hit Wizards was my cousin. I didn't really know him, but he'd pop up now and then. And now he's dead."

"It's no surprise. Most people will do anything to avoid confronting an uncomfortable truth." Violet snorted. "Hell, look at the Ministry. You won't find a better example than them."

"It was like this with Ginny too," Ron said, looking off toward the Forbidden Forest with a distant expression. "Everyone was horrified, Hogwarts let out, and when it came back everyone seemed to have forgotten. Even my family, eventually. It's like I'm the only one of them who remembers, who's actually doing anything."

"That's why you're working so hard to learn to fight, isn't it?"

"Yeah." Ron turned to look at her and let out a humorless laugh. "You know, most people will do anything to avoid calling it that. It's Defense Against the Dark Arts or it's counter-curses, but it's never fighting. I guess it doesn't look good to teach that to kids, but it's not self-defense I'm interested in."

"Hey, that's not something you have to explain to me," Violet said, clapping him on the shoulder. "I'm always happy to show you some tricks to use against the Death Eaters."

Ron nodded. "I really appreciate it. But I don't know if it'll help. I got knocked head over heels on Halloween, and that wasn't even a proper Death Eater. Just a belligerent Slytherin. I'm not sure how you got good enough to take on Bellatrix Lestrange, but I don't think it's something I can match."

Peals of laughter and excited voices drifted from a group of students raucously practicing charms. A fence pole from one of Hagrid's pens had sprouted legs and was chasing them across the grounds toward the lake.

"There are always shortcuts on the path to power," Violet said in a low voice. "I suppose I had one chosen for me, though I've never looked from the road set before me. If you're serious, there are options. But never without a price."

"What price did you pay?" Ron asked, then immediately shook his head, the tips of his ears turning red. "Never mind. It's none of my business."

"It's all right." Violet contemplated for a moment, then gestured toward the laughing students. "That's what I gave up. The sort of existence that is carefree and comforted by the illusion of safety. Little things, like being nervous for an exam or excited over a kiss. Innocence, and the option to give it up. Embarrassment, guilt, fear, none of which are missed until they are gone. If you gave me the chance to change things, I'd make the same choices again, but that doesn't mean I don't realize that I'm missing things normal people have. And there's sterility, I suppose, though that's really more of a requisite side effect than a cost."

"Whoa. That sounded sort of profound or something."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

The topic was dropped there, but she didn't miss the calculating look on Ron's face. It was the look of someone who was someone who would do anything for the power to accomplish his goals, even if he hadn't quite realized it yet.

"By the way, have you seen Parvati?" Violet asked. "She should be free right now too since she was in Divination."

"No," Ron said, grimacing. "I guess you wouldn't have heard. Apparently last night she had some sort of fit. I guess it's a mental thing. She didn't take what happened on Halloween well, you know, and I guess being back here was just too much. I mean, I can understand that seeing someone die is shocking, but she should realize that you were doing what you had to." He sighed. "She's gone home again for a while. I only know because she asked Madame Pomfrey to tell me."

Looking out over to the students, who had managed to break the charm on the animated fence post and were now exchanging playful congratulations, Violet wondered how a normal person would feel. Guilty, maybe. It wasn't hard to guess that her reaction was linked to seeing the Slytherin student killed in front of her, and Violet probably could have found a less visually disturbing way to deal with him. But she couldn't seem to muster up more than a vague, dull regret. She hadn't intended to hurt Parvati in any way, but she hadn't even considered that she might have been affected in that way. But what was done was done. It would probably always be this way for people who associated with her if they themselves weren't of a colder disposition themselves. Not recognizing that had been the mistake, really. Nothing else.

Bidding Ron goodbye, she turned to return to the castle. She would be meeting with Dumbledore tonight for the first of her private lessons, so she'd have to get her assignments out of the way first. Maybe she'd write a Transfiguration essay about the practical applications of animated drapery.

~#~

"My Lord," came the pockmarked man's empty rasp. He stood with a slight stoop as if constantly burdened by a heavy weight. Even as his comrades had shaken off the influence of Azkaban, he had seemed to sink deeper into it, as if too fascinated by that dark place to leave it behind. The flickering firelight in Lucius's private sitting room cast heavy shadows over his sunken eyes. "You summoned me?"

Voldemort studied him for several long moments. Even as the silence stretched, Augustus showed no sign of discomfort. Not even the fact that he must know that Voldemort had not called him here to offer him his congratulations seemed to affect him. It hadn't always been this way; in the old days, he had been a brilliant young man with an amusingly dry wit. It was that wit, as much as his usefulness to the cause, that had propelled him to the highest echelons of the Death Eaters. Voldemort preferred to surround himself with the company of those he could at least tolerate. These days, the man was more effective than ever, gathering intelligence and sewing sabotage with unparalleled efficiency, but he did it with an almost alien dispassion. It was dangerous; you couldn't control a man you couldn't understand, and Augustus was nothing by a mystery now.

"Would you care for wine?" Voldemort asked, raising a glass decanter. "It's a fair vintage."

Augustus shrugged and poured a glass. He brought it to his mouth, his tongue darting out in a serpentine motion to taste it. "Lucius always did have fine taste."

"Expensive, at least," Voldemort said. "I suspect that he views the two as indistinguishable."

Augustus's blank expression didn't flicker. "What did you wish to discuss, My Lord?"

"Ah." Voldemort's fingers curled tight over his own wineglass, its base shaking slightly under his grip. "Do you remember informing me that it would be 'virtually impossible' for anyone to tamper with a prophecy orb in the Department of Mysteries?"

"Clearly, My Lord."

"Very good." His fingers tensed around the glass, and a faint creaking became audible. "It was wrong, of course."

Still, there was no reaction. It was incomprehensible. A minor follower would have been shaking with terror at the merest hint of his displeasure. Lucius would have slyly attempted to shift blame away from himself. Bellatrix would throw herself into her next mission with twice as much fervor, such was her devotion. Once, Augustus would have wryly pointed out that 'virtually impossible' contained an all-important qualifier. But now there was only a lifeless gaze and the unverifiable suggestion of continued loyalty. The glass in Voldemort's hand shattered, cutting his hand, and red wine ran with blood.

"Yessss," he hissed. "A mistake. It was replaced with a most insidious trap. Only my own skill saved me. But there is a way you can redeem yourself for this failing."

"I live to serve you, My Lord."

That, Voldemort could believe. It certainly did not seem as though Augustus lived for anything else. He flicked his hand, the droplets of wine and blood hissing as they passed through the fireplace. He flexed his fingers and watched the skin around the cuts crawl, knitting before his eyes. "Indeed you do." He raised himself from his armchair and crossed the thick embroidered carpet to stand before the fire, gazing into its entrancing dance. "I require information regarding the Unspeakables' research."

"In which area?"

"Historical mythology, unexplained magical phenomena, and… extraplanar entities."

Augustus finished his wine and stared for a moment at his own reflection in the glass, distorted by its curvature. When he finally responded, his voice seemed to contain once more some shadow of the vitality of his youth.

"It is the official position of the Department of Mysteries that, aside from the known magical races—goblins, centaurs, and such—we are alone in existence. They would have you believe that this reality is the only one, that there are no worlds between the shadows. This is obviously a lie. What has led you to such a direction of inquiry? I ask only so that I may better serve you by avoiding extraneous detail."

"My reasons are my own, Augustus, you know this… But you have proven your loyalty time and time again, have you not? You will guard my secrets well, I know."

"Until death, My Lord."

Voldemort smiled, thin and wide. "Very well, then. As I recovered from the trap set in the fake prophecy sphere, I considered many things. Not only was the magic used in the trap unlike anything I could explain—and there is no magic beyond me, as you are aware—I immediately realized that I actually had seen it once before, on the day of my greatest triumph—and greatest defeat." His voice took on an urgent, impassioned edge. "Do you understand, Augustus? Violet Potter set that trap, using magic foreign to even me! How could that be possible without the intervention of some entity beyond conventional thought?"

"It sounds as though you're talking about a god," Augustus remarked.

"Bah. God or no, they will die by my wand if they have meddled in my affairs. What were Jupiter and Dis Pater but mighty wizards who entranced the feeble minds of the muggle populace? There are none beyond my reach. And now you tell me that there are such beings unknown to common wizards. Tell me all you know."

"As you say, My Lord," Augustus said, voice dropping to a harsh rasp. He coughed roughly. "Very well. As you know, the Unspeakables take their silence seriously. Although I have been able to break many of my binding vows with your masterful assistance in the Mind Arts, there will be no sidestepping this one. The vow of secrecy I took for this matter was Unbreakable." Augustus met his gaze coolly. "Of course, if the need is great enough, that will not stop me from executing your will."

Without hesitation, Voldemort said, "The pathetic prophet's mind has yielded to me, and the true prophecy is now mine. It speaks of a power I know not; I know without doubt that it is this. There has never been a need greater."

In response, Augustus stood without another word and walked to the door. As his hand closed on the silvered knob, Voldemort spoke.

"For the cause."

His Death Eater turned, empty eyes suddenly glowing with an unquenchable fire. "Always."

Forty-five minutes later, Augustus Rookwood returned to the sitting room. The fireplace's warmth was fading as coals cooled to ash. He handed Voldemort a sealed scroll containing a single sheet of parchment meticulously covered in tiny, elegant handwriting.

One minute after that, he was dead.

AN: Thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing. As always, I hope you enjoyed.