When Satria gave Violet a replacement for her communication mirror, she had called it crude compared to the work of art that preceded it. But when Violet looked into its depths of frozen light, she saw the bottomless depths of the ocean and infinite majesty of the stars.

A moment later, the unmoving blur of colors shifted and resolved into Satria's elegant features, and any question of its relative beauty was resoundingly resolved. Her freely flowing hair shifted slightly in an unseen wind beneath the ridiculous silver circlet she still insisted on.

A platinum smile shone through her rosy lips. "And how was your Christmas, Violet?"

"Odd," Violet said. She briefly contemplated trying to relate her frustrations with Fleur, but as Satria's suggestion would no doubt involve murder, she decided to refrain. "The Wild Hunt flew overhead. I know they made occasional appearances in the mortal world even when quiescent in the Wyld, but I have difficulty believing it to be a coincidence."

A flicker of black anger crossed Satria's expression. "It is such a terrible pity that no suffering may be visited upon those cursed riders greater than their own profane existence. Even the finest have fallen to their fell call in days past."

For a moment, it was as if Violet could see the memories of ancient years playing across her face, but just as quickly as the mercurial flash came, it was gone.

"I had a chance to look at those dusty old papers," Satria said. "I can't deny they were intriguing."

"Yes?" Violet asked, perking up. "Was there anything about Horcruxes? Or the symbol?"

"Nothing of the first, though that could also be explained by me lacking the full context of mortal magical theory. There were a number of concepts and terms unfamiliar to me, including some quite painful bastardizations of hieroglyphics." She sniffed. "It's nearly as bad as the ridiculous cant you call Latin."

Disappointing, but Violet supposed Dumbledore's word was more or less trustworthy in that matter. The second subject was more interesting. "But the cloak?"

Satria smiled broadly. "Oh, just you wait, for I have a story to tell."

Nearly an hour later, Violet broke the mirror connection with a minor pulse of discordant Winter magic. She took to the streets outside Grimmauld Place and allowed herself to be carried along the current of London's bustling streets, lost in her thoughts. She bought a morning paper, the headline boldly proclaiming a series of mysterious disappearances the previous night, speculating in gleeful detail of the possible rise of some sort of serial-murdering Christmas cult.

Darkly amused, she binned the paper. Ironically, the Death Eaters were probably going to catch the blame for the disappearances in Wizarding society. It wasn't as if anyone was going to consider that mythical beings from another world might be responsible.

Deathly Hallows.

Two words, but they carried a power that sent a frisson down her spine. The invisibility cloak—or should it be the Invisibility Cloak, Violet wondered—was near enough to weightless, but it felt heavy in her pocket all the same. Satria had been dismissive of the suggestion that they could truly have originated from a manifestation of Death, but Violet was not so swift to dismiss the possibility that the old stories might hold some truth. Her own experiences with a conceptual quasi-deity were enough to ensure that much.

In any case, it was clear that Grindelwald and his closest followers had pursued the Hallows obsessively. The shocking part was that they hadn't been alone. If Satria's instincts were right, and they rarely were not, Dumbledore held two of the three artifacts. One could be explained by circumstance—if Grindelwald found the wand and Dumbledore defeated him, it stood to reason he would claim it. But the stone was another matter. He had all but admitted to abandoning all reason at the sight of it, not even stopping to check for the curse that had afflicted him. A man like Dumbledore wouldn't forget something like that unless he was hungry.

Why, Violet couldn't say. To her, the stone seemed the least of the three, at least from its theorized abilities in the notes. She had no interest in disturbing the dead.

Eventually tiring of walking, she took another step that carried her along a frozen wind to her destination. The perpetually dingy exterior of the Leaky Cauldron greeted her glumly, as if it were literally beaten down by the wet snow piled on its roof. She pulled her cloak's hood over her head.

Diagon Alley looked like it had been ransacked by an army of Christmas trees. Through glass windows, she could see that most of the stores' shelves were still depleted from the shopping rush. There were so many wreaths and decorated trees that the snowy road was covered in pine needles. It was pretty enough, with glittering baubles and idyllic white rooftops everywhere the eye could see, but Violet still preferred the more subdued celebrations of her Knockturn days. Amusingly, even Ollivander was getting into the spirit, having hung a battered wooden ornament in the shape of a spindly pine from his shop's door.

She eased the door open. It creaked.

"Back so soon?" came Ollivander's hoarse greeting. He placed a partially carved wand shaft down on his desk and stood up. "Not a surprise, no, but disappointing all the same. I had hoped the Hebridean would grow more fond of you with time, but it's no surprise it didn't, really." His eyes, one seemingly massive behind a magnifying device, gleamed. "A connection as strong as yours with your first is not easily replaced, after all…"

"I've gathered," Violet said. Ruefully, she added, "I'm afraid I won't be able to return the Hebridean wand. We had a slight difference of opinion."

"Quite all right," Ollivander said. It always sounded like speaking pained him, his voice was so dry. "It would have been useless after forming even a poor bond. Though I always do prefer to keep such wands as keepsakes, if nothing else."

"Well, you'll be pleased to know I'm not here for another one," Violet said. She sighed. "I honestly don't know what I'm going to do, but burning through your stock isn't going to help."

"Oh?" Ollivander said, tilting his head in a manner reminiscent of a very bony bird. "Surely you have not come simply to impart the news of your most recent wand's unfortunate fate, then."

"No." Violet hesitated, fiddling with the hem of her sleeve where her wand should rest. "You will hold your counsel in this matter as before, yes?"

He smiled, expression placid. "I know well the value of secrets of the fae, and I am wise enough to respect them."

"Wise indeed," Violet muttered. "Very well. I wanted to ask you about one wand in particular. A very old one."

"An old wand?" Ollivander repeated and dipped his head, a small, mysterious smile on his face. "Such an intriguing request. I will, of course, answer your question as best a tired old man can."

"And what would be the price of this knowledge?" Violet asked, trying to keep a note of eagerness from entering her voice.

"Oh, not so very much at all. One of those fine stones you carry, and a small favor. A very small one, oh yes…" Turning, he hurried into the back of his shop. A series of clatters and the sound of shifting boxes followed before he returned, clutching an unadorned wooden case. "There is one last wand I would like you to try."

He let out a dry chuckle, as if at some unseen joke. "For if not you, then whom? Who, who, indeed? There is one other of course, but His presence is not one I desire to seek out. Yes, this is one wand I will not be sorry to see go."

With hands that shook so badly she wondered how he possibly managed to carve his intricate wands, he handed over the case. Violet took it and undid the latch. Within, a very light-colored wand rested diagonally. The case and velvet padding had clearly been built just for it.

Violet frowned. "This doesn't look like yew."

"No, no," Ollivander said. "Indeed, a worse combination for you, I can hardly think of. But… perhaps, perhaps. I feel fickle Fate still has something planned for this particular wand."

When it became clear he wasn't going to elaborate on either the wand's wood or core, Violet shrugged and reached for it. Ollivander always leaned a little more heavily toward weird than eccentric, but if he only wanted her to test another wand, she wasn't going to complain.

Her fingers closed around the smooth finish, and it was immediately clear that it was not a dragon that lay in this wand's heart. A gentle, patient warmth rested there, belying the deep ocean of power it carried with it. Curious and a little excited, Violet closed her eyes and breathed in deeply.

There was a connection, that was sure, but it wasn't the cold clarity of her Thestral wand. Its wood made no attempt to complement Winter's nature the way the yew had, but it was the core that captured her attention. Its presence was regal and somehow tragic, as if lamenting a union that would never be. Suddenly, it seemed to grow burning hot, and Winter rose up in response, surging through her veins. The wand wanted her, but it could not abide Winter. It called on her to abandon the unearthly grace that blessed her and return to true mortality and the path she would have walked if not for an accident of fate, poignant in both its sincerity and certain futility.

In a flash, Violet threw the wand aside, stepping unconsciously backward. "No," she said. "I think not."

Ollivander, seemingly unconcerned by the way the immaculately polished wand had careened through his shop, merely sighed. "Not today, then. I suppose I shall have to wait some more."

Wringing her hand as if the unmarked skin had actually been burnt, Violet said, "What was that thing, anyway?"

Ollivander's eyelids fluttered like a moth's wings. "Holly and a phoenix's feather—one of the only two it ever gave. Eleven inches, and just a bit flexible. I think I shall never make another quite like it."

Violet squinted. She didn't know all that much about wands, but even she knew there had to be more to the story than that. Neither the wood nor core were remotely suited to her, but something had undeniably happened when she held that wand. But as Ollivander didn't seem intent on explaining any further, she just said, "My questions now."

"As agreed," he whispered.

With a furtive glance through the dirty shop's window that revealed nothing but snow-coated streets and passersby fully occupied with their own business, Violet spoke, her voice soft and smooth.

"Tell me," she said, "of the Wand of Destiny."

~#~

Rufus Scrimgeour loathed being made fun of. Muttered words behind his back might seem innocent enough, but they inevitably spread insubordination and undermined discipline. Political careers had gone from meteoric rises to abysmal plunges on account of nothing more than an awkwardly phrased statement that some happened to find funny.

So it was with an ill temper that he was slowly becoming certain that the joke was on him. He'd asked his personal assistant to help him with getting the clothes right, but he was pretty sure he'd fucked something up given the look of mingled pity and contempt the blasted muggle had given him before offering to take his coat.

The question, of course, was whether the girl had chosen a muggle restaurant to meet knowing his unfamiliarity with the culture would leave him off balance—not to mention the implicit power play of expecting the Minister of Magic to meet on her terms at all—or if she had simply not considered it in the first place. There was plenty of talk about her supposed power and dueling skill, but that wasn't the same thing as having political acumen. It wouldn't do to drive himself paranoid by giving a teenager undue credit.

She clearly had not shared any of his issues, standing out even among the similarly elaborately garbed muggles in a silvery-blue dress that hugged her figure in a way that, given her age, made him feel uncomfortably lecherous. Another tactic meant to unsettle, or just a poorly thought out fashion choice?

He picked up the slightest hint of amusement at his getup—but then it was gone, quickly enough that it could not have been an accident that she showed it in the first place. His teeth began to grind against each other.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet in person, Minister," Potter said. "Please, have a seat."

For a moment, Rufus contemplated refusing, but it would have just seemed petty. He sat with a huff. She had even ordered for him, for Merlin's sake.

"Do you often spend time in the muggle world?" he asked acerbically.

"Mm," Potter said, cutting her steak with a double-edged knife that even he knew wasn't something muggles typically used as a utensil. "All the attention can be a bit stifling at times. Besides, it's always easier for a secret to remain so when no one knows to wonder about it. And I think it would be more convenient for both of us if this meeting were to go undocumented, yes?"

She smiled, quick and sharp, and it was immediately clear that even the wildest rumors had not done her justice. He'd seen corpses with more warmth to them. Vicious exultation surged in his chest, soaring into hope. He knew he couldn't defeat Lord Voldemort with Aurors and Hit Wizards. Numbers didn't count when a single accursed man could turn the air to poison and bring the sky crashing to the earth. It wouldn't be a man or a woman who would end this. It would take a legend.

There were two types of those, in Rufus's eyes. First, of course, there were the Merlins, the Dumbledores—heroes. They were useful but rarely actually did anything about the problems that really needing solving. "The only one he ever feared" was getting older by the day, and he hadn't even dealt with Grindelwald before half the continent burned. Rufus hadn't known Merlin, but he was willing to bet that for all his legend, King Arthur had probably despaired at all the problems he hadn't solved.

On the other side of the coin were the monsters. Grindelwald, Voldemort, Slytherin, le Fay. Demons of the deep and dark. One could hardly deny that they got things done. Whether razing a nation or building an empire, it was monsters that changed the world. And, to Rufus's great satisfaction, it looked like Potter fit perfectly into his second category. Some might hope for a hero, but Rufus had more faith in a well-aimed dog of war than a thousand shining examples of humanity.

And it was a monster's eyes that met his. Not mere cruelty or callousness—he'd certainly seen enough of that back in his Auror days, and even more since he took up politics—but a kind of deliberate unconcern that spoke of a person who felt little fellowship for society, combined with absolute confidence in their ability to ignore its laws if it suited them. Monsters were not so by deed but by nature; he was logically-minded enough to recognize that, fundamentally, even the most vile criminal was as human as he, regardless of the temptation he might feel to separate himself from them. But he hesitated to extend that maxim to the likes of Voldemort or Grindelwald or perhaps even Potter—who, in all probability, would have considered such a comparison an insult in any case.

He glanced down at the artfully arranged plate before him and curled his lip, pushing it aside. Potter was watching him, and with a sudden pang of paranoia, he found himself attempting to clear his mind. He had never been particularly good at the practice, and ever since he gave up wandwork for paperwork, his thoughts had only grown more unquiet. But the subtle flash of white teeth in response to his efforts was enough to convince him that they were well spent.

"I meant to thank you," he said, composing himself with practiced alacrity. "The cursed letter you sent was an excellent test of our security measures."

Potter laughed, a light and deceptively charming sound. "I can see what you mean. Practice is one thing, but it's only that. Only the enemy can truly test you."

"An interesting perspective. Wouldn't that make you the enemy, then?"

"I suppose," she replied. "Though a rather incompetent one. I suspect the Death Eaters would attempt a more sinister curse than those I reserve for reporters."

Rufus snorted despite himself and reached for a glass of water. Merlin, but if he claimed not to have been tempted to do the same at times, he'd be a liar.

"How familiar are you with the state of the conflict?" he asked, setting his glass back down. Potter shrugged.

"Let's say not at all to be safe. Albus Dumbledore's perspective is at times a slanted one, and I think I would like to hear yours in full."

Rufus raised his eyebrows. "I take it the rumors that he secreted you away as a child to prepare you for Voldemort's return are false then? I suppose that explains why you agreed to meet at all. I'm not sure he'd be able to see the value in cooperation."

"Thank the stars, no. A childhood spent under his gentle instruction, can you imagine? I'd probably be left a stuttering bookworm."

She laughed, the sound spilling outward like a trickling stream. The dining muggles seemed to hitch in their movements for just a moment, their gazes falling unerringly onto her. A moment later, it was as if it had never happened at all. Rufus had seen something similar once, when he was much younger and more foolish and thought to pursue the affection of a Veela girl. It had disturbed him then, and it disturbed him now.

Somehow, this seemed worse. He didn't know exactly what she had done, but its subtlety and almost experimental fleetingness spoke of something more than an uncontrollable enchantment. With effort, he stilled his mind further.

He cleared his throat. "As I was saying: the Ministry is doing all it can—admittedly, it's been difficult. I don't mean to speak ill of my predecessor, but Fudge could have spent his time more wisely than by feuding with Dumbledore. But the problem is the public. The last war was hell, and it's only become worse in the years of retelling, until half the nation quakes in their britches at a damn name. If we don't do something, we're going to beat ourselves. Voldemort will have only to stand back and watch."

"Unless," Potter said slyly, "another equally rumored legend should offer her endorsement of your administration. I figured we'd get to that eventually."

Despite himself, Rufus hesitated. He hadn't expected her to be so politically astute, but he probably should have been. For all he knew, this whole evening was following a script of her design. He quickly gathered his thoughts. You wouldn't make it far as a politician if you let them see you sweat.

"Well… yes," he said, suspecting he sounded a little unconvincing. Hastily, he added, "But I'm not asking you to lie to the public. You can't imagine how much just having you around the Ministry would do to allay people's fears."

"Why, Minister," she said, "it sounds almost as if you're suggesting that the heroically posed flyers in Diagon Alley aren't having their desired effect."

"Something along those lines, yes," Rufus replied, amused even though he probably shouldn't be. He had brought up that perhaps such insipid propaganda would be unlikely to produce ranks of shiny, bright-eyed recruits, and as far as he could tell, no one actually disagreed. Yet, thanks no doubt to some half-forgotten department buried in the bureaucratic labyrinth of the Ministry, they had gone up all the same. Sometimes the weight of government seemed almost to act on its own.

"It's a good idea," Potter said. "No sense passing up such an advantage. And if we should happen to strengthen your own political career while saving the nation…" She grinned. "Well, one could hardly blame you, could they?"

"I suppose," Rufus replied neutrally. "You agree, then?"

It was looking dangerously like this might actually go far more easily than he had feared, so the universe naturally took the opportunity to correct this misconception immediately.

"Certainly," Potter said. "Conditionally, of course, on certain accommodations."

"Of course," he ground out. "Specifically?"

"Nothing too terribly onerous. Hmm." She put a finger to her lip in mock consideration. "Let's start with underage magic. While I would never consider violating Ministry law, I suspect that such a restriction was hardly created with circumstances like mine in mind."

At that, Rufus was completely unable to suppress a derisive snort. If Potter cared one whit about the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery of all things, he'd pose for one of those blasted posters himself. More likely, it was a foot-in-the-door tactic to ease into the real demands.

"I'm sure something could be arranged," he said. "Incidentally, I was thinking it might be a good idea for you to take an interview for the Daily Prophet. We can't have the poor,fascinated public going without hearing from their future hero, after all."

Potter shook her head ruefully. "I suppose I never was going to be able to hide from the reporters for ever." A gleam entered her eye, and she leaned in, "Now, I had some ideas about our strategy for the war…"

Many minutes and several unexpected tangents later, Rufus leaned back, blowing out a breath. He wasn't sure whether to be relieved or concerned by Potter's apparent agenda. None of her personal requirements would be difficult to grant, but it was obvious that she was expecting to have a voice in the prosecution of the war against Voldemort, which would have horrified him if her suggestions weren't so damn reasonable. Stronger central control over the Ministry's forces? Yes, please. Greater latitude in the use of dark magic? Absolutely. A total executive takeover of the Ministry's functions for the duration of the crisis? Well, that was a bit extreme, but he couldn't argue with good sense. Still, he suspected that by the time this was over, his hair would be more gray than brown.

She grinned, noticing his reaction.

"Really, Minister, you don't need to look so glum at the thought of spending time with me. You might be surprised how many useful little secrets I could tell you."

"Such as?" Rufus asked. His mouth did always have a tendency to run ahead of his brain, much to the woe of his advisors.

Potter shrugged and finished her dinner, pushing the plate aside and catching the eye of a muggle waiter. With a white cloth napkin, she wiped the blade of her knife and stowed it somewhere under the table. Then she met his eyes and raised a sardonic eyebrow.

"Well, Dumbledore's dying, for one."

Rufus jolted.

"What? How?"

Potter waved her hand dismissively. "Some curse or other. It doesn't really matter. But his time will be up sooner rather than later, and there will never be a greater swell of anger and fear in the populace than then." Sly amusement crept into her voice as she continued. "You could march a column of troops, wands drawn, into the full Wizengamot and hear nothing but fevered applause."

Rufus wasn't sure quite what to think of that little suggestion, but if nothing else, it was certainly unique. He snorted at the thought of how the mousy man who handled his polls would react to him considering an outright coup. At least he wouldn't have to worry about keeping the parasites from the Prophet happy anymore.

"I will certainly bear that in mind." Bloody hell, between that and Dumbledore apparently threatening to die on everyone, he probably wouldn't think of anything else for a week. He pulled a pocket watch from his breast pocket and glanced at it. "If that's everything?"

"Of course," Potter said. "I'm sure you have a great deal to do, after all. It's been a true pleasure."

"Likewise," he responded in a tone masterfully devoid of sincerity and stood. The old ache in his leg twinged after spending an extended time seated, and he grimaced.

"Oh, and Minister?" Potter added with a quick smile. "If we're going to be working together, I think it would be best if you called me by my first name, don't you?"

Automatically, Rufus nodded his assent. It wasn't until after he had retrieved his overcoat from the snobbish muggle at the door that a cold chill ran through him, as if he'd just stumbled into a room full of drawn wands.

In the entire course of their meeting, he hadn't spoken her name aloud, last or otherwise.

~#~

"Percutio," Violet whispered. "Reducto. Lacero. Acescere."

Fragments of stone flew from a conjured marble statue, followed by a larger billowing cloud of dust and debris as the Reductor landed. The Cutting Curse lopped off an arm, and then the whole thing toppled. Its head broke off and rolled to land face-up, its face slowly sinking as the stone was reduced to a hissing acid soup. Violet's eyes narrowed. Was it just her imagination, or did those rough stone features bear a slight resemblance to the late Dolores Umbridge? Let no one say Dumbledore had no sense of humor.

She let out an elated whoop. Finally, a wand that didn't actively fight her. It wasn't perfect and it certainly couldn't compare to her old one—it felt more like a lifeless tool than a partner in all things as the other had—but it would be more than adequate. After all, she only planned to use it as a stopgap anyway.

Dumbledore, watching her over his half-moon glasses, chuckled. "I thought you might react that way. I imagine that if I were without a wand at your age, I might have been considerably less composed. Of course, I suppose it's not an entirely apt comparison. Its origins notwithstanding, I can't claim not to be slightly envious of what you can do without any wand at all."

"Where the hell did you even get this?" Violet asked, admiring the wand's dark finish. "And how did you know it would be a match for me?"

"It belonged to a man I knew a lifetime ago. Though he would never have been able to gain the true loyalty of a Thestral's hair, he was enough alike you that I thought his old heartstring wand might suffice—he ended up with a different one eventually, you see." Wistfully, he added, "He would have approved of its new owner, I think."

"Well… thank you." A twinge of something uncomfortable made its presence known at the thought of what Violet was still planning to do, but she didn't allow it to linger. Kind gesture or no, the wand she really wanted wasn't the one in her hand.

The two of them had commandeered the empty Transfiguration classroom, its spacious interior and distinct lack of fragile fixtures making it ideal for their purposes. Official classes weren't to start until the next day for the rest of the students, but she wasn't going to miss a chance to fit in more of Dumbledore's lessons.

"Shall we, then?" Violet asked, stepping a few paces backward until the wall was only a meter or so from her back.

An unmistakable gleam of anticipation entered Dumbledore's eyes, and he produced his wand in a swirl of colorful robes. Not the wand, Violet noted. That one only seemed to make an appearance when he was expecting something worse than a more-or-less friendly duel.

Stupefy! Malleus!

Dumbledore made only the slightest twitch in response. Her Stunning Spell dissolved into sparks of unordered magic after making it no more than a few meters, and the Bludgeoning Hex careened randomly to the side, smashing the wall and knocking flakes of stone loose. Violet kept her eyes fixed on Dumbledore's wand as it came around, and the air was suddenly thick in her lungs, and it was as if she were trying to breathe quicksilver, not air—

And then there was a white flash as, almost unconsciously, Winter's power erupted outward, banishing the oppressive magic and coating the room in a thin layer of frost. Tiny, comical icicles dangled from Dumbledore's beard.

Reducto—Incarcerous—Depulso—oh, fuck.

While seemingly occupied with shielding against her fusillade, Dumbledore had subtly worked a transfiguration, turning the stone floor to something smooth and soft that crept up her legs. By the time she noticed, it had turned once again hard and unyielding, and her feet were fully encased in stone. A surge of adrenaline shot through her as her Finite failed to dispel the transfiguration, leaving her rooted in place—and just a moment later, a trio of rainbow lights were streaking toward her, and she wasn't at all interested in finding out what wonderfully amusing effect they would have this time. That particular spell, which she found Dumbledore tended to bring out when he thought victory was at hand, had in the past caused her to grow a bushy tail, rapidly and repeatedly inverted the pull of gravity on her, blinded her, deafened her, induced hallucinations, spun her in circles, hoisted her by her ankles, and turned all her clothing inside-out. And that was just to name a few of its wonderful effects.

"Inviolatus," she hissed, before once again jabbing her wand at the stone. Finite! Finite!

Seeing that she wasn't quite out of the fight yet, Dumbledore got serious. Sheets of flame and waves of force broke against her shield, all while grasping tendrils of light probed at its structure, attempting to unravel the very magic that made it up. Trust Dumbledore to find a way around a wall instead of through it; she wasn't quite sure what he was even doing, but she could feel the shield's magic beginning to destabilize—a shield that could have unflinchingly shrugged off a dozen dark curses, a couple bombshells, and maybe even a bit of Fiendfyre just for good measure.

Still, judging by his frown of concentration, it was no trivial feat. Even as her head began to throb from the strain of maintaining her shield, she met his gaze and lashed out with Legilimency, a thousand incoherent, malformed thoughts all screaming over each other. Dumbledore's composure was uncompromised of course, but the attack seemed to distract him at least, for the trails of light faded away and the slowly destabilizing shield returned to impregnable order.

"Oh, excellent!" Dumbledore said, as cheerful as a cat toying with a mouse. "Still, you seem to be in quite the pickle. How long do you think you will be able to keep that rather magnificent shield up?"

Violet was starting to wonder that herself. Even as Dumbledore resumed his probing attempts to weaken her shield, she could feel her headache swelling. She gave a smile that was more teeth than friendliness.

In a single, immense exertion, she ripped a leg free of the stone through strength alone, sending rock fragments careening across the room. Dumbledore paused in sheer surprise and nearly lost the duel for it, barely parting a stream of icy water that, heavy with latent Winter magic, would have been enough to leave him stiff and motionless.

Having bought herself a second of breathing room, Violet swung her wand in a curling sideways arc, as if casting a whip, and fiercely concentrated.

Hecatoncheire!

The room filled with a howling scream and flashed between pitch darkness and bright illumination under a baleful purple light. Horribly silhouetted in a moment of light, a hundred grasping hands of tenebrous smoke reached for Dumbledore, writhing and twisting like serpents. At once, the room seemed both impossibly large and badly distorted as if seen through a warped lens. Every line of geometry seemed to stretch toward him as if trying to enclose him entirely.

But then Dumbledore vanished completely.

Violet stared in disbelieving frustration as the spectral arms crashed down on nothing and spread out into a puddle of dense smoke that slowly sank down into the floor.

"The hell?" she said, turning about. "Homenum Revelio."

A gently circling vortex of stone dust slowly turned in place, but there was no sign of Dumbledore.

Suddenly, her skin broke out in goosebumps, and she dove to the side. A Stunning Spell flew by where she had been a moment ago, originating from the very point Dumbledore had disappeared from—and where he was once again, somehow. She sprung to her feet, crimson light already pooling around the tip of her wand, but Dumbledore had raised his good hand up in the air.

"Enough."

Reluctantly, Violet lowered her wand. Dumbledore flexed his cursed hand, grimacing slightly, and sighed. "It seems I tire more easily by the day. I did not recognize that last spell, but I must say, it was magnificently horrific. Where did you come across it?"

"You didn't recognize it because no one's ever seen it before but me. I've been working on it for a few months, but believe me, it was driving me mad that I couldn't properly test it without my wand."

Dumbledore nodded. "I'm pleased this one was suitable for you, then. Tell me, what exactly would have happened if the arms had reached me?"

Violet shrugged. "Held you very tightly, I imagine."

"Fascinating. If you'll forgive me for saying so, I would not have expected you to create a curse with such… restrained effects."

Violet rolled her eyes. "Well, I could also have had them rip you into extremely tiny pieces, I suppose. Or…"

"Or?"

She flashed a smile that would have frightened small children. "Well, you remember when the arms sank—somewhere? I'm pretty sure that if I wanted them to, they could take something or someone with them. I'm not quite sure where they would end up, but I don't imagine they would be coming back."

Dumbledore laughed. "I see. How delightful. Well, it is certainly… creative. I assume this was not your first foray into spellcrafting?"

"No, but the only other spell I've managed that's worth anything is a little bit unsuited for a practice duel." Violet paused. "Unless, that is, you aren't too terribly attached to your skin?"

"Perhaps another time," Dumbledore said diplomatically. With a swift stroke of his wand, he conjured a puffy armchair and seated himself in it, examining his cursed hand with an air of detached curiosity.

Reparo, Violet cast, and bits of rubble and dust scattered across the floor rose up to once again join with the castle's walls. It was always easy cleaning up after a duel in Hogwarts—it was as if the castle itself wanted to be made whole once more.

"What about your disappearing trick?" she asked. "Haven't seen that one from you before."

"Quite clever, isn't it?" Dumbledore said, looking pleased. "I meant to show it to you sooner, but I had to dig up some of my old notes—it's quite esoteric, you see."

"How does it work?" Violet frowned. "It's not some form of teleportation, is it? I've seen someone manage to bypass anti-Apparition wards without having to break them once, but that didn't carry her more than a few meters at once. You disappeared completely."

"Ah!" Dumbledore gestured emphatically with his blackened index finger. "But you're making the mistake of assuming that a small step couldn't be enough to conceal me entirely."

Violet cocked her head in an unspoken question. He elaborated with the same passion he always had in their discussions of magic.

"It's simply a matter of perspective. The caster doesn't move in the usual sense. Not up or down, left or right, or even forth or back. A fourth direction, one might say." His brow creased. "I would appreciate if you didn't mention that part to the Unspeakables. They take a rather hypocritical position in regards to the use of Chronomancy."

"Time," Violet said, almost incredulous. "Stars and blood. You're half mad."

"You would certainly not be the first to suggest so," Dumbledore said with a brief chortle.

"Seriously. That's…" Violet whistled. "Damn impressive, I suppose. I guess from a certain perspective it's not so different from conventional teleportation—just a different direction, as you said. And it would only take a step, wouldn't it?"

"Just a step," Dumbledore confirmed, nodding. "Whether future or past, it's enough to desynchronize oneself from events around them, providing a quite infallible protection. You do have to be, ah, careful with it, however. Quite dire things have been known to happen to those who treat time too lightly."

"You don't say," Violet muttered sarcastically. She rolled her shoulders. "Right, then. How do I cast it?"

AN: Smokinbarrel, to answer your question, the Veela are only distantly descended from Summer fae. They are, after all, mortal and unharmed by iron. Some vestige of their heritage lingers, however.

It's interesting to see that there's some interest in seeing Fleur's reaction. I hadn't initially thought of showing it, but I'm definitely considering it now.