The following weeks brought news of skirmishes and massacres, grieving faces and fiery rhetoric. But in Hogwarts, the fifth-years were set to confront a far greater and more terrible threat: Ordinary Wizarding Levels.
In Violet's opinion, it was madness to worry over something still months away—why, for all anyone knew, they could be dead by then. But with the professors assigning monumental quantities of homework and doing their level best to convince the students that a failure to pass their OWLs might as well be a death sentence, she was definitely in the minority.
Fred and George, of course, quite agreed with her and were putting almost as much effort into ignoring their own upcoming exams as their classmates did preparing for them. Violet naturally found herself in their company more often as such, though she had to be careful not to go overboard. If she started associating with them too often, people would probably start expecting her to slip something into their pumpkin juice.
"Get me a flatter one," Fred said, snapping his fingers at his twin. "Hurry up, nitwit."
"How about I flatten your head?" George retorted. "I still think you're making this up."
"Me too," Violet added, nodding vigorously. "I'm not convinced squids even have ears."
"Maybe they don't, but they can sense vibrations and such, surely. Besides, it worked before. Yeah, gimme that one."
Fred reared back and pitched a smooth, shiny stone toward the center of the Great Lake. Finally he seemed to have got the angle right, and the stone produced a haunting sound halfway between a bird's call and the shriek of a descending shell as it skipped over the thin, black ice.
"Ha!" he exclaimed, punching the air. "I told you."
"Still not seeing the Squid," George said. "Unless it's—whoa."
A ripple trembled though the sheen of water atop the frozen lake, and a moment later a great roar rushed outward as the center of the lake bowed upward and shattered into a column of water and mist. Thrashing black tentacles writhed, slamming down into the water's surface and pulverizing the layer of ice that had formed. Fred grinned. "Told you. The Squid hates that sound."
"I suppose now we know why the lake never seems to ice over properly," Violet said.
"Guess so." George laughed. "Got to admit it, Freddie, I thought you were pulling my leg. That was one angry piece of calamari."
"Nah. If I'd been having you on, I'd have made you walk out on the ice before doing it, wouldn't I?"
Snickering, George added, "Remember Krum and how he'd go swimming in it in the middle of winter? Imagine if we'd known then." A distant, blissful expression came over him. "I bet he didn't even know about the Giant Squid in the first place. It would've been beautiful."
"Krum?" Violet made the mistake of asking and was immediately subjected to a prolonged lecture on Quidditch, Seekers, the Triwizard Tournament, the unfairness of Age Lines, and just how senile the Goblet of Fire had to be to pick a Hufflepuff as Hogwarts champion.
She still wasn't entirely sure who Krum was and how he fit into anything, but she figured he couldn't be too bad a sort of if he swam in freezing lakes for fun.
Getting up from where she had sat along the Lake, she stretched. "Right, gents. That's it for me. Don't forget to catch the Ministry's broadcast in a bit. Wouldn't want to miss your glorious leaders—that includes me, by the way—remind you that everything is completely, definitely, and most certainly undoubtedly under control."
"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Fred said, a wicked expression coming over him. "Hey, would you happen to be interested in a few hard candies to share with the Minister?"
"You know what?" Violet said, pulling her sleeve over her hand and accepting the little sweets. "I think I just might leave them lying around somewhere. We're at war, after all. Keeping the Minister's security on their toes is practically an act of patriotism."
"Excellent point. We're just doing our bit for jolly good England."
"Quite right, brother. Do let us know if you need any other little items to help keep our Minister safe. It's a specialty of ours."
"I will bear that in mind," she said as she started off toward the edge of the Hogwarts grounds, voice as dry as ash. The candies rattled in her pocket. Maybe if Tonks was on duty she'd care for one too.
~#~
It was a well known fact the Wizarding Wireless Network headquarters had a tendency to move of its own accord.
It never quite strayed beyond the bounds of Hogsmeade, and it had a particular fondness for streets in more northern parts of town, but on any given day there was no telling where it might decide to settle in. Naturally, this presented a moderate inconvenience for its workers as well as any guests not fully accustomed to the building's peculiarities. Normally, this might manifest as a confused witch or wizard bothering Hogsmeade's tiredly amused residents as to why in Merlin's name all maps represented the wireless station as a series of probability rings instead of an exact location.
In this case, it was rather more dramatic. The Minister of Magic himself, tailed by a procession of security and staffers, made for a great curiosity. Their route had no doubt been planned to the minute to ensure as many people as possible saw him on the streets of Hogsmeade, overtly defiant of the steadily increasing number of failed assassination attempts targeting him.
Regrettably, the carefully cultivated image of confidence and presence was slightly spoiled when they were forced to ask onlookers, not once but twice, for directions. Violet, who was quite accustomed to living in a world where magic far outweighed reason, had found no difficulty in locating the building and was left with nothing to do but observe the wireless presenter steadily grow more panicked as he desperately tried to stretch his material into the hour intended for a major interview with the Minister. There were probably more people tuned in now than since the last war.
The poor bloke was behind a curtain, but she imagined he was likely sweating. Eventually, one of his assistant poked her head into the room and gave Violet a pleading look, gesturing her back into the reception area.
The rickety flooring of the wireless station creaked under the weight of the Minister's procession finally filing in. Scrimgeour, bristling with irritation, barked a rebuke at a member of his security who seemed to have been standing too close to him and stepped up to Violet. The assistant disappeared, almost as if by magic, leaving the aggravated Minister to her.
"You're here already?" Scrimgeour demanded, incredulous. "By Merlin's name, if I find the idiot who thought charming a building was a spot of great fun, I'll have him in Azkaban before the day is out. Next time, they can damn well can come to us."
Nonetheless, they soon got underway. The presenter's nerves vanished into smooth professionalism as soon as Scrimgeour went on air, and they started getting through the perfunctory interview questions and Minstry bluster. Halfway through the hour was a short break for commercial readings, and Scrimgeour made his way back over to Violet, brushing aside the sound-muffling curtain.
One of his security, who seemed to have crept into the recording room despite Scimgeour's wishes, offered him a glass of water. Scrimgeour shot him a glare but accepted the drink.
"You remember how we talked about doing this?" he asked Violet.
"Of course."
He nodded, took a drink of water, and scoffed lightly. "Is it actually true, or just more propaganda?"
Violet grinned. "It doesn't matter. Once everyone's heard it, it'll be true enough."
"Fair enough."
A few more minutes passed quietly, Scrimgeour leaning against the wall to take the weight off his bad leg. A few moments later, the assistant returned and squeaked out that they were ready to finish the interview.
"Right then," Scrimgeour bit out. "Let's make up some truths."
~#~
"Okay, everyone. Live in three. Three, two, one… All-right Wizarding Britain, we are once again thrilled to have our great Minister here to tell us more about the Wizengamot's reluctance to authorize extended measures for our fearless fighters—but that's not all! Indeed, loyal listeners, today we have a truly special guest: the Savior of Britain, Violet Potter herself, here to give us a unique perspective from the bright new generation surely shaking their fists at how we've made such a mess of things."
The presenter paused as if for laughter, and the silence stretched until Violet realized she was meant to say something. She leaned forward in her seat toward the old-fashioned metal microphone that was as flat as a dinner plate and ran on nothing so restrictive as electricity.
Come to think of it, the building's spontaneous relocations might have had something to do with the shockingly powerful enchantments used to broadcast the program across the country. She cleared her throat.
"Thank you, ah… Yes, thank you." She was sure he had introduced himself at one point or another, but she hadn't been paying much attention, and taking her best guess didn't seem like a good idea.
"Well, we're very glad to have you," he said smoothly over her misstep. "It's been some time since the public's heard from you last—I read your letter to the Daily Prophet last month and found it quite inspiring. Is there anything else you'd to say about the average witch and wizard's responsibility to aid the Ministry in this time of crisis?"
Violet didn't roll her eyes, but it was a close-run thing. She vaguely remembered adding her signature to some sort of document that might have gone on to be published, but she couldn't have quoted a single word from it if her life depended on it. It was fortunate, then, that the talking points of their entire propaganda campaign could essentially be boiled down to three things:
Firstly, everything was fine and under control.
Secondly, joining the Hit Wizards was your duty as a strong young citizen and possibly would also have the convenient side effect of demonstrating your noble virility to any object of your affections.
And, thirdly, little things like "checks and balances on the Minister's power" were really just getting in the way. A strong Wizengamot means Voldemort wins, and due process of law is for traitors and the yellow of heart. Don't worry about future implications; here, look at a picture of photogenically stern Aurors marching in formation!
"Well, we obviously can't go into detail about any active operations," Scrimgeour said some time later after Violet ad-libbed a brief statement. "But I think it's safe to say that we have the Death Eaters and their leader firmly on the back foot. They've suffered several serious defeats recently, particularly in their failed assault on a training facility, which you can read more about that in the paper. That, along with the French and other European Ministries' recent pledges to address Death Eater activity within their own borders has me optimistic that the end of the war may even be in sight if we can just get a little more leeway from some of the more… timid blocs of the Wizengamot."
"But what about—" the presenter stopped himself, his voice dropping slightly. "You-Know-Who. Who will stop him? Dumbledore?"
An awkward silence ensued as he seemed to realize that he'd just questioned the Ministry. Scrimgeour cleared his throat. "Violet?"
She waited a moment, allowing the presenter's imagination to wildly consider the consequences of his words before granting him the mercy of a smile. "That is an excellent question."
"It is? Er, I mean, please go on."
"Absolutely," Violet said, nodding. "People of Britain and beyond, the Minister and I would like to make one thing completely clear: we are not ignoring Voldemort or the reality of his power. If it has appeared that we are not searching for a solution, it's because we have already succeeded. We know precisely who has the strength to put Voldemort's false rule to an end."
A flinch rippled through the recording room at the name, from the presenter to the technical assistants fiddling with analog dials and complexes of click-clacking wooden switches. Slowly, over the following seconds, Violet felt the eyes of every one of them slowly fall onto her.
Unhurried, she reached for a glass of water next to her, drank deeply, and set it back down with a soft click.
"Approximately sixteen years ago, in the very same town I am in now, a prophecy was made. Do not allow any preconceptions of this field of magic to bias you. Both Albus Dumbledore and the best of the Department of Mysteries have vouched for its authenticity. It detailed a simple concept that has nonetheless shifted the course of our nation's history. It told of an innocent child, born at at the end of the seventh month, who would have the potential to end the Dark Lord's reign. And she did."
She waited for a just a moment to allow her words to settle, imagining the bated breaths of thousands people crowding their wirelesses, then delivered the final stroke.
"Any doubt can be answered with one simple argument. Voldemort knows of this prophecy, and he fears it!" Her voice rose with calculated passion. "As just an infant, he feared me. And when he sought to strike me down as he has so many others, he failed. So, Voldemort, I challenge you. Why should Fate be forced to wait? If I am the evidence of your failure, why do I still walk, free and fearless? Why do you delay, when more courageous men and women come to stand alongside me every day? Good people of Britain, I offer an explanation for this! It is not cunning or patience he demonstrates in his hesitance, but uncertainty. He knows his end, and he runs from it."
Shock. Silence. From Scrimgeour, a victorious glint. Then someone began to applaud, and it spread like fire. No bureaucrat had coached them in their response. It was utterly and completely true, and all of Britain would know it.
A very long time ago, the ones whose tongues could slip no falsehood had realized that truth was the greatest lie of all.
Violet offered a charming smile and gestured for them to stop. "Thank you. Thank you all who stand with the legitimate authority of this land. It's—"
She stopped mid-phrase and went as still as a statue. The interviewer nervously glanced about, sensing something was off, and the lone member of Scimgeour's security he had allowed into the recording area reached subtly for his wand.
The soundproof curtain separating the live set from the rest of the station rippled gently, as if under an unseen breeze. Then something heavy fell through, thudding to the floor, and the woman operating one of the magical devices screamed.
Scarlet robes spread over the ground like blood, but none ran from the dead Auror before them, who might have been expected to get up at any moment were it not for his unearthly stillness. His eyes, forever fixed in terror, still seemed somehow to watch as the curtain parted once more.
A bleak and handsome man sauntered in, wand held lightly at waist level. Scrimgeour jerked in his seat, nearly falling over as his haste drove any thought of his old injury away. His guard drew his wand in an instant but went no further, suddenly stricken with a helpless expression despite decades of service. In the end, he simply moved to his Minister's side and met the intruder with a steady gaze.
He paid no heed to any of this. Instead, he raised his left hand, and the microphone used by the radio presenter flew to it. He inspected it for a moment as if it were a quaint curiosity, then cleared his throat and held it to his lips.
"Apologies for my lateness; it seems my opponents in debate neglected to inform me of the time. I will be short: the Ministry offers one path, and I another, but do not allow yourselves to believe that Violet Potter stands truly with either. She cynically feigns idealism but will feel nothing when your idolatry turns to betrayal on the battlefield. If you truly love magic and are willing to take a stand for your freedom to wield it, you already know that between me and the Ministry, there is no choice at all. But even if you don't, even if you choose a glorious, pointless death opposing me, know this."
Lord Voldemort swept his arms to the sides, casting off the outer robes he wore and stepping away from their pooled mass. He looked less human than in their previous encounters, his skin reminding Violet of an albino salamander—though to her eye it lent his features a dark sort of beauty and a gravity befitting his might.
He raised his wand, and her eyes caught on a small ring on the same hand. Now that she saw it again, she vaguely recalled it from their brief encounter at Malfoy Manor, but not in their first duel. It was set with no stone, but the polished silver rose into a curious half-moon.
He spoke one last time, his deeply red eyes flickering with an anger previously unseen. "I have conquered Death and dread naught and nothing. Violet Potter, your challenge is accepted."
~#~
"Just a moment," Violet said. She jabbed the Elder Wand at the largest and most important looking device, and it immediately began wildly spraying sparks across the room before eventually catching flame. The wireless presenter let out a weak whimper at the sight.
"Excellent," she said once there was no possibility anything was still broadcasting. "Avada Kedavra!"
And so the spell over the assembled people broke, and Voldemort gracefully transformed the curtain into snakes that writhed through the air like water, one swallowing Violet's Killing Curse whole and collapsing, only to rise again with jerky, lifeless strength. Scrimgeour was on his feet and sending a burst of flame from his wand, wrestling to get it over the shoulder of the guard who was trying to physically shield him. Screams of disbelieving horror were ripped from the mouths of the wireless workers, one cut short as a throbbing curse glided off Violet's shield and split the man in twain.
Thrashing arms of hardened air twisted and spun at Voldemort's command, shattering machinery and smashing the heavy table used for recording in two, each tendril chased by an afterimage of eldritch light that hung in space and bit at the eye. Two such limbs reached for Violet with crushing speed and force, but with the Elder wand in her hand, their strength was nothing.
Behind her, there was an overpowering cacophony of splintering wood and shearing metal as redirected bursts of force tore through the walls, ripping away entire planks of hardwood and hurling them out into the street. Sunlight streamed in through the collapsing wall, and cries of rising alarm joined the general chaos.
Scrimgeour shouted something, and an orange streak of light darted at Voldemort, bounced off a shield, and ricocheted a dozen times in a second, setting curtains ablaze and filling the room with a haunting keening. In response, Voldemort's arm snapped out, and there was a brief wave of distorted space. A moment before Wizarding Britain would have lost its Minister, his sole remaining guard interceded himself, a shield raised. The defense shattered, and the front of his body crumpled into itself like a spent balloon, but Scrimgeour behind him may have survived—he was only hurled backward, crashing through an already damaged section of wall.
Violet advanced gracefully through the debris and rising smoke, forcing Voldemort's attention back to her. Confringo! Lacero, Acescere, Contundito! The Elder Wand flickered in a smooth blur, lashing out with curses that shook the ground and rattled the building. Voldemort matched her pace, striking back with equal power.
"Avada Kedavra!" he roared and chased it with a blistering torrent of fire that immolated a stack of parchment by radiant heat alone. Violet twisted away from the Killing Curse and brought forth Winter's power to ward off the heat, plunging the room into cold. Misty air hardened in front of her, and the fire choked and guttered away.
She pushed outward with her left hand, and the mist coalesced into a bluish bolt that rang like a bell as it sprang outward. To her shock, Voldemort didn't even hesitate in his attack, and a Piercing Curse sliced a burning trail along her side for it. The murderous intent of her Winter magic seemed to completely vanish as it touched him, dispersing into nothing. The moon ring on his hand glittered with a cold light, a wisp of white fog following it.
He laughed at her shock and jabbed his wand. A bolt of lightning crashed through the air between them, smashing into a hasty shield and spraying white-hot electric sparks onto the floor. Then he met her gaze and she stumbled under the weight of a brutal Legilimency attack, her shock at the failure of her attack and the sudden pain in her side weakening her focus.
Glass from a broken window came at her like a sandstorm, slicing her clothes and skin in a dozen places. Violet screamed in pain and fury, her magic boiling over. Droplets of dark blood spattered upon the flooring at her feet.
The air smelled like ozone and bleeding. Half of her power was somehow unable to touch her enemy, and the building was threatening to come down around her. But she held the Elder Wand.
Her cry was cut by another crash of thunder, louder even than Voldemort's, and the bolt that came at her will was lightning in name alone: it set the air alight and spun amid ribbons of plasma to collide with an abyssal black shield that hungrily devoured light itself. Thin, branching lines of energy shot through the shield as immense energy strained it to the limit, and a flash erupted, searingly bright even with Violet's eyes screwed shut. When her vision cleared, Voldemort was patting at singed robes, his pale skin reddened. He glared.
"Your power has grown still further. How—wait." Grim curiosity entered his voice as he cocked his head, gaze steady on her hand.
"It would seem that you have acquired a new wand."
Behind her, Violet could hear shouts and sounds of combat. Clearly, Voldemort had not come to Hogsmeade alone, but she doubted he intended to wage a decisive battle here. His very ideology was predicated upon the preservation of Wizarding society, and no amount of verbal wrangling could construe burning the largest all-Wizarding settlement in Britain as that.
Besides, what would be the point? Conflicts between wizards were not determined by control of territory, not when great distances could be bounded in a single twist. No, it was a symbol, a response to the Ministry's increasingly confident propagandizing. If he could strike here successfully, where they were supposed to be strong, it would mark a turning point in the war from which the Ministry would inevitably decline into collapse.
And somehow he had found a way to completely neutralize Winter's power.
Disbelief warred with rising fury, arctic in its severity. The world around Violet faded, the fighting in the streets suddenly as far as the stars for all its relevance. Only Voldemort remained, a living insult to Winter. She had a distant, divorced awareness that Dumbledore would be on his way, but she felt only discontent for it. Voldemort would surely slip away before fighting her and Dumbledore together, and right then she would have rather dueled Voldemort for eternity and more than allow him to leave this place alive.
The brief lull in the duel ended with a crack as Voldemort tore splinters of wood from the walls and propelled them so swiftly the air roared in protest, unable to move aside before being bludgeoned away. By premonition alone, Violet vanished the projectiles, leaving nothing but a soft hiss as indignant atmosphere filled the voids. Her reaction had been unthinking, automatic. Her thoughts were focused solely on one thing.
Voldemort would regret trying to deny what was as inevitable as death and decay.
In a moment, the temperature dropped so low that a drinking glass, having rolled off the upturned table and wedged beneath a burned out magical device, shattered from the stress. Flickers of red, blue, and black surrounded Violet like little fireworks, so strongly colorful the world was left looking gray. She waited, a second and then a second more, even as every part of her yearned to release the magic brimming within her. Patience, control—such was as important as power itself. But eventually the time was right.
With a wordless cry, she struck, a scintillating dark rainbow of lights streamed from where they whirled around her toward Voldemort. The power of the magic was devastating; the intent, perfect. A dagger fit to slay an immortal.
His clothes rustled gently.
HOW?
Even as the tide of the duel turned against her again, Violet's thoughts remained distracted. That was no power of man. The bright spark of mortal ingenuity could warm Winter's cold, stay off its bite or turn it aside, but it would never refute it in whole.
It could not be Summer's doing for the same reason it could not be Voldemort's innate abilities. Summer and Winter always clashed, and one might overcome the other, but never without revealing its own presence. The nature of either was unmistakable by the other and intolerable the same. Even brief moments of cooperation only led to greater future confrontations. Such was the way of things.
So this—this annulment of Winter had to be something else. Some power alike enough to Winter to understand it but not intrinsically opposed to it. There was only one possibility. Somehow, in a turn of events so dire she hadn't even conceived of the possibility, Voldemort must have struck a bargain with Esrid. And somehow, some way, that bargain had included the ability to shrug off a mighty Winter curse like a cool breeze.
Very well.
Voldemort's plan had been cunning. She was alone, with half her strength useless. By all rights, she should fall today. His calculation had been perfect, but he was missing a crucial piece of the puzzle.
Fiendfyre!
The Elder Wand spat cursed flame, like Death itself had grasped the roiling fires of uncreation and placed them beneath her will. There was something different about this Fiendfyre, something she had not looked closely enough to discern when she burned the Malfoy home. The beasts of fire—dragon, phoenix, serpent, Thestral and more—were skeletal, one and all. Black candles burned in skulls of flame.
There was no magic so destructive as Fiendfyre, which embodied the concept so fully that even the great terrors of the muggles paled before its living hatred. But there was more to this. While fire consumed, this deathly flame undid. No ash nor smoke was left in its wake, and the spell's spirit—based upon the premise that behind all cursed flame was some diabolic consciousness—lacked the wild, spiteful rage Violet was accustomed to. Rather than threaten to overwhelm her reason, subsume her intentions beneath mindless rage, the very purpose of this Fiendfyre was different.
Destruction still, yes. But while Fiendfyre typically whispered promises of a world of eternal fire beneath a red sky, now Violet pictured the absolute silence of a gray expanse in which life would never take root. Final and unchanging, the final chaos found in absolute order.
The roar of the fire was like static. The floor, walls, furniture dissolved to nothing, the bodies of the dead Wireless workers vanishing in a breath. A tongue of fire reached for Scrimgeour as he lay slumped against a caved-in wall, and Violet nearly failed to redirect it in time. It felt… unimportant, somehow.
Voldemort's wand swept through esoteric patterns, his lips flying, but the Fiendfyre didn't waver. Finally, he brought forth cursed flame of his own, but even as it clashed with Violet's, it was clear which would prevail. His lips drew back in a snarl.
"Again! That lying—" His eyes flashed from red to black, narrowing to slits. "I accept your rebuttal. We will meet again."
And then, even as grasping claws of flame grazed him, he jabbed his wand upward into the air, and shredded the Hogsmeade anti-Apparition protections already perforated by the power of the spells exchanged in their duel. He Disapparated with a powerful crack, and moments later Violet could hear more distant Disapparations as the Death Eaters left the streets of Hogsmeade behind.
As if as a parting insult, as the Fiendfyre fell over where Voldemort had stood, a pressurized bubble of water erupted outward, bursting out of the flame in a steaming wave, bowling outward the remains of the walls, bringing down the ceiling with a massive crash, and drenching Violet completely.
And so Dumbledore found her, alone in the ruins of the Wireless broadcasting station, soaking wet and literally shaking with fury. He approached, mouth opening to offer some witless wisdom she was utterly uninterested in, so she she spat on the ground—the splintered wood blackening and smoking where it struck—turned, and, taking advantage of the town's sundered anti-Apparition barriers, vanished.
Dumbledore watched the space she had been a moment ago, lightly stroking Fawkes as he perched on his shoulder. He frowned.
"You know, I think she may have been upset."