Dumbledore was a young man no longer.

Against Gellert, he had raged with undying strength, fueled by his own grief and shame. Against Voldemort, it had been a tired resolve behind his rigid stands, the fire of youth gone but replaced with a truer strength. But now…

He felt so very tired.

The lovely monster laughed and danced. Voldemort raged with a hatred half a century in the making. Dumbledore waned.

The sky was black. Ashen snow fell, wilting the spirit. An Inferius, still smoking, dragged itself with one functioning arm, burned teeth bared.

Death in vivid green dogged him. The cold was alive, seeping into the blackened flesh of his hand and aching in rhythm with his heart. He had been deceived by a child.

He was more regretful for that than his certain death. A shade of his younger arrogance, perhaps. He had earnestly believed Malfoy had chosen the path of redemption, and had been played with contemptuous ease. How he had learned enough Occlumency to conceal his motives in so short a time, Dumbledore preferred not to think, for he suspected it involved Bellatrix Lestrange and a great deal of perseverance.

The duel had begun only minutes ago, but already the dark forest was leveled in a wide radius, courtesy of Voldemort's unrestrained power. Blackened splinters embedded in the snow and trails of smoke rising from the centers of half-splintered trunks, the burning coals within sheltered from the ferocious wind, brought to mind memories he had thought forgotten. The Blitz, hollow skeletons of cities of cities across Europe—it all came rushing back now, at the end.

Once again, Dumbledore Disapparated, forcing himself through the sticky resistance of this strange place. That neither Voldemort nor the fae had made an effort to stop him from doing so spoke volumes. To them, this was not a duel. It was a hunt.

A subdued smile crossed Dumbledore's face. A hint of overconfidence could leave a god undone.

A moment before Voldemort followed his Apparition, he conjured a web of snarling silver cords that began constricting the moment Voldemort appeared. Voldemort twisted his wand contemptuously, and they exploded into silver fragments that careened through the forest, ricocheting between trees.

"Really, Albus?" he said. "Still, you seek only to cage me? Pathetic."

"I believe you will find—" Dumbledore pivoted, pushing out, and the fae materialized right in front of him, a dagger of black light raised high. In the fractional movement before she was hurled backward, her expression was almost comical with surprise.

"As I was saying," Dumbledore continued, "you would be well advised not to confuse restraint for weakness."

Voldemort, taking the time to give his ally an amused smirk as she climbed from a snowbank, scoffed. "Fool. You did not plan for this. You are not in control here. You were tricked, by a student no less. How time has weakened you, old man."

And, indeed, it had. "Avada Kedavra!" Voldemort cast, gently caressing the incantation, and even as Dumbledore brought a tree to false life, lumbering on legs of roots to intercept the curse, something ice-cold slid through his back, bringing him to one knee. A strangled gasp escaped him, and from the burning pain within his chest, it was clear that one lung would not fill.

"So old. So slow," a woman's voice crooned in his ear, soft fingers curling around his neck and holding him in place. A wave of weariness, whether from the wound or an enervating aspect of her touch, washed over him, and his legs gave out. She caught him, supporting him with discordant tenderness.

Stepping over the fallen tree that now blazed with green fire, Voldemort nodded curtly. "Maeve, step back."

"Oh, I'm not sure about that. He's a strong one, you know. I just might want to hold onto him for a spell."

"He is mine, Maeve."

She sniffed, cool breath on Dumbledore's neck. "I caught him. By right, that makes him mine. There's something peculiar to him, an old scent I can't place. Why should I relinquish him to you?"

"This is my plan, my will, my enemy. No. I will discuss this no further, ally. Step away or burn with him. You hold no favor in this alliance, especially now."

"I told you once," Maeve hissed. Unlike when she spoke to Dumbledore, her words now had the venom of a spitting snake. "Your ineptitude with the girl is no concern of mine. If my talisman was insufficient for you to overpower her, that speaks only for your incompetence."

"You dare—"

Dumbledore coughed, a wet and pained sound. At once, the brewing argument ceased, and both of his foes slowly turned their attention to him. Dumbledore raised a single eyebrow.

"It is bad form to give advise to an enemy. But the two of you might consider resolving your differences on a less stressful occasion." He chuckled, rasping. "However, I must thank you for distracting yourselves."

"Kill h—"

With a great sigh, Dumbledore completed the last spell of his life with profound satisfaction. For another, he would not have asked. It was simply beautiful. Complexity, consideration, concentration, all neatly wrapped up in a concept so simple that a child could understand it. He was so very glad to have his true wand with him now. Aside from nightmarish visions of Voldemort wielding the Elder Wand, Dumbledore quite doubted the Elder's bellicose nature would have tolerated his graceful exit. To die in flame and fury, to rage against the coming night—that, he would leave for younger men.

Through a red curtain, silver jewelry glimmered in Maeve's ear. In it, he was reflected, too small to see. A thought, and the reflection—he.

The Killing Curse flashed where he had been. Voldemort swiveled about, furious. "Reveal yourself, old man!"

To be a reflection was a wonderful thing. In two dimensions, there was no pain to suffer, no blood to shed. But to linger, ah, it would be abhorrent.

In a flash, he was in the earring no longer but stretched along a patch of hardened snow, smoothed to a mirror-gloss. And then contorted into the distorted shine of an icicle, the watchful gleam of an owl's eye, a river swift and unfrozen, caught up and carried in its endless rush.

Eventually, despite the cool caress of the churning water that could almost have lasted forever, it came to an end. A wizard might pretend to be many things, but a flat image he was not. With a gasp of pain, and another of cold, Dumbledore rose from the river, falling to his knees in the surrounding snow. In the moon's light, he could see the magnificent olive-green of his robes slowly staining red. It was quiet, calm.

If only Fawkes were with him. Not for a tear, for no phoenix would weep for him, but a last moment of companionship. But perhaps it was better this way; the cold had never agreed with him.

With a great effort, he brought his healthy hand to his cursed right and began to laboriously work the ring off his finger. With a final twist it slipped off, and he held the Resurrection Stone in his palm, for a moment terribly tempted to use it once more, to draw selfish comfort at the expense of the gone.

Firmly setting the unworthy thought aside, Dumbledore flung the ring into the river. For a moment, the gold caught the moonlight, and then it was gone, carried to places unknown. His wand, he kept. Unlike the Elder Wand, it would be of no use to Voldemort, and its ever-present warmth was a great balm against the growing cold.

A minute passed, or maybe two. Slitted orange eyes flickered in the dark and were gone.

"Good luck, Violet," he whispered to the rustling pines. "I believe in you."

He drew a shuddering breath, and the night closed in.

~#~

Knockturn Alley bears witness to a scene seen many times before. An old and wizened squib, blind drunk, stumbles on a lump which can only be one thing, cracking his weary bones on the cobble.

He spits, furious for his fall, and aims a kick at the unfortunate fellow's face. But before the blow lands, a sound trickles through his deadened thoughts, so beautiful and so tragic that he breaks out in goosebumps.

It is birdsong.

~#~

In theory, Violet's time in Satria's court should have regained its pleasantness after Maeve's departure; nonetheless, the experience stayed somewhat soured.

Even aside from constantly looking over her shoulder, awaiting the possibility that Maeve would return—though she never did—there was a distinct feeling that her escapist fantasy had broken. All of a sudden, Esrid, and Voldemort by extension, was on her mind and Satria's, and the whole court was caught up in preparations for the expedition. Even mingling with members of the court she typically avoided provided no respite. From the lowly guard to the dreaming artist, all were discussing the preparations, made all the more tantalizing for the secrecy of their purpose.

She rode with Armen twice and many Reviled were slain, but none of the new variety were encountered, and she had a sneaking suspicion that the bands they found were a minute drop compared to the oceans they did not. Besides, the enemies were too powerless to take satisfaction in destroying beyond mere sadism, which rarely occupied her for long.

So, it happened that she was already contemplating cutting her visit short when the owl found her. The poor creature had fought its way through thunder and snow, only to plunge from the sky and slam into the court's walls, breaking its neck as it finally fulfilled its task. Violet strongly suspected it was not the first to make the attempt.

The owl's behavior, peculiar to those unfamiliar with Wizarding mail, caused a minor hubbub between the guards who had found it and several passersby, before someone had the good sense to bring it to Violet. It was stamped with black wax and the Ministry's seal. Her eyes narrowed. The seal was consistent with her previous correspondence with Scrimgeour, but in the past it had always been red. Without further delay, she broke the seal and removed a heavy sheet of parchment. The large, folded page contained a single, attention-demanding line.

DUMBLEDORE IS DEAD. WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?

At first, she thought it must be a joke.

The thought was absurd—who would make a joke about something like that? And, besides, the Ministry's seal was not so easily forged. But the sheer jarring shock of the news was almost irreconcilable with her memory of Dumbledore just weeks ago, perhaps not in the best of health but with the stability of presence of a mountain range.

How—the curse? No. He couldn't have deteriorated so quickly, surely. Voldemort.

Then:

Would he still have fallen if I had not stolen the Elder Wand?

It didn't matter. Dumbledore was dead, if the letter could be believed. The letter burnt without flame, curling to charred powder in her hand, and she opened the window to scatter it to the wind. From the elevation of her personal suite, she could see some manner of attraction in the streets. Peering closer, she caught the flashing movements of two fae dueling with sabers. Along with the clashing of alchemical silver came musical laughter and encouragements drifting to her from the spectators, gleeful and unrestrained.

She swung the window shut.

Perhaps the reason for her disquiet was that Dumbledore had perished in her absence. The Wyld had always represented a kind of relaxing oblivion to her, perhaps inevitable given the ancient perspectives of its inhabitants. Had she not come here for that very reason, to escape the frustration of the mortal world? Even now, when the Wyld faced an unprecedented threat, the days passed in blurs of color and emotional indulgence. But the timelessness it offered was a lie. The world of man and machinery ground on regardless.

Once, that hadn't mattered. But somewhere along the line, Violet had begun to care.

With Dumbledore gone, the balance of power was surely in turmoil. Scrimgeour and she had planned for this eventuality, of course, but this was much too soon. Nothing would be prepared, and with her absent, she could only imagine the stress the Ministry was under. She should have been there.

Worse, she couldn't do anything but wait. It was morning, and there would be hours yet before she could possibly sleep again. Wars could be lost and history changed in a day, and she would not even know until tomorrow.

She paced her rooms, the spacious accommodations suddenly restrictive, but the rest of the court held no appeal for her either. In the end, she spent nearly the whole day brooding over every way Dumbledore could possibly have died. A poisoned goblet? A moment's lapse in concentration? A failure to account for the lack of the Elder Wand?

No, none of those, she decided with inexplicable certainty. If Dumbledore had died, it had been his goodness that killed him.

Damn it all. She would miss those nights memory-gazing, which had continued long after he had no more to share.

Satria visited her sometime mid-afternoon, offering a humorous anecdote and yet more wine. She seemed quite befuddled by Violet's dour mood, doubly so after receiving an explanation—what should she care for the fading of a firefly's light, even if it was particularly bright?—and did not linger long. Her absence left the suite even stiller than before.

Finally night came, but her thoughts played a cruel joke on her. For the first time she could recall, Violet did not sleep easily.

~#~

The blood had not yet been fully scrubbed when Violet arrived in the Atrium.

A cordon of Aurors surrounded the smear while a distinctly green-looking wizard from the Magical Maintenance Department tried in vain to vanish it, to little success. Stains of blood were notoriously stubborn.

Scrimgeour paced like a caged lion, likely unsettling the poor custodian even more severely. He looked up at the rush of the Floo and nodded sharply in recognition.

"Finally, thank Merlin. For my sanity, please tell me you didn't decide to go on holiday while my government nearly collapsed. The blasted Wireless was burned to ash. Damn it, if Dumbledore hadn't seen you, the country would be mourning twice over." He took on a distinctly pained look and continued in a mutter. "On the other hand, it seems that once again I owe you something of a… debt. Let's not make it a third time."

Violet nodded a brief acknowledgment, coming alongside him. She glanced at the bloodstain. "What happened?"

"That? Suicide. It seems some would prefer to forsake hope than fight for it."

"Who?"

He let out an immense sigh. "A muggleborn from the Department of Magical Cooperation. Damn it. It doesn't matter what I do. I could raise an army of the like not seen since the days of Grindelwald and the people would have less faith in it than in a single old man."

Violet inhaled through her teeth. "That is not ideal."

"Thank you," Scrimgeour snapped. "I hadn't come to that conclusion myself. This won't make it to the Prophet, I guarantee that, but Merlin knows how many saw his fateful fucking fall. We must act."

"Immediately?"

"Tonight." He shook his head. "It is impossible to believe how strong that man's—Dumbledore's, not the bloody suicide—influence was. If we don't find a way to regain control, to give the masses something to believe in, we might as well declare our surrender."

The cleaning wizard shouted an incantation, finally vanishing a portion of the blood but causing more to spray wildly, splashing an Auror's robes. The wizard cringed.

"It's a risk," Violet said. "It will be controversial. It may be opposed. In my experience, these things rarely go as cleanly as imagined."

"Everything's a risk." Scrimgeour grabbed her by the shoulder, his eyes filled with a burning intensity. "You've been gone for weeks. You haven't seen the fear—the hopelessness. Damn it, if we don't act now, we lose."

He was right. Dumbledore had died, and she hadn't been there.

"Very well," she said, standing straight and holding his gaze. "What do you need?"

"An example." He bared his teeth in a snarl. "Get me an example, and I'll give Britain its legend."

~#~

"You understand, there are some things I cannot ask my Aurors to do," Scimgeour had said. "Not yet."

Well, that was well and good, but maybe he hadn't thought things through. Legilimency was many things, but definitely not admissible in court, and though even supposedly firm lines could be blurred, it was more palatable to do so one at a time. A veneer of legitimacy would be useful, which meant either the Aurors or the Unspeakables, and that wasn't a question at all.

"Psst."

Tonks yelped and stumbled, spilling a yellowed binder of parchment on the floor. For all her clumsiness though, her wand was in her hand in an instant. "Who—"

Violet allowed her glamour to fade, materializing from an invisibility as impenetrable as a master's Disillusionment. "I'm back."

"Violet—What in Merlin's name? Where were you? After Dumbledore, we were looking everywhere for you—the Order, that is. What are you doing here? Why aren't you with the Minister?"

"We talked already. I've been well, by the way, thanks. Went somewhere nice and cold. You?"

"How do you think?"

Violet winced. Admittedly, she'd walked into that one.

"Never mind," she said, then grinned. "So, how would you feel about doing our great Minister a tiny favor?"

Tonks's eyes narrowed. "Are the memos not working now?"

Violet fluttered her eyelashes. "What, you'd prefer a bit of folded paper over me?"

"No. I just have a very good idea what sort of 'favors' the Minister asks you to do."

"Okay," Violet said, turning on her heels. "I'll figure it out on my own, then."

In an impressive display of restraint, Tonks waited until Violet was almost out of sight before sprinting after her, attracting a handful of odd looks from various Ministry workers. She gave the impression of being distinctly annoyed, mostly with herself.

"Fine," she said, rapidly cycling through a dozen colors of hair. "Tell me."

"Just couldn't stand not knowing?"

"Couldn't stand wondering what 'figuring it out on your own' might entail," Tonks replied darkly. "At least this way I can keep an eye on you."

"Well, that's hardly necessary. I'll have you know the Minister's given me something of a blank check in regard to what must be done."

"I think that's what worries me." She sighed. "All right, I'm game. What are we doing?"

"We," Violet said, taking Tonks by the arm and leading her in the direction of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, "are going to arrest a traitor."

"We are?"

"Oh, indeed," Violet said. "Why, I have no doubt he will be confessing to all manner of misdeed before nightfall!"

Tonks made a dry sound. "With such a watertight case, it's a wonder it hasn't happened already."

"Oh, well, you know." Violet waved vaguely. "There's always a complication. Imagine, theoretically, if someone rather talented in matters of the mind had spent the last few months floating about the Ministry practically as the Minister's mascot, shaking hands with department heads and so forth. You might not be surprised if she formed something of a list, if you will."

"That would be a crime," Tonks said dully. "Legilimency, I mean. Unless Scrimgeour's done away with that already."

"Precisely. So in this hypothetical scenario, it would be very inconvenient for any questions to come up about just how this hypothetical traitor was discovered—especially if the Minister were depending on his testimony to damn a number of other sympathizers."

Tonks groaned. "Oh, enough with the fucking hypotheticals. Am I having a nightmare, or did the Minister actually order the Aurors to arrest a man on clearly illegal grounds?"

"Well, no."

"Oh, thank Merlin."

"He doesn't trust the Aurors enough to do it, which is why he asked me. But I think I know you better than he does, and it really will look better if we make some affectation of following the law."

Her jaw dropped. "So what you're really saying is that the Aurors are too honorable to corrupt but that I'm the exception?"

"Well"—Violet shrugged—"you've already been arrested for espionage once. So I figured this would be business as usual."

"What? That's—" Tonks spluttered in disbelief. "That was Fudge."

"And this is Scrimgeour. Much better fellow, I assure you. Now, come along."

Despite perfunctory huffing and complaints, she did follow Violet in the end. They made their way to the lifts, and after a short but vigorous journey, emerged in the Department of Magical Transportation.

In the time Violet had been gone, the Ministry had underwent a clear shift in morale. Where previously Scrimgeour's propaganda campaign had appeared effective, with most workers going about their days as normal, their relaxed demeanor had now vanished in place of low conversation and edgy looks at the Aurors. The Aurors, in turn, were now overtly uniformed and stationed across the entire Ministry. It made Scrimgeour's strategy and her part in it look slightly ridiculous. They'd thought they were holding up the nation's spirit, but in the end, Dumbledore's presence had been the greatest inspiration of all.

Again, it probably hadn't helped that Violet had seemingly disappeared around the same time he did. Damn it.

"Transportation?" Tonks said. "Hardly seems like the ideal place for a mole."

"That's likely the point," Violet replied, speaking out the corner of her mouth while smiling and waving at a wizard carrying a tall stack of parchment. He looked vaguely dumbfounded but waved back and hurried off, nudging a witch and pointing not-so-discretely in Violet's direction. She winked.

"As I was saying," she continued, "we don't think he's actually providing intelligence per se. We had to schedule visits to Transportation for four consecutive days for me to be sure, but his task seems to be more oriented toward coordinating assets and recruiting. So he should have plenty of names and a believable justification for others."

Tonks's eyes widened and she snapped her fingers. "And if there's one Ministry department no one sees as suspicious, it's the people who keep the Floos running. Merlin, they could be anywhere."

"Precisely. There's no reason to take the risk of approaching someone in Law Enforcement when they can have a guy in the fireplace listen in on all the conversations instead. It's been driving me mad, actually, but Scrimgeour convinced me it would be better to wait to take him in. I suppose he wasn't wrong."

"That reminds me," Tonks said. "What exactly is he planning? Bones seems to think he's going mad, or maybe she is. Keeps pulling us into one-on-ones, asking whether we're loyal to him or the Ministry. I don't know what he's playing at, but the last thing we need now is—"

"Not now," Violet hissed, jerking her head to the side. "That's him. Go. Make sure everyone sees."

"What, you want me to just walk up and arrest him? You're serious?" She groaned. "Look, Violet, I don't know if you've heard of a little thing called the due process of law—"

"You'll be fine. The Minister's on your side, and after tonight, that'll mean something." Seeing Tonks waver, Violet rolled her eyes. "Trust me. I dueled Voldemort for you, didn't I? This won't bite you."

"Violet—" She broke off. Sighed, and relented. "Okay. Who am I to argue with our esteemed Minister, anyway. What am I supposedly arresting him for?"

"Treason," Violet said, eyeing an office doorway that would provide a vantage point close enough to vaguely associate her with the arrest without seeming deliberately so. "High treason."

Tonks fiddled with the edge of her robes and sighed. "I just hope I don't regret this."

~#~

In his years of public service, Horace Oddsworth had never seen the Wizengamot in such a state.

Not at being called to an emergency session, which had become depressingly frequent of late; indeed, even during the last war, the Minister had not seemed quite so fond of forcing the full Wizengamot to gather at his whim. Nor even was it the presence of the young witch—a child, some would say, though Horace would challenge them to repeat it after sobering up from the myth of the Savior. She played the adoring masses with a politician's deft cynicism and demonstrated little more regard for life than You-Know-Who himself. The manor of an ancient pureblood family did not burn by chance, and even the traditional clandestine tools of a Minister would have found Renée Malfoy more than a challenge. Scrimgeour's shadow, some said. Scrimgeour's dagger, said others. Scrimgeour's master, a traitorous few wondered.

No, it was none of these things. It was the nervous looks some of the more sympathetic contingent exchanged with each other. It was the subtle change to the architecture, the tall podium that the Minister now stood upon when previously the floor had done just fine. It was the disquiet in his stomach, the politician's instinct that had never steered him wrong before. Something would happen tonight. Something tumultuous, something impossible to be prepared for. It would only be a question of who would go with the current and who would fight it.

Horace would flow with the tide and eventually find a suitable eddy to go about his business in. He was a politician, after all.

But he could already tell his stance would not be the only one. Displeased, even defiant expressions glared out from the circled Wizengamot at the Minister. Clearly their instincts were not so refined. Egotistical posturing would do them no good here.

"Come to order," Scrimgeour said, prowling about the podium. His voice boomed out, echoing throughout the hard walls of the courtroom, almost a roar. Scrimgeour the Lion, the papers called him. Right then, it was easy to recall that he had not cut his teeth on paperwork.

A rustling swept through the Wizengamot as whispered conversations broke up and papers were straightened. Quills scraped as scribes began to notate the proceedings.

A voice broke the anticipatory quiet, as authoritative as Scrimgeour's. Amelia Bones, painfully honest and renowned thorn in Fudge's side. It would be her, Horace supposed.

"Yes, a bit of order would be much appreciated. How about we start with what in Merlin's name you dragged us out of bed for?"

A mutter of approval rang out, but it was muffled. Bones might be willing to risk the Minister's wrath, but she was a rare breed.

"My apologies," Scrimgeour said. "Yet, in the service of our country, we must all make sacrifices."

"Perhaps," Bones replied. She pressed her lips together until they turned white, standing almost unbearably straight. "But who will be making them?"

"What are you talking about, woman?" called a voice, lost in the crowd. "Mad, I say."

Principles made many enemies and few friends; such was always the way of things.

"Now, now," Scrimgeour said, making a placating gesture. "Auror Bones raises an important point. We should be upfront about these things, and the fact is, all of us will have to make sacrifices in the coming days. I do not mean death and glory. I tell you, as a man well versed in those things, they are hardly a sacrifice at all. No, I mean something greater. We must harden our hearts and do what is necessary! We must accept the unacceptable, cast our weakness to the pyre."

His pacing grew swifter, his words animated. Horace leaned in, enraptured despite himself. Though he lacked the careful verbiage of a career politician, the man had an undeniable fire.

"Victory at all costs," Bones put in, voice hollow and tired. "For the greater good, even. Now, where have I heard that before?"

"How trite," Scrimgeour retorted, then jerked his hand like a blade. "Meaningless! But I bring to you something of import, dire news which must be confronted unflinchingly. Loyal members of the Wizengamot, there are traitors among us!"

Ah. So that was how it would be.

From there it unfolded like poetry.

There were reporters in the observing area, subtle and unremarkable in a way reporters almost never were. There on Scrimgeour's invitation no doubt and well aware of the price of missteps, they took notes and recorded audio with complicated spinning devices with fervent diligence. No doubt they would play up the drama of the moment, the absolute silence that followed the Minister's proclamation.

"I can see that none of you are surprised," Scrimgeour said. "And why would you be? We all know Voldemort—yes, I will say it!—placed his followers within the Ministry as he pleased the first time, and why should it be different now? Many of you believe, however you might protest, that the Ministry has no hope of opposing him and are making secret preparations for his supposedly inevitable victory. Do not deny this."

The heat in his tone faded, replaced by something silky.

"Your doubt is understandable given the weakness of my predecessors' leadership. But I promise you, their mistakes will not be repeated. Voldemort will not be given a free hand to corrupt the Ministry until it serves his interest with scarcely a spell. We've all seen it, have we not? Good, decent folk so concerned with doing the right thing that they regrettably block any measure that might threaten Voldemort's cause. Those who have time and again prevented the authorization of measures that our Aurors so richly require. Today will go down in history, for today the rot shall be cut out, as if by a Healer's wand. And this treatment shall begin in this very room."

He straightened his robes and stared down the Wizengamot, the witches and wizards all but wilting under his gaze. Horace could not suppress a shiver when those eyes met his own.

The doors to the courtroom swung open with a bang that made him jump, dark figures filing in with wands drawn.

Their robes were not red.

"What is the meaning of this?" Bones demanded, still on her feet. "The Unspeakables have no jurisdiction—"

"The enemies of Britain think themselves unstoppable," Scrimgeour roared. "But I shall pick up my wand and stand against them as I always have. Whatever the cost, we shall prevail."

"Minister!"

"Earlier today," he continued over her, "thanks in large part to the efforts of the Savior, Violet Potter, our Aurors took into custody a coordinator highly placed among the traitorous effort. He will testify, and justice will be done, tonight and no later."

"On whose authority? The Auror office was not informed—" At last, true understanding dawned on her, and Bones froze. "Rufus," she hissed. "I thought better of you."

Scrimgeour's voice dropped to a whisper, as if he had forgotten his voice was amplified. "We all make the sacrifices we must."

The six Aurors providing security for the Wizengamot had closed in during the confrontation, coming to a stop around Bones, and whatever their theoretical loyalties might have been, it was clear who they would side with. The Unspeakables glided toward them, reminiscent of Dementors in their obscuring hoods and grim presence. Horace drew in a sharp breath—were they to duel, then?

But even as the tension reached its peak, movement along one of shadowy walls of the courtroom caught his eye. Potter pushed herself off the wall—in the flickering light of the arcane braziers that lit the room, he suspected most had missed her entirely—and made her way to the center of the court at an unhurried pace. She drew the eye like an emerald despite the way her dark robes should have blended with the black stone. White films of ice remained where she stepped.

Perhaps a hundred witches and wizards held their breaths, waiting to see what she would do. When she stood by Scrimgeour's side, Bones collapsed into her seat with a barely audible sigh, her face pressed into her hands. Potter said nothing, but nothing needed to be said. First one and then the rest of the Aurors stepped back, returning to their posts at the entrances to the courtroom. The weight of a woman who could duel You-Know-Who and live spoke more loudly than a thousand lesser wands. Like Dumbledore had.

It was a comparison few would miss.

Scrimgeour scanned the Wizengamot once more, eyes aglow with triumph. "Bring forth the prisoner."

One of the Unspeakables slipped away, returning moments later with a terrified man in rumpled Ministry robes in tow. His arms were bound in chains that dragged behind him, scraping on the cold stone. He looked up at the Wizengamot and flinched, bowing his head once more.

"Wallace Hornsby," Scrimgeour said, sneering as he stared down at the man from his podium. "You stand accused of treasonous espionage. Thank our mercy that you still draw breath."

He waved, and Hornsby was dragged away. Scrimgeour spoke again, and once more the tension in the room hit an unbearable pitch. "Let this be a warning: there will be no escape for those who betray our nation. There is no deception we cannot pierce. There is no strength we cannot overwhelm. Should one traitor slip his noose, rest assured, it is only a matter of time before the rope tightens once more."

From his robes, he removed a scroll. Horace followed his hands as they unlaced it and rolled it out, holding it up above his head. "Servin Crow."

A thoroughly oily man in Horace's estimation, Crow flinched violently enough to slip out of his seat. He scrambled up and started pushing his way toward the doors, but the Unspeakables were upon him in moments and with a red flash, he fell unconscious. As they dragged his limp body away, the next name arrived like a death knell.

"Romulus Travers."

And again, once he had suffered the same fate as Crow:

"Elsaphina Bulstrode."

It continued on in this fashion for some time, until every member of the Wizengamot had nerves so frayed that every name not theirs felt like something to celebrate. Not a witch or wizard raised their voice in protest—not one.

At last, Scrimgeour rolled up the scroll and put it away. There was a moment of tentative relief, allowed to exist for just a few cruel seconds before he added one last name.

"Amelia Bones."

As the faceless Unspeakables carried justice away, those who had been spared broke into rapturous applause.