With the memory of the Massacre of Lords fresh in her mind, Violet had feared rivers of blood and a Ministry crippled by internal conflict. But after Amelia Bones' fleeting stand, no one had raised a voice, let alone a wand, against the new order.
Perhaps it was testament to the pragmatism of humans facing a greater threat, perhaps to the comparative timidity of British wizardkind, or perhaps simply to a plan slightly subtler than a public assassination. Either way, she was more than pleased with the outcome. Just hours after eleven members of the Wizengamot were dragged off in chains, tens more suspected informers, saboteurs, and sympathizers were intercepted as they arrived for the morning shift. That side of things had not gone quite so smoothly. Word must have got out somehow, as at least twenty persons of interest had not appeared at all. Still, in all—victorywas the only way to describe it.
Scrimgeour had delivered a speech to nearly the entire Ministry assembled in the Atrium, full of fire and vigor. With the Prophet working like a well-brewed potion, the first most would hear of events would be the Ministry's version. With half a dozen previously backlogged legislations passed—unanimously, one might note—and more to come, the fetters on the Ministry's power were rapidly falling away. Unforgivable Curses, foreign mercenaries, a true military force instead of the bastardized Auror Office…
Yes, there was much potential. Voldemort's own standards would work against him here. Restricting his Inner Circle to the powerful, truly believing, and fanatically loyal had its advantages, but she suspected the choice came more of paranoia than calculation. In reality, relatively few Purebloods looked favorably on the prospect of giving up a luxurious, effortless life for blood, danger, and dark magic, and his preference for British Purebloods in particular only worsened things. Scrimgeour, on the other hand, would have no such qualms.
Even if segments of the Auror office refused to fall in line—and that was all but certain now, thank you Bones—there were resources not yet tapped that ran deep and dangerous. Men like her old dueling partner, Martin Erst, who were skilled in violence and little else and had previously gravitated reluctantly to the barely tolerated fringes of Voldemort's forces, would soon receive a considerably more tempting offer. The rattle of gold and the suggestion of power really was all it took for some. Sirius was fond of saying that the world was not made up of good people and Death Eaters. When he said it, it was a lament; Violet found it a relief.
And, of course, there were the Unspeakables. Violet wasn't entirely sure what Scrimgeour had promised them in exchange for their support, but she suspected it involved unlisted budgets and the quiet rollback of oversight. Given her experiences with their projects before any newfound freedom, she put it at equal odds that they would find a way to destroy Voldemort as create something even worse. They would have to be curtailed, eventually, but for the time being they were Scrimgeour's problem, not hers. Time would tell.
The Atrium's marble floor clicked satisfyingly under her boots, fading into the rolling thunder of hundreds feet, all moving with swiftness and purpose—some might say performative—that would have been unimaginable just a day before. Even the Floo workers had gained a new stiffness to their spines.
Violet nodded to one and accepted a measure of powder before being drawn in by this question and that; she granted the Floo worker an indulgent grin and even agreed to cast a spell with the witch's wand, thereby ensuring her status as the most interesting member of her department for at least a month. It really was important to keep up this sort of thing. As long as she kept the balance between 'national celebrity' and 'dark witch' weighed to the former, the politics would be so very much easier. And less bloody. A few smiles were a small price to pay for a relatively asterisk-free coup.
Unfortunately, it now appeared one of those few, irritating consequences was fast approaching.
"Pardon me," Violet said, handing the wand back, a tangle of conjured roses entwined around it. She sighed lightly. "It seems my attention is required."
A head of vivid red hair was bobbing its way through the hustle of robes and parchment, snaking between pillars and visibly intent on reaching Violet. For a moment she considered stepping through the Floo, but this was something she would have to deal with sooner or later. In all her life, she did not think later had ever been proven the better option. "Violet," Tonks said, a warm, friendly smile on her face. "Would you care to explain why my wonderful, loyal boss is being illegally held in a cell? And why you didn't warn me you were making me an accomplice to it?"
Violet smiled slyly. "Careful, now. I've heard that sort of talk's dangerous these days."
"Please." Tonks huffed. "I hope you're happy."
"Indubitably. You do realize Bones is perfectly all right, don't you? Scrimgeour's much too sentimental to kill her or lock her away for too long. Once he's consolidated power there'll be a miraculous pardon and she'll be free to go. Everybody wins. More or less."
"Oh, no. If you knew Bones, you'd know 'all right' is the last thing she could possibly be right now. 'Incandescent with fury' would come closer but still be an understatement."
"Well." Violet clicked her tongue. "Perhaps this will serve as an object lesson in subtlety for her. Had she feigned enthusiasm for the reformation she could have gone on to cause no end of headaches for us. As it is, well… I suppose there's always pride."
"There is that." Tonks's expression turned downcast, her hair flashing white. "I don't even have pride. I helped and, worse, it wasn't even on purpose. I don't know why I'm talking to you about this. It's not like you'll regret anything."
"It would have happened either way," Violet said, sighing. "You just saved me a few Imperius Curses. So if you want, you can look at it as a good deed—limiting the damage, as it were.
Tonks made an unconvinced sound. Violet took a step back, toward one of the fireplaces. "Just don't let yourself get carried away. Scrimgeour's not Voldemort you know, and neither am I. M—Scrimgeour's rule will be benevolent, I assure you. Besides, it's not as if the Ministry as it was was anything particularly wonderful. You do remember Fudge. Democracy. It's just begging for trouble, isn't it?"
With that, she tossed the Floo powder, and a billow of green flame erupted in the fireplace. "Look at the bright side!" she shouted over the roar. "Next time you meet your dear aunt you'll be legally free to express your feelings with the full breadth of the Expanded Powers Act—tell me you wouldn't enjoy the poetic irony of holding her under the Cruciatus!"
Tonks's response was lost to the flames as Violet stepped into the blazing green.
~#~
"Sirius?" Violet called. "You home?"
Silence answered. Violet sniffed. Call it a hunch, or perhaps prescience, but she suspected she had just been ignored.
Homenum Revelio.
"Upstairs," she muttered. "Fine." She wound her way up several flights of stairs, through a hallway, and into Sirius's bedroom, dark even in midday. The faintest hint of springtime and tarnished brass greeted her, slipping under the somehow less unpleasant odor of stale sweat and beer. Frustration flared. For all her power, whatever battle Sirius was fighting was beyond her. Nor could she exactly inquire with Satria for advice, for if she were to learn Summer had touched a mortal…
She crept into the room, silky quiet. A mind-bending tangle of blankets and limbs half-drooped off the expensive bed, a dense quilt pillowed on the floor. The curtains were closed, completely blacking out the light. Light snores emanated from the snarl.
Violet cleared her throat.
"Oi!"
The snarl jerked, yelped, and tumbled off the bed with a thud. A head poked out, Sirius blinking blearily. "Wassatthematter?"
"Did you even realize I was gone?" Violet asked, amused.
"Yes," Sirius said, brushing a wave of dark hair out of his face. Violet arched an eyebrow—despite what was presumably a long night and short, undignified rest, he still looked ready to be plastered across Witch Weekly. The furrows of Azkaban were smoothed, an intoxicating spark of something beyond the natural behind his eyes. And then he scowled and set about extracting himself from the blankets, and the moment was gone. But not forgotten.
"Dumbledore's dead," he said. "I don't know how much you've heard already, but the bloody Minister's been hounding me, as if I have the faintest clue how to contact you when you're off—there. Write him or something."
Violet snickered. "I'm guessing you haven't read the Prophet, then?"
"Not yet." He gave her a suspicious look. "Should I?"
"Oh, you know." She shrugged. "My name came up a few times. Same old, same old."
"Peh." Sirius walked to the window and pulled the curtains, squinting at the sudden glare. "Damn. How late is it?"
"Late for waking up. When did you go to sleep?"
"What?" Sirius gave her an odd look. "I don't know. The sun was starting to come up. Why?"
"No reason." Violet, of course, found it necessary to only sleep for a few hours each day, though whether it was natural or the influence of Winter she couldn't say. If Sirius was undergoing some manner of… transformation, it would be interesting to see if he acquired a similar trait.
Of course, such intellectual curiosity would be small comfort if Sirius himself were to be lost. Although her bond with Winter was a blessing, it was also unique. In the tales she had heard of mortals taking on some influence of a fae Court, the union was rarely amicable, and even more rarely resolved in the mortal's favor. Scant, almost legendary fables told of particularly cunning or lucky humans plundering the prizes of the fae and escaping unharmed, but they were few and far between.
Far more common was the morbid alternative.
"I heard there was a skirmish in Cornwall?" Violet said, changing the subject. "An Order victory, no?"
"Barely," Sirius spat. "I was drinking for a reason."
She allowed the silence to stretch as he grabbed a shirt off the floor and pulled it on. He grunted. "Bellatrix was there."
"Was this before or after Dumbledore—"
"After. Just after. I guess it wasn't enough that they killed him and dumped his body in a bloody ditch, they had to celebrate it too. Nothing like a spot of muggle-baiting to lighten the mood." He shook his head. "Could've used you there."
Violet blinked, keeping her face impassive. In truth, she should have been there, not wasting her time sipping wine and insulting the Winter Queen behind her back. The mortal world marched to a swifter beat than the Wyld, and she could no longer pretend to be a foreigner to it. Leaving in the wake of her duel with Voldemort had been thoughtless, filled with the capricious lightness of the fae, and it had cost her. Sirius, Tonks, Ron, Dumbledore… Sometime, somehow, this world had started to mean something, and if safeguarding it meant giving up her self-indulgence, that was a price she should have paid months ago.
"It will not happen again," she said, voice sharp and hard.
"Brr." Sirius mock-shivered. "You want to grab a bite? I think I need some fresh air."
She shook her head. "Not today; I believe I have rather a lot of business overdue. When will the next Order meeting be?"
"Uh…" Sirius frowned, counting on his fingers. "Tomorrow night. We've been trying to keep them unpredictable 'cause Moody reckons he saw someone watching the house. Obviously it's Moody, so it might have actually been an overgrown housecat, but dear Bella hinted that they'd found out something significant. Remus told me I should leave, but…" He shrugged. "I've never been one for doing the smart thing."
"Excellent," Violet said. The Elder Wand trembled in her sleeve. "It's so much easier when the enemy comes to you."
And it was. But, why wait?
~#~
Knockturn Alley reveled, drunk and half-mad.
Perhaps the news of the Ministry's recent upheaval had not yet reached them, or perhaps they were under the unfortunate delusion that Scrimgeour's regime was cut from the same feeble cloth as those before. That was all right. She was here to correct them, after all.
Cackling laughter and shouts of jubilation filled the air. Muggle blood and cursed objects were hawked from every direction. Tattooed mercenaries and dark creatures walked boldly, hoods thrown back. The Alley's furtive underbelly had rolled over and was luxuriating in the sunlight. Here, there was no terror, no grief. Here, they were winning.
Two men with a particular swagger to their steps bulled through the narrow street, heedless of the hissed complaints left in their wake. They both sported patches sewn into their robes, suspiciously resembling a secondhand rendition of the Dark Mark. Perfect.
Smoothly, Violet slipped into pursuit, weaving through the crowd and staying in their blind spots and adopting the cruel, arrogant demeanor of a dark witch. Few would make the connection between a strange sense of recognition and Violet Potter herself, and if they did, all the better. She was not here to hide.
In time they led her to an expansively built stone building that she could not recall at all from her days as Valentina. The architecture was ornate, far surpassing the standard of its surroundings, and all but exuded power. Two obsidian statues flanked the double-door entrance, a man and a woman with fine features and drawn wands. Serpents coiled about their wrists.
From inside the building, Violet could just pick out cries of excitement and the din of spellcasting. The scent of blood and dark excitement drifted to her, immediately nostalgic. She broke out in a grin. This really couldn't have gone better.
She strode up the steps and threw open the doors, producing a violent bang as they slammed against the walls. A man with a Dark Patch—really, they just looked amateurish; clearly Voldemort did not feel any need to personally oversee such minute details of his sovereignty—jumped at her entry and reached for his wand, but she cut him off first.
"Do you follow the Dark Lord?" Violet asked, pitching her voice to arctic depths. The man took an unconscious step back.
"Yes, My Lady!" He clapped a fist to his heart, nodding emphatically. "I will give my life for the cause! I am the most loyal, his greatest follower, worthy of the Mark, should he see fit to grant it. Always!"
She smiled. "How unfortunate for you. Avada Kedavra!"
Green light flared, the man fell, and absolute silence descended over the hall. The sounds of a dueling pitch were more audible for it, though still muffled by at least one stone wall. Perhaps ten pairs of eyes fell on her. The trepidation was clear, but it was overshadowed by uncertainty. It struck her that they probably still thought she was a proper Death Eater that the unfortunate man had somehow offended. She tittered at the thought.
"My Lady…" started another man, hesitant. Violet jerked her wand.
Silencio. She cleared her throat. "You who have joined the Dark Lord for convenience or power or desperation, hear me. You have pledged allegiance to a waning star. You who fight for a love of magic, for freedom from the ways of the muggles, for the right to live as your ancestors did, hear me. Do I look to you a worshiper of the ways of the muggles or a puritan who would have us forget the cruel beauty of magic? I am one of you. I lived and fought among you under the name Valentina Frost—yes, some of you recognize it, I see. The Dark Lord despises you nearly so much as the muggles. Join me and fight for what you truly believe. Otherwise…
"Dumbledore is dead. I do not follow in his footsteps."
Bitter winds rushed down the hall. Hundreds of candles, suspended in ornate chandeliers, flashed and died.
Like ripples through a lake, the room began to clear, starting with those closest to her and moving back. A few seconds later the sounds of the duel stopped. A few seconds after that, one of the doors opened and a line of Patch-wearers swarmed out, followed by a man in an actual Death Eater mask. She spun the Elder Wand in her hand and began to draw on frozen power. It was high time she started taking this war seriously.
~#~
A thick column of smoke rolled across the sky over Knockturn Alley. The Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee would have to get creative for this one. Burning rubble and molten rock was all that remained of the building, polished black statues melted into tortured contortions as they wilted under cursed, colorless flame. The crack of Apparition sounded up and down the street as reinforcements arrived, at least six of which were true Death Eaters. Of Voldemort himself, there was no sign. But then, Mark or no, he was not one to allow himself to be reliably summoned.
They found nothing but a ruin and the dead. Perhaps they suspected she might still linger, but the cloak of death was not so easily lifted. Violet passed directly through their thickest numbers with nary more than a gentle brush across their robes. The ice in her veins cried out for further violence, the Elder Wand shivering in sympathy, but she controlled herself. No matter one's power, to face vastly superior numbers without the element of surprise was a risk that was unwise to take often. The day was won. Better to end it there.
She had been curious, at first, why an overly decorated dueling hall painfully obviously linked to the Death Eaters had sprung up sprung up in the middle of Knockturn Alley. But in the process of reducing it to a burnt scar, its purpose had become clear. It wasn't about the dueling at all, really.
It had been bothering her for a while, the question of how one should go about actually winning a war of wizards. To fight was simple—slay the enemy, raze their homes, and convince them that you may strike from a shadow at any moment. During Voldemort's first war, he fought it so well that all of Britain feared his name. Yet, even after over a decade of holding the initiative and never suffering a truly decisive loss, he was essentially closer to victory than after a single year. The Ministry had still stood, albeit infested with spies and largely ineffectual. Voldemort had won no true political ground. His forces were still the revolutionaries, the Order and the Ministry the defenders of the current order. How could such a thing be possible, how could the Ministry endure when nearly every battle was lost and even the presence of Dumbledore was a tenuous hope at best?
The answer, of course, was that you did not win a Wizarding war by killing the enemy. You won it by convincing him it was already over.
And there, the dueling hall came in. Voldemort, or perhaps his Inner Circle, had clearly learned a lesson from the last war. Fear was a double-edged sword that could as easily drive the population to fight as cower. As revolutionaries, ultimate victory could come only once they were seen not just as architects of destruction but stability—any stability. Gallows and grim idols would do as well as public works and courtrooms. Unless Voldemort wished to risk the total collapse of Britain's Wizarding population, he would have to reframe the Death Eaters as an establishment, something that erected buildings and maintained order and most certainly did not hide or retreatfrom the Ministry, even when it might be tactically convenient. Like fear, this too cut both ways. Aside from Voldemort's own power, his great advantage had always been the asymmetry with which he waged war. It was easy to avoid defeat when you could strike without warning and fade into the wind. But if he wanted real victory, he first needed something to lose.
The Death Eaters hadto construct buildings. They hadto establish areas the Aurors couldn't enter and make themselves into something vaguely resembling the law. If they couldn't hijack the Ministry, they would have to build something to compete with it, step by painstaking step.
Really, it was much easier for Violet. By acting inside the lines, allying with the powers that be, her objective was simple. The Death Eater cause began and ended with its leader. With the end of Voldemort, so too would come the end of the war. For her, killing the enemy really was enough, so long as it happened before they established themselves as part of the status quo.
And that, she thought with some satisfaction, I will make very difficult for them.
Finally having seen enough, she cast off the hood of the Invisibility Cloak. She stood there for a moment, in the middle of the road, surrounded by dark cloaks and darker figures, as ash and snow rained down. One of them caught a glimpse of her, his shining mask melting away to reveal the terrible gaze of Lord Voldemort. Silver light caught on the ring on his finger, and a rush of strange Wyld magic flashed at her, so much like Winter that it hurt, and she instinctually knew that if it touched her she would shatter like glass. But the mantle of Death was still wrapped about her. The curse could not find her. It broke against the brick behind her and left not even a coating of frost. For all its power, it had been sculpted from beginning to end to destroy her alone.
Red eyes widened, and she laughed and allowed the snow to rise up and surround her and carry her away.
~#~
Voldemort waited under the empty sky.
It was galling. He should have been jubilant. Dumbledore, the fool, the hypocrite, the coward, the threatwas dead. Nigh six decades of hatred, plotting in the night, a child's puerile fantasies gradually given form, calculation, patience—oh, so much patience—and finally, the enemy was dead. Yet where was the satisfaction? It was the girl's fault. Even as he finally overcame his old foe, she lurked in his thoughts. Damn her. Always it was another weapon, another impossibility pulled from her sleeve. Fortune itself must stand against him, for he could think of no other explanation for how time and again she revealed a new trick seemingly devised to perfectly frustrate him. Howher invisibility had eluded his gaze, he would very much like to know.
The head of a serpent slipped out of his sleeve, and Voldemort gently stroked it with his other hand. The creature hailed from these frozen faerie lands. Having immediately recognized his might, it followed him for days before he finally relented and allowed it to coil around his fingers. It was not some absurd token of fascination for the other world but a reminder. That, however useful or fascinating the Others may be, they were fit for one thing: servitude. The snake recognized the absolute truth of his superiority and acted accordingly, pledging its allegiance. For that it was rewarded; if all creatures were so sensible, they would not suffer. Such was the way of things.
Also, Nagini had been with him at the time, and when she took a liking to a smaller serpent it was best not to argue. She always ate them eventually, anyway.
The cold in this place, Winter as they called it, was nearly admirable in its sheer maliciousness. Heavy clothing, intricate charms, and even fire scarcely held it back, a conclusion he had reached shortly after he set foot in this place. And so, he had accepted it. He welcomed the ache in his bones, a testament to the reborn life in his flesh, his strength of mind. Death had no hold on him. The cold, neither.
The meeting place—and whatever he did, the arches seemed to deposit him where she wanted him, not where he might prefer to be—was not like where he had killed Dumbledore. Where Dumbledore had died, he waspishly corrected himself. The old man had found a way to deny him even that. There were no trees here, only a seemingly endless frozen desert in each direction. The sky was dark, the snow bright. The light came from nowhere; the sky was devoid of stars or moon. For nearly two hours he had waited, as still as stone, his empty expression divulging no hint of the fury boiling behind it.
An infinitesimal shiver shook him, the instincts of a skittish orphan never quite dulled. He sighed and spoke, quietly, into the dark.
"I do not appreciate being expected to wait."
"Calm yourself. You're calling yourself immortal, after all. Ah, you'll understand in a century or two."
A ripple of distorted space heralded the frozen Queen's arrival, appearing from nowhere with amusement on her lips and a barely hidden challenge to her words. The serpent in his sleeve hissed and he took the time to reply to it before her, enjoying how her expression twitched at the snub, or perhaps at her lack of understanding. Even among the inhuman, his ability remained special.
Voldemort's brow darkened as he contemplated his… ally. He did not like the word; it implied that they were somehow equal. Yet, he could not reasonably claim that she was subservient to him, as regrettable as that might be. "Ally" would have to do for now.
"Your plain failed. Again." His tone was a dangerous thing and brought to mind ominous stormclouds and weeks of mourning.
"Well, what did you expect? The girl is powerful, and I can hardly lend you all my strength. It should have offered a significant advantage. If you failed to seize it, I don't see why that is my problem to resolve."
A low hiss escaped Voldemort's throat, and his hand twitched involuntarily toward his wand. His words came as a growl.
"You implied your contribution would be considerably more useful than it was. Perhaps if you had not overestimated your own capabilities I would not have… failed, as you put it."
A haughty sniff. "No matter. I have complete faith in your eventual victory. Patience, as I said, is necessary for the long-lived."
"Patience," Voldemort said, nodding. He contemplated separating the layers of his ally's skin with an iron blade over the course of several days and found the idea quite agreeable. "Perhaps."
"In any case, it matters little. Your conflict with her makes for a suitable distraction, at least, but it is clear it will not resolve itself within a reasonable time. As such, I will have to temporarily withdraw my blessing, as I will require the furthest extent of my power in the coming months."
Heavily sarcastic, Voldemort said, "What, exactly, is of such importance to justify undermining out alliance so soon after forming it? You were just expounding on the value of long-term thinking."
Maeve, High Queen of Winter, laughed and flicked her wavy crimson hair aside. Her beauty, which she adored and he disdained, was ever so slightly marred by weary bags beneath her eyes. Clearly being without the ring for so long had cost the fae, and Voldemort took savage pleasure in the sight. Volcanic hatred surged within, a predator's instinct to strike in her weakness, to betray her before she betrayed him—but no; he was the master of his hatred, not the slave of it, and he would betray her only when he saw fit. And when he did it would be at the height of her power, and he would truly prove himself above her. Patience, as she said. He smiled at her, so viciously that it wasn't even a lie.
Looking away from him, as if he could be dismissed as easily as one of her soulless minions, Maeve finally responded in a tone devoid of any appropriate seriousness. "I have seen fit to invite our mutual associate on an expedition into the treacherous reaches of the Wyld likely to extend for weeks or months. If nothing else, she will be unable to interfere with your plans for much of the summer—and, should I see the opportunity… well, perhaps the problem will be resolved then and there."
"The girl is mine."
"Then take her. You have until summer arrives. If your power is truly so great, surely you don't require the blessing of the humble fae." She held out a hand. "My ring?"
Slowly, Voldemort began to work the crescent ring off his long finger. It shivered with latent magic, one that continued to elude him. Oh, it had fulfilled its promise well enough, blunting the girl's accursed faerie magic, and delivering the Queen's pre-shaped curse, but it was capable of so much more, he knew. If he could just masterit, wield the Queen's very power against her—but no. Later, perhaps, but not now.
"As you wish," he said, holding out the ring, still several paces away from her. Maeve sighed and flicked her hair but flounced over and snatched the ring. She let out a lovely sigh as her fingers clenched over it, and when they opened the ring was gone and her eyes were once more bright. She gave him a beatific, condescending smile.
In a blink, he crossed the distance between them, his pale fingers curling around her neck. Slender, beautiful, pale. Fragile. He squeezed.
Once, he had found his physical strength insufficient, and the girl had escaped him, with only a painful recovery to show for it. He had been weak, taking pleasure in the humanity of his body and forgetting the great truth, that to fail to seize power was tantamount to weakness. But now he had ensured that mistake would never be made again. No frail, fair thing—Potter or the true fae—would slip his grip. A little more gauntness to his form, some waxiness to the skin. For power, no price was too high.
Frost stung his fingertips, even as the treacherous thing's lovely smile broadened. She contorted herself, pressing her body against his. Such proximity was loathsome, but to withdraw would be granting her a victory, so he merely tightened his grasp. "One day," he hissed in her ear, "we shall have a reckoning."
She shuddered against him, though, alas, he rather doubted it was from fear. "Oh," she purred. "I do love a violent man."
With a sneer, he shoved her back, and looked to the horizon. It was as empty as anywhere else. "Where have you brought me? You had best have a convincing explanation for marooning me here for an hour or more, because if it was for your feebleminded amusement, I must warn you that my own humor is notoriously sadistic."
"I do nothing without good reason." She broke into a sharp, wild laugh that was gone as quickly as it came. "Amusement, most of all. But no. We are here to illustrate a point. Look around you."
"I see nothing but a lifeless waste, beyond even the usual standards of your realm."
"Look beyond, Broken One."
Voldemort's hand flexed against his will, stilled only with effort. How she had sensed the state of his soul mattered not. The knowledge would die with her the same. With a sigh, he turned about, assessing the land with a closer eye. Dry snow squeaked beneath his feet. A whisper of something drifted through the air, foreign in a way he had previously thought part of Winter but now seemed strangely… apart. Alien among aliens.
"Explain, Maeve. I tire of your games."
"We stand upon the precipice," she replied, an odd, almost worshipful tone entering her voice. "Between Winter and that which stands beyond. The sky is dark—you see, do you not?"
"I see."
"The stars, the sun, the moon—in the Wyld all are conceptual; living paintings upon a dome encapsulating all. They are in every way unlike the endless heavens of your world. Our sun shines for your sun's name, not its fire."
"Your riddles are purposeless and devoid of meaning."
"Perhaps." Her eyes shone a brilliant blue, reflecting an absent sky. "But if Summer and Winter are the reflected dream of your world, then what gave rise to the void lands surrounding them?"
"If they are empty, it matters not."
She blinked, slowly. "I suppose I should have expected nothing else from you. Very well. You may go."
Again, Voldemort's hand clenched. He stepped forward and locked his eyes with Maeve's, lashing at her with Legilimency. She struck back with equal bite, neither of them allowing so much as a twitch despite the sudden but vicious mental battle. Keeping his voice perfectly level, he said, "How kind of you to permit me to leave. Yet I fear you may be addled. These lands are hardly part of your… court. Do you expect me to travel on footto where I can finally leave this wretched place?"
"Not quite." Maeve turned away, the intangible duel finally breaking. Voldemort curled his lip. None could match his will.
"You see," Maeve said, extending an index finger at head level. A bright red spark was born at its tip, an infinitely small point that glowed with aching power. "You were wrong. There is purpose to this place."
Slowly, she dragged her finger down, leaving behind a red streak so vivid that it strained even his inhuman sight. Once she brought it to the ground she rose from her crouch and reached out, parting one side of the line like a cloth. The world distorted around it, as if she were folding it away, and in the rent was the very same patch of forest he had used to travel here in the first place. His eyes narrowed.
She bowed, indicating the rift. "As you can see, there are advantages to a place where what is known is not always true."
He scoffed and brushed past her, but he was calculating now. Interested. Maeve was a fool; his interest was a terrible thing.
As he paused to consider the portal, Maeve broke the silence.
"There is but one more thing. I trust that you fully recall your end of our pact?"
Voldemort turned. Finally allowing the deepest depths of his contempt to drip from his tongue, he said, "Of course. As agreed, I will bring an ultimate conclusion to your… family matter."
With that he stepped through the portal, felt the eerie magic of worlds rushing by, settling on solid ground. Bellatrix, her flowing hair still burnt short after her duel with her cousin, raised her head.
"My Lord, you have returned," she breathed. "My guard has not wavered."
"You serve me well," Voldemort murmured. "Your arm?"
"My Lord."
Minutes later, a symphony of cracks heralded the arrival of his Inner Circle, arrayed in a semicircle. He slid his gaze from one to the next.
"We wait no longer," he said. "We will not allow our enemy to gather themselves. No more subterfuge. No more probing attacks, no more skirmishes. Potter plots with Scrimgeour as we speak. They burn what we create. It is time for the Ministry to fall."
AN: I just wanted to mention again that I am thrilled to have such support for this story. I never imagined it would reach as wide an audience as it has. Recent updates have been farther between than I would like, but rest assured I remain committed to seeing Sleet and Hail to its end. Thanks!