Jests aside, Violet had not planned for this. Tease Fleur, certainly. Tally another Death Eater or two, maybe. Actually commit this… sacrilege? Satria would be unbearable if she caught even the faintest whiff of last night's events. At least Violet wasn't the only one embarrassed.
"You don't get it, Fleur, I slept with a Hogwarts student! How old even is she?"
"She eez 'ardly the only younger witch een your life. Face it: you 'ave a type."
"What? Fleur, that's not the same—"
At least you didn't fuck an eternal enemy of your Court—Merlin, what happened? Some sort of alcohol-fueled glamour feedback loop, it must have been. Aloud, Violet said, "I can hear you, you know. It's a bloody shower curtain, not a veil of secrecy." She yanked it open, smirking as Bill tried to find anywhere else to look. "And forgive me for interrupting your self-flagellation session. If I knew you went for that sort of thing, last night could have been really interesting. So just to summarize: innocent girl, taken advantage of, blah blah blah. My poor heart is broken. I am overcome with regret."
She paused.
"Oh wait, that's all horseshit. Now, if you'll excuse me, I took a prisoner last night and I figure by now the Unspeakables will be finished interviewing him. I've always wanted to try Haruspicy with a human subject—that's Divination by ritualistic extraction of the still-living entrails, for the plebeians in the room. Then I figure I'll have time for a dramatic crisis of self-worth as I come to terms with my 'lost innocence'—I've spent enough time around Lavender and Parvati to know that's practically an art form—before my next date with Lord fucking Voldemort. At which point I will hopefully chop off his limbs, seal him somewhere dark and damp, and proceed to find it all very, very funny."
Violet stepped out of the shower, water splattering on the hardwood bathroom floor. She slid her hands around Fleur's neck and kissed her, nipping her lower lip until she drew a whimper. Water turned to steam as they embraced, drying her better than any towel and more pleasantly than a spell. Violet grinned.
"We should do this again sometime. You can even invite Bill if he gets over himself."
Violet was kind of a fan of sacrilege.
~#~
The following days passed in a blur. The weeks after those, a haze.
The fire of war spread across the land like a stain of blood. Never had Violet fought for so long, so frequently. She had never imagined she would tire of combat.
Dirty sleet rained down, churning the earth into a clammy paste. The weather had been abominable for over a week, and even Violet found herself wishing for a glimpse of sun.
She tapped her foot against the mud. Evergreen boughs overhead rattled as the half-frozen water deflected away, but the cool mist drifting about her ensured a low permeation of dampness. One of her two companions, tall men well-suited for the imposing uniforms of the freshly founded Department of Magical War, held a silver pocketwatch up so she could see. He counted down on his fingers as well. Three. Two. One. He clenched his fist. The Elder Wand slipped from her sleeve. She closed her eyes, opened her sight to the future, and leveled the Wand.
Dissoluti Lux!
Golden light scythed outward in a thirty degree arc. An instant later, a series of cracks sounded, dark shadows materializing in the light. After that, the screams began.
Four figures had Apparated in, wands already raised to cast Fiendfyre toward the nearby forest. These bizarre attacks against unpopulated bits of geography had begun a few weeks ago, and at first everyone had been baffled as to their purpose. Scrimgeour had theorized that the latest crop of not-quite-Death-Eaters preferred to get their kicks burning things that didn't curse back.
But when the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes reported they had no one left to send and it sank in that the only other Ministry departments capable of controlling Fiendfyre were the Aurors and Unspeakables, Voldemort's plan became clear. It took only seconds to release Fiendfyre, far too little for a counterattack to be arranged, and the pressure on the Ministry was starting to mount. Random, dangerously public attacks on muggles wore down the already overworked Obliviator Headquarters as well, and more than one Obliviator had met their death at the wand of a prospective Death Eater recruit fancying Ministry prey. Obliviators weren't soldiers. If something wasn't done to stop the bleeding, they might refuse to work entirely, and if the fighting forces had to pick up the slack for that too…
Well, we'd be properly buggered, wouldn't we?
Dancing shadows cut through the shining light, limbs thrashing as flesh blackened. One alone remained standing, a wall of conjured stone warding off the light. A streak of red darted over the barrier, curving back down like an arrow and pulverizing the earth, nowhere near Violet. Whoever was behind that wall couldn't see a thing, but they gave away their position almost perfectly.
Coniectum!
A swirl of white streaks darted from Violet's wand, soaring to the sky before descending. They ricocheted wildly in every direction, deflected by an unseen shield, but they were followed with fiery Blasting Curses laced with Winter's disdain, erupting behind the wall and filling the air with the whine of frozen shrapnel. Still she maintained her killing light, pinning her target in place.
A dark shape jumped from behind the wall, rolling away from the light. With less than a second of exposure and their heavy robes, they were able to regain their feet, the lone mask of a true Death Eater reflecting eerie fragments of gold. He thrust his wand forward but stumbled on a leg decaying under the blight of frozen shards and fell to a knee, the curse splashing on the ground. Finally.
Violet's other companion, without the watch, surged forward, flinging curses at the beleaguered Death Eater. She let out a sigh, stepping back and allowing him to take the lead. A set of crossed wands was tattooed onto the back of his neck, suggesting anger both in its design and in the red ink that seemed unaffected by time. She'd dueled a man with a similar tattoo once, back in her Valentina days. It was the symbol of a free mercenary company somewhere in Eastern Europe, if she recalled correctly. Scrimgeour had cast a wide net indeed.
A silver flash darted across the night, finally piercing the Death Eaters guard and sending him sprawling, a mist of blood bursting outward behind him. "Fuck you," the mercenary shouted through a heavy accent. "My blood's filthy, is it? Crucio! Will bet I have spilled purer blood than yours!"
"Alive!" the Unspeakable snapped—technically a soldier now, but Violet could see his true robes around him in every way but the physical. "You can forget your gold if he dies."
The mercenary snorted. "Fine." The Death Eater slumped into the damp grass, convulsing. "Behold, the finest of wizards. Don't look like much once he's down in the dirt."
"Most eloquent," the Unspeakable said. It was impossible to tell if he was being sarcastic. "You may leave. The mission no longer matches your highly diverse field of expertise."
The mercenary snapped off an unorthodox salute that looked suspiciously like an offensive gesture and winked at Violet. "Not bad, girl. You want to dance, you call me anytime."
She grinned tiredly, flicking a wet strand of hair out of her eye. "I'll do that. Always a pleasure to work with a dead man."
"Ha!" he exclaimed and twisted, tapping the back of his neck. "You know us? The Dead Men?"
"Death or glory—"
"And we're already dead!" He let out a bellowing laugh and grabbed her hand, shaking it vigorously. "You are already most interesting thing I see in this country."
"If we are quite finished?" the Unspeakable said with undisguised irritation, standing over the Death Eater.
"Yes, yes, sir." He 'saluted' again, chuckled, and Disapparated. Violet shook her head, smiling.
"Will he live?" she asked the Unspeakable.
"Long enough."
Violet nodded, walking over and crouching near the fallen man. Frantically blinking eyes gazed up at her through the mask's carved slits, a fresh pulse of dark blood rising from the man's chest with each breath. Violet raised the Elder Wand.
Legilimens!
A whirlwind of thoughts and memories flooded through Violet, deftly parsed, assessed for usefulness, and discarded if not. The Death Eater was in no position to resist, his resignment to death apparent in every fragment of his being. Minutes later, she returned to herself, suppressing a surprised start at the proximity of the Unspeakable, who was watching her with disconcerting interest. "Insightful?" he asked.
"Somewhat." Violet flicked her wand, and the Death Eater slipped away under the Killing Curse. "Besides these three, he had another twelve fighters under his direct command—none of them actual Death Eaters, of course. Trash off the streets of Europe, mostly. The pitch is pretty simple: 'Here's some gold, here's how to cast Fiendfyre.' And then you hope they have the brains to Apparate out before they lose control of it. It's almost not worth hunting them down."
"But you have their names?"
"Of course," Violet sighed. "Just like last time. At least that led to this prick. No more Death Eaters this time, just fodder."
He nodded. "Unfortunate, but not unexpected. If you write up those names and anything else of use, I'll see the paper gets pushed where it needs to go. No need for you to waste your time on that. And if we do receive intelligence on a worthwhile target—"
"I'll be ready, yes." She made a sound in the back of her throat rather like an annoyed cat. "You may have to queue in line, though. I'm not sure if you're aware, but I'm a popular girl lately. I'd like to think it's because of how I look, but I'm starting to think you all only want me for my talents."
"I beg your pardon?"
She rolled her eyes. For all their vaunted intellectualism, she'd not yet found a joke that didn't fly straight over an Unspeakable's head. "Don't worry about it. I'm leaving now. You know how to contact me. Please don't."
The Unspeakable nodded sharply, and Violet stepped sideways to nowhere.
~#~
It shouldn't have been like this. Voldemort pressed and pressed, a dull, grinding pressure that did not lessen or abate, but that alone should have been bearable across the forces arrayed against him. But the Order was in disarray. The attack on Grimmauld Place had shocked them, leaving them fearful and overcautious. In their first meeting after the attack, Moody announced that Snape was guilty of sabotaging the wards, and the two had dueled before Snape fled into the night. The revelation that one of their own had betrayed them—again—only fractured the Order further. Moody's logic was impossible to argue with; Voldemort could not have planned it better.
Violet had been at that meeting, and it would have been the simplest thing in the world to strike Snape down as he dueled Moody. But something had stayed her hand. Some doubt, some uncertainty that the truth could be so simple. Perhaps it was a mistake. If so, it would not be her first since this war began. Perhaps it didn't matter. The Order of the Phoenix was broken, licking its wounds. Perhaps they would rise again, but not today.
And so it fell to the Ministry to fight, and to Violet.
The foggy spires of Hogwarts cut as inspiring an outline as ever. To see the absence of its headmaster, one had to look to those who dwelled within. It was not just apprehension at the loss of his protection. Hogwarts's heart was gone.
Snow still rested on the grounds, stubborn in the face of spring. Icicles slowly wept clear droplets but refused to vanish entirely. She was no Dumbledore. The emotions stirred by her presence were not of the noble standard he had set. But she had agreed to protect Hogwarts as he once had, and so long as she breathed the castle would not fall.
The Great Hall was empty except for a few ghosts floating about its artificial sky, enjoying one of the few pleasures left to the restless dead. Violet watched them, in this regard slightly envious. Broomsticks weren't for her, but she'd always thought it would be nice to fly with wings of her own.
She conjured the misty hands of a clock and cursed. She'd hoped to relax for a spell, perhaps speak with Satria about something delightfully frivolous, but the fifth-years's Defense class should have started five minutes ago. The temptation to skive off was nearly overwhelming, and so far she'd managed to hold every class when she wasn't outright away on war matters. It wouldn't be so bad to miss one.
Ah, but Dumbledore would want her to do it. He would have worked day and night if it meant even a single student learned something that might save their life. Violet huffed, slashing through the clock with the wand of Dumbledore's old friend. The Elder Wand was not fit for trivialities.
Her fingers lingered on the smooth wood before she stowed it. She should have asked Dumbledore who its former owner was while she had the chance. If Dumbledore had kept his wand for so long, he must have been terribly important to him.
Breaking her introspection, she stalked away. The halls and spires of Hogwarts seemed to conspire to bring her swiftly to her destination—as it was wont to do since she resolved to pick up Dumbledore's aegis. Arriving at the Defense classroom, she swung open the door and swept in, dropping the severely cut black robes she wore when an impression of strength was required. Good fashion, a necessity for a dance floor or battlefield. Dumbledore had disagreed, of course.
The assembled students hushed at her entry, an optimistic few dropping back into their seats, hopes of a free period spoiled. She stretched, working out some of the stiffness accumulated over an hour crouching in underbrush. There were always multiple possible windows for the nuisance attacks, when they were scheduled at all, requiring a great deal of patience even with perfect intelligence.
"Good—" Violet peered out the window. "Afternoon. I'd say I'm sorry for being late, but I don't really care."
She walked over to her desk and flipped through the lesson plans McGonagall had provided for this week. Parchment in hand, she looked to the class, the plans, and back, then slowly set them down.
"Oh, who are we trying to fool, anyway?" she said.
The class looked back at her. Even with all four houses combined, it seemed small. The death of Dumbledore had shaken confidence in the safety of Hogwarts. For others, the decision not to return had more obvious motivations.
Malfoy, along with what felt like half the Slytherins fifth-year and above, made the most noticeable absence, and it took no effort to guess where they were now. But other students were missing too, each empty seat a testament to what Dumbledore had meant to the Wizarding world.
Violet shook her head ruefully. "I mean, what are we doing? These classes, all of you lining up in your seats and me up here like it's just another fucking day of life at Hogwarts—" Violet threw her arms up. "It's just stupid. I'm not a professor. It was one thing when Dumbledore was teaching too, but this? It's an absolute joke for me to be standing here going through this shit." She jabbed a finger at the lesson plans.
"What's Defense Against the Dark Arts meant to be, eh? And is it different now that there's a war on? Is it an academic field? Is it pre-training for the Department of War? Do you want to last ten seconds against a Death Eater instead of just five? Merlin, I don't know if they're even going to hold O.W.L.s this year. Why are we here? Why are you here?"
"Well?" she demanded when the only response was an array of slightly shocked stares. "That wasn't a rhetorical question. Ron," she said, pointing with her finger, "why are you here?"
"Uh." Ron coughed into his sleeve, looking a bit uncomfortable to be suddenly on the spot. "I, uh, I want to fight. If you'll still teach me."
"Good. Noted." Violet pointed again, to Dean Thomas. "You?"
"Same as Ron."
Violet nodded. "Fay?"
The slight, quiet girl, Violet's sole roommate since Lavender and Granger joined Parvati in leaving Hogwarts, snapped to attention, eyes wide. In a voice barely more than a whisper she said, "I just want to know what's out there. And I can't just run away."
"Thank you," Violet said. "And the rest of you? You're all still here; why? Think about it. Decide. I'm going to talk to McGonagall. She'll find someone to run through these lessons for anyone who's just interested in Defense Against the Dark Arts, the academic subject. For anyone else?" A vicious smile broke out across her face. "I think it's time we finished our dueling tournament."
She turned away, picking up her discarded robe, then looked back. "Well?" she said, shrugging. "You can go. Class fucking dismissed."
Clattering footsteps pursued Violet as she took a spiral stairway down from the classroom, her robe bunched under her arm. "Hello, Tracey," she muttered without turning around.
The steps stopped. "How'd you know it was me?" Tracey said.
"Your gait is uniquely energetic," Violet replied dryly.
Tracey squinted. "Was that a compliment? I'm going to pretend it was. We haven't had a chance to talk for just ages. I love your work with the Ministry. Father says it's like poetry."
Violet blinked. She was pretty sure Tracey was the first person to express a positive opinion of Scrimgeour's power grab that wasn't obviously motivated by fear. "Thanks," she said, slightly bemused. "It was a long time in the making. Nice to have someone appreciate it."
"It's my pleasure," Tracey said. "Just remember little ol' me in a few years when you have a cushy Ministry position waiting to be filled, yeah?"
"Why Tracey," Violet said, "I do believe something like that could be arranged."
"Lovely. I hate doing actual work." Abruptly, Tracey leaned in close, putting a hand on the wall and blocking the way forward with her arm. Violet raised an eyebrow.
"You have a new scar," Tracey declared.
"I do?" Violet tapped her wand against the castle wall, smoothing it like glass, and tilted her head from side to side. Sure enough, a thin white line curved from her neck to the top of her collarbone. She sighed. "Debris from a Blasting Curse, probably." She slid a finger along it. She hadn't even noticed the injury, and it had likely healed in minutes. Still, before these last weeks, the idea that there could be a mark on her body she didn't know the origin of would have been laughable.
"It will fade in time."
Tracey frowned. "Still. Being you must be, like, a lot of work, yeah?"
Violet laughed. "You could say that, yes."
Tracey contemplated that for a moment. "That's shit. You need a break."
Violet made a point of looking this way and that, as if to point out that she was not in fact presently beset by the enemy. Tracey made a contemptuous noise and grabbed Violet's hand, leading her in a different direction with sudden purpose. "Hogwarts," she said, "does not count. As much as I'm looking forward to finally getting to win that tournament, I'd go crackers if I had to actually teach us. Haven't you ever heard of fun?"
"Of course. Are you referring to murder or sex?"
Tracey stopped, gave Violet a look, and laughed. "You're weird. Come on, let's get out of this drafty ol' pile of rocks. I'm going to educate you."
In the end, Violet put up very little resistance. While she really ought to talk to McGonagall, it could wait, surely. She found herself rather curious what Tracey considered fun.
~#~
"Courageous members of the Wizengamot, I begin my decree," said Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister of Magic and supreme commander of the Department of Magical War. He stood on his central podium, offering a fearsome gaze to any challenger. On both sides he was flanked by uniformed figures drenched in ominous authority. Metal gleamed, and satin red seemed to swallow the light. Layers of gauzy fabric, black, covered their faces from the nose down, and voluminous hoods betrayed the origins of the force's core as the halls of the Unspeakables.
"The enemy acts recklessly, lashing out like a fearful animal. In a show of strength, they betray their own weakness. Such a pace is unmaintainable. Honored members of the Wizengamot, we are winning."
Frenetic applause erupted from the Wizengamot, stilled by Rufus's raised hand. This whole display was utter nonsense, and the Wizengamot knew it as well as he did. They were not winning. The very best that could be said was that the relentless tide of Voldemort and his forces had not yet overwhelmed all resistance. The first war seemed a minor disagreement compared to this. Little could be worse than an enemy who learned from past mistakes.
Fiendfyre released at random across the country, requiring painstaking effort to bring under control at virtually no cost to the enemy; constant nuisance attacks against muggles, forcing additional resources to be directed to the Obliviators at the cost of other critical departments; useless reports flooding in from doddering grandmothers certain they'd seen Bellatrix Lestrange peering through their window—and maybe she was. To not respond would look weak, while wasting personnel on them was itself weakening. Somewhere along the line, Voldemort had got clever.
And then, when he truly struck, it was out of nowhere, just another report among hundreds. No, they were not winning.
"It is through the heroism of the common witch and wizard that the dark is held at bay!" More lies: it was Violet Potter's boundless ferocity and the disturbing practices of the Unspeakables that held the line, and darkness was certainly not limited to the enemy. He continued, voice trembling with restrained power. "This courage must be encouraged by the policy of government. If the enemy wishes to wage war like an animal, we we shall grant them what they seek."
He pulled his features into a snarl, radiating the fury that the papers yearned for. He drew sheets of parchment from his robes and brandished them high overhead. Precise black lettering covered them, consisting entirely of nonsense Latin. "Let it be known that there can be no redemption for those who accept the Dark Mark. Let it be known that even those who feign reform, who beg for mercy, hold treachery in their hearts. Let it be known that on the ninth day of April the man known as Severus Snape, a man entrusted with our very children, fled in cowardice from the righteous warriors of Britain, thus demonstrating his guilt. It was by his treachery that many gallant guardians against the dark perished. Likely, it was by his treachery that Albus Dumbledore himself fell!"
More applause, this time more heartfelt. Dumbledore had garnered loyalty the Ministry never could. And while Rufus had not the faintest idea whether Snape had been involved in Dumbledore's death, he would happily use that loyalty for his own ends. He threw the papers to the floor and ground them under his boot. His voice dropped to a rich growl. "Enough, I say. Enough of our mercy being turned against us? What say you, honored Wizengamot?"
"Enough!" shouted countless voices, the word thundering through the stone chamber in echoing response to itself. Rufus nodded.
"It is enough. The enemy uses our better nature against us. They think us fettered by law and inhibition. They think us weak. Tonight, you shall ratify legislation declaring anyone bearing the Dark Mark as outside the law. May theirs be wolfish heads."
Silence spread through the Wizengamot like a plague. Though it was an archaic judgment last seen centuries ago, everyone there understood what Rufus was demanding. He described it anyway, in a tone grim and pitiless.
"Once this legislation is passed, those stained by the Dark Mark will be considered beyond the law. No rights or protections will be afforded to them. Any good citizen will be free to persecute them as they see fit without fear of penalty by the Ministry. No act against them shall be considered criminal, save for offering them sanctuary or relief. The time for half measures is long past."
His remarks finished, Rufus released an inaudible breath as he stepped back on the podium, nodded once, and departed. Ranks of his personal guard closed around him as the great doors swung shut on the silent and contemplative Wizengamot.
~#~
Potter's power was nearly as great as the Dark Lord's. Bellatrix could admit that.
Three times Bellatrix had struck at her, and three times she had failed. First, the duel on Halloween, where she had first witnessed Potter's magnificent viciousness. Second, the explosive potion in the Atrium—messy, but still the closest she had come to success. Third, hemlock seasoning her meat, courtesy of an addled House-elf. Potter hadn't even noticed. Was she immune to poison? It would be typical. Death itself seemed to shy away from her.
It had been imperative to be careful, subtle, such that Potter would not realize it was her being targeted, not anyone around her. But now, Bellatrix was suspecting that not even surprise would be enough. On multiple occasions, Potter had demonstrated preturnatural reactions beyond anything Bellatrix had seen before. Duelist's Precognition alone could not explain it, but then, it had been clear that Potter's magic was anything but normal from the first curse she cast. Even if Potter had no knowledge of the threat to her, she would react the moment before Bellatrix struck. No, surprise alone would not suffice.
That was all right. No one, not even Potter, perhaps not even the Dark Lord, was without weaknesses. And there was nothing Bellatrix excelled more at more than finding them, picking away at an iron resolve until a crease became a chasm of rust, and madness rushed in. Knowing the future before it happened was one thing. Taking the time to consider it was another.
Potter took pains to present herself as something hollow, a bleak, frozen edifice that believed in nothing but power. Even in Hogwarts, what friendliness she did show so was a token effort; a lie. If, that was, the word of Draco could be believed, and given his recent turbulent moods that was anything but certain. But it seemed true enough: except when she had reason to act otherwise, Potter acted like a heartless beast content to carve a lonely path through the world.
But Potter was not in Hogwarts now. And she was anything but alone.
Now was not the time, no, no. There would be only one chance at this, and it would take preparation. Bellatrix would put on a play for an audience of one, and the only applause she sought was her Lord's. The details would come, but the scene was perfect. Bellatrix had only to wait, though her heart fluttered with impatience.
Violet Potter's death drew near. For her Lord, in all his terrible glory, it would be done.
Bellatrix gave a cheery wave toward Potter and her friend, all while the true owner of her unfamiliar body howled endlessly inside her own imprisoned mind.
AN: Thanks as always for reading and leaving reviews. What do you all think of the new cover picture? If you like it, I have the full image and a number of other characters depicted on my discord server.
discord . gg / HfyNqfMqfJ