Clever is the man who bends a monster to his will, thought the weary Minister. How clever do you feel now that she is dead and all the lies you built atop her burn as her pyre?

It would all come apart, soon. Every week the casualties came in, along with a report on the Department of Magical War's recruitment efforts. Once, Scrimgeour could still remember, the latter had dwarfed the former. But now the recruits grew fewer, the losses greater. There was already a sense in the Ministry that it was all over, that the only reason they were allowed to go about their business was because they were no longer a meaningful threat. The attitude sickened him.

But even Scrimgeour had run out of excuses. For the public, for the press, for the Wizengamot, for himself. His own appointees, chosen for their loyalty above all else, were cutting deals behind his back with the enemy. The Ministry was more rotten now than it had been before the purge, but that had been possible only with the implicit threat of his monster. And now he stood truly alone, in supreme command of the Ministry of Magic but powerless to wield it. Because the power had never really been his, and only now did he realize who had puppeted whom.

Voldemort was claiming Violet Potter, champion of the Ministry, Savior of Britain, to be dead. And she wasn't around to disagree.

Damn the Unspeakables and their deranged experiments.

Even now, he did not understand precisely where Potter had gone to meet her death, but it could not have been at Voldemort's hand or her corpse would have been displayed as Dumbledore's was. On the other hand, the Dark Lord's confidence in proclaiming her death did suggest he knew more about the matter than Scrimgeour. Not that that was difficult. All he could say was that Potter had set off on some sort of ill-timed personal venture and that Olen Toft had known something about it. The words Cold Room had been mentioned, and he was familiar enough with matters of state to recognize a secret program's codename when he heard it, but no amount of prying had loosened a single pair of Unspeakable lips.

It galled him that the Unspeakables dared defy him so—he should have crushed them long ago as he would have any other Ministry Department for the slightest suggestion of mutiny, but the clandestine competency they had offered him had stayed his hand. Now, with Potter gone, the unchecked power the Department of Mysteries had gained was catastrophic. So far, they still followed his commands—so long as he was careful what he asked of them—but if he pushed them far enough, his position was far too vulnerable to resist a coup that would inevitably find support from a dangerous number of the Ministry's fighting witches and wizards. The Department of Mysteries had far too many connections in far too many places. He should never have relied on them so heavily. Now, with Department of Magical War essentially an extension of Mysteries and the Aurors and Hit Wizards rolled into it, Scrimgeour was certain of only his personal guards' loyalty.

And so, as he had once depended on Potter, he now made use of the Department of Mysteries to hold his war together. But a poor substitute they were. Most Unspeakables had little taste for the peril of combat, preferring to strike obliquely with esoteric magic and to wield cutthroats and mercenaries from a safe distance. But the Ministry's coffers were nearly dry, and whatever new dark sorceries the Unspeakables devised, they could never compare to the horrific magical creativity and cunning of the Dark Lord.

It all came back to that. Even if the Ministry were to reverse the initiative of the war, it would mean nothing unless they could devise a way to halt Voldemort himself.

A quick knock at his office door echoed dully. Scrimgeor rubbed his bad leg. "Enter."

The door opened. A grizzled, bearded man who wore his black sash with greater pride than his red robes entered. The head of Scrimgeour's personal security detail dipped his head briefly. "Minister."

Scrimgeour crumpled up the memo he had been pretending to read and stood. "Is something the matter?"

"Possibly, sir. We're hearing reports of a … disturbance in the Atrium. The interdepartmental Floo Network seems to be down as well. I sent someone to investigate, but I'd feel more comfortable relocating you to a secure location until we have a better picture of the situation."

"A disturbance," Scrimgeour mimicked. "Probably just another jumper."

"In any case, Minister," said the head of security, "we should—"

A low, long rumble shook the floor. One of the off-gray panels in the ceiling loosened and fell, thumping on the carpeted floor. A thin cloud of dust billowed, making Scrimgeour cough.

Finally.

"Come with me, Minister," said the security head, very calmly. "You can take command from the tunnels."

Scrimgeour made no response. The withering weight upon his shoulders that had slowly grown unbearable now lifted. His leg seemed to ache less than it had just moments ago. It was easy to see now that he should never have tried to be anything but an Auror. But he could be so one last time.

Almost lazily, he scrawled a quick note on the back of the memo he had been reading, ignoring the increasingly passionate imploring of his head of security to flee. The pleas fell on deaf ears. Scrimgeour did not love life so much to scrounge for a few last, desperate hours spent cowering in a hole like a rat.

Another, stronger rumble shook the floor beneath his feet. He could feel his lips draw back into a bitter snarl.

"No," said Scrimgeour called out to his security team. "You come with me. All of you! Or did you really think it wouldn't end this way?"

The rest of the force filed into the office. Eight strong, they had been initially drawn exclusively from the ranks of senior Aurors, and with the attrition their front-line associates had faced, they were likely the best duelists still loyal to the Ministry.

It was the youngest of the detail who responded, and the sole witch. She had replaced one of Aurors killed in the Imperius attack on Scrimgeour. She was related to him—second niece, or some such—and looked achingly young among the grizzled veterans. "We're with you, sir. Till the end."

Sir. Not Minister. A redemption by blood.

Scrimgeour drew his wand. "Peters, take point. Svein, next to me. The rest of you hold the flanks. It'll be tight fighting in the corridors, but mayhem in the Atrium. Remember, anyone not wearing a sash could be an enemy. Let's make sure some of those sons of bitches don't live to enjoy their victory."

There were no cries of approval or gestures of bravado. These weren't the hastily recruited dross lulled by propaganda and promises of glory. Everyone here was a professional.

"Move. Not you, Marcus," Scrimgeour added, holding back his head of security while the others filed out. "You have another task. You know the one."

He drew to painfully sharp attention and nodded once. "It will be done, sir. And, if I might say … in our nation's history, there cannot have been a Minister so fine."

Scrimgeour barked out a laugh. "I doubt that. But I'll be the last, at any rate."

They parted ways then, Scrimgeour and the security team heading upward and Marcus down, down to the Department of Mysteries and Scrimgeour's welcoming gift for the Dark Lord's new government.

Potter wasn't our only monster, you bloody bastard.

~#~

It was chaos in the corridors, choking black smoke defying Ventilation Charms, the screams of panicking civilians hammering a migraine into Scrimgeour's skull. But they did run across three Aurors he trusted well enough to fight alongside and, now a force of eleven, they entered the chaos of the Atrium.

Flashes of spellcasting lit up the rolling clouds of smoke that obscured the vast room, filled with indistinguishable shapes flickering in and out of view. The first Death Eater to cross the path of the Minister of Magic died instantly under eleven coordinated Killing Curses, some deliberately cast on either side of him to ensure no sidestep would preserve him from death. At Scrimgeour's command, they stuck to the perimeter of the chamber to avoid being taken from behind in the Atrium's hazy center. Others had congregated there as well, mainly civilians seeking what meager protection they could find, but also two boyish representatives of Voldemort's more disposable forces—the so called "Dark Patches"—who seemed to have decided the game of war was not for them after all and thought to pass themselves off as innocents.

Scrimgeour killed one of them with a flash of merciful green, but the other was less lucky. His niece tore off his arms and legs, then dragged his intestines out of his burst stomach and back into his mouth before his death finally came. On her face was a hatred almost wooden, as if she could not believe what she had done.

Ah. She found her husband killed that way, didn't she? Undisciplined. Well, it doesn't matter now. We all deserve a little vengeance before the end.

"Front!" someone barked. "Avada Kedavra!"

Another enemy fell, but a storm of curses descended on them in response. In turn, quickly conjured shields interlocked in formation and screens of whirling sand rose to defeat both conventional curses and Unforgivables. Simultaneously, from the side, a crescent of silver slashed out of the darkness. But the old Auror who it was meant for reacted with the characteristically preternatural reflexes of a wizard who had survived more duels than most and deflected it with a disc of dense bronze light.

"Expulso!" Scrimgeour snarled, arcing the angry blue curse around a friendly to detonate against the shield of one of the attackers. A brilliant spot of white-blue flashed, and his ears popped with the shock. "Percutio! Reducto!"

The enemy formation emerged from the smoke, seven in number. Intricate masks obscured their features, and they fought with no less coordination and skill than Scimgeour's Aurors. Real Death Eaters, then. Good. Their deaths will matter.

Before he could take a breath, curses were flying between the two lines, ricocheting off shields, splintering wood, searing the air. A superheated globule of gold taken from one of the Atrium's statues crushed the shield of Cedwin—an old friend since Scrimgeour's first days in red—and crashed into his chest, seeming almost to make him explode as his robes turned to flame and his flesh boiled and popped.

A Killing Curse burst against the swirling sand surrounding Scrimgeour, close enough that he could feel the heat of its green fire, but he paid it no heed at all. The Death Eater who killed Cedwin had stepped forward from his comrades to do it—and though they too had all manner of levitated debris surrounding them to ward off Unforgivable Curses, he had left the densest area of protection.

Ventus! Scrimgeour cast, viciously, knowing another would react to exploit the opportunity he was creating. The blast of wind blew away the remaining debris around the Death Eater, and moments later a flurry of stunningly green Killing Curses struck him down. Then a Cutting Curse cleaved through the shield protecting the man to Scrimgeour's left, and only the Minister's own overlapping shield saved him.

This was no duel, no tentative exchange of thrusts by which to judge one's opponent, no elegant dance of precision and cunning. It was a proper battle, fought at a range just beyond knife's reach. With no chance to Apparate through the Ministry's oppressive wards, all that remained was power, instinct, and courage.

An undulating whine rose rapidly in pitch to Scrimgeour's side, a fraction of a second before something struck him in the side of his face, sending him staggering. Pain bloomed from nose to ear, and one of his eyes had gone dark, but he was long past caring. Over his career, Scrimgeour had learned to respect the danger of a cornered rat. With nothing to lose but a life spent among Dementors, many a criminal had chosen to fight until well past the point of reason—and many an Auror had paid the price. Now, I am the rat. And I will gnaw away until my blood runs cold.

He stamped his foot, pivoting, and jabbed his wand over the shoulder of a friendly. "Telum Ignis!"

A bolt of flame darted from his wand, trailing black-red smoke, and smote the one who had wounded him in the gut, punching through and through and blackening flesh as it went. The fight was turning—Scrimgeour could sense it with the deep instinct of an old beast, hide weathered by tooth and claw. Through the deafening din of combat and the even louder pounding of his heart, he could hear another victory calling his name. A short one, to be sure. However fiercely the rat may fight, it always loses in the end. To his right, one of his Aurors had fallen, granted the perfect death of the Killing Curse, and another was writhing on the ground, ribs snapped jaggedly and burst outward to pierce skin and cloth alike.

But only four of the enemy still stood, and one was using his wand in his left hand, his right reduced to a mangled ruin. They huddled behind shields, shuffling backward in hope of safety in the smoke, and their cowardice provoked a sudden rage in him. He had been an Auror once, and he remembered—however sharp the rat's teeth, you didn't run. You didn't break. You fought, and perhaps you died, but you never forgot the red you wore. This filth didn't even respect their black robes.

"Reducto!" he roared, the lion's teeth bared, and his target's shield shattered under his assault. A high voice followed, no less impassioned—his niece; brave girl, he thought. If I had a legacy to leave . . . ah, damn it.

"Formare Cinis!" she cried. A pale gray ray sank into the Death Eater's hip, and he collapsed like a pile of rocks, literally falling to pieces. From his thighs to his stomach he had been disintegrated, leaving only the finest of dust. Legs rolling away; absurd. "Incendio!" she cast, and he burned too.

"Avada Kedavra!" cast another Auror, and only two Death Eaters still stood. Distantly, Scrimgeour could hear that the rest of the battle was growing quiet, dozens or hundreds of skirmishes similar to his own resolving across the Atrium and the rest of the Ministry. That could only mean one thing. It would all be over soon.

Two more. Finish your work, Auror.

The last two Death Eaters fought like devils. Even the man fighting with his left hand did so with every bit of his strength—they knew their side had won; if only they could survive, Scrimgeour imagined them thinking, we will have everything we fought so hard for. We need only survive.

Scrimgeour had no such hopes, and he took doubly so much pleasure in destroying theirs. He received another wound from droplets of liquid fire that burned with agonizing intensity, but it didn't matter. The Death Eaters died, and with their fall came peace. Perhaps the world would never know, but he would. Rufus Scrimgeour would die an Auror.

He and his Aurors took a moment to gather themselves, gasping for breath, examining wounds. No one said a thing. His niece caught his eye and smiled briefly.

From the smoke came a single figure.

For a single moment, Scrimgeour was certain beyond any rationality that it was Voldemort himself. But the Dark Lord favored voluminous, flowing robes of shadow and smoke, while these were fitted and flattering, and it was clearly a witch who wore them. That alone might have been enough for him to identify her, but it was a moot point anyway.

Bellatrix Lestrange never wore a mask these days. Maybe it was to gloat in her eerily youthful beauty, the years spent in Azkaban turned back by the darkest of magic, no doubt. Or maybe she merely enjoyed the expressions in her victims when they recognized her.

She seemed to float over the floor, the tips of her boots only barely brushing it. In one hand she daintily grasped her wand, and in the other something red and pulsing was held in a lazy grip. It was, Scrimgeour realized, a heart, so freshly torn from the chest as to still beat.

Her eyes fell on Scrimgeour, and Merlin be damned if there wasn't real joy there, a real brightness. Her neck and collar was colored a faint pink, and she wore an easy smile, as if strolling through a field of flowers, not of blood. She allowed the heart to slip from her fingers, letting it squish against the floor with an unpleasant sound. "Minister!" she cried, sweeping into a smooth curtsy. "So good of you to join us. I see you're well in the spirit of things already. May I have the next dance?"

"Avada Kedavra!"

A roar of wind blew back Lestrange's wavy hair, and eerie green harshly illuminated her features as she twirled away from the attack—a good try, Scrimgeour thought. But if Lestrange's predilection for melodrama was to be her undoing, it would have happened long ago. The curse's caster—his niece—stepped boldly forward, wand raised.

Lestrange tsked irritably. "Tedious girl. I was not speaking to you. Ustulo!"

Pale petals of flame appeared from nowhere, bursting from the Auror's chest like a monstrous claw, clenching on nothing and vanishing. She fell without a whisper, only the hiss of scorched flesh.

"Kill her!" Scrimgeour bellowed.

Six wands answered his command. A wall of light and sound descended on Lestrange, who moved with blinding speed in response. First, a Crushing Curse was deflected right back into its caster in a move of death-defying daring at this range; the man had not a chance to react before his wand arm was reduced to a red mass, bone ground into white splinters piercing compressed flesh. Second, two Unforgivables burst against conjured silver plates; white-hot shards of silver she banished back, where they skated and shrieked against shields. Finally, three Reductor Curses and Scrimgeour's own Bone-breaking Curse slammed into a perfect Inviolable Shield and ricocheted wildly in all directions. Nothing touched Lestrange.

The duel had lasted less than three seconds, and already two Aurors lay dying.

A flash of motion was the only warning as Lestrange shot upward, rising fifteen meters in a split-second. Then her wand twirled, and she sang, "Exitium!"

The curse was unfamiliar but throbbed with power. With nothing else to do, Scrimgeour cast the best Shield Charm of his life. An instant later, the curse struck the ground. Deep purple seared itself into his vision as he felt himself be hurled through the air. His shield had saved his life, but only because the curse hadn't struck him directly. As he scrambled to his feet, rippling purple explosions rolled outward, pulverizing the wood floor and snapping limbs with force far greater than should have been possible from their size. He cast a curse, but Lestrange was like a hummingbird in flight, not even bothering to shield as curses flew around her.

"Intus Abrumpitur!" she cast, thrusting her wand at a man whose legs had been broken by her last curse.

"Protego!" Scrimgeour snapped reflexively, and the translucent barrier rose up just in time to block the spell—but the point pierced through without slowing, leaving a hole in the shield the size of a pinhead, and then sinking into the man's stomach. At first, it seemed to have hardly wounded him at all, so small was the curse. But then with a deep, liquid boom, the point exploded, tearing the man fully in half.

"Avada Kedavra!" Scrimgeour replied, but only green sparks answered him. He was losing his focus—fear and grief and frustration corroding his intent. This wasn't supposed to be happening. Voldemort was beyond any Auror, as far beyond as a wizard was a muggle, but he was supposed to be the only one. There were rumors of Lestrange, suggestions that her always terrifying dueling prowess had grown beyond anyone's imagination under the Dark Lord's personal tutelage, but to see it in person was heartbreaking. There was no chance. The rat had met a cat.

A whole country died with you, monster, girl. I hope you knew that as you fell.

"Tempesta!" Lestrange cast next, directing a spinning distortion of light into the center of a hastily put together formation of four of the remaining Aurors, one with his foot torn off by the purple curse clinging to the shoulder of another. A howl rose, drowning out the rest of the battle, audible even through the ringing in Scrimgeour's ears, and three vortices of wind formed within the formation. Two Aurors were thrown clear; one recoiled as wood splinters were driven by the wind into his side; the last, the one with no foot, screamed terribly as two vortices spinning in opposite directions caught him and pulled him apart—as if stretched on a rack.

Acid rose in Scrimgeour's throat. He hurled curses at Lestrange with abandon, watching the last of the loyal Aurors die around him. A witch melted like tallow to a flame under a curse of golden light, and a wizard lost both his hands to Sectumsempra, and before long, Scrimgeour stood alone. Lestrange descended from the air, alighting on the tips of her toes. Lazily, she took in the destruction she had wrought, seeming to savor the agonized gasps of those still clinging to life. Then, her gaze turned to Scrimgeour.

It wasn't too late. If he could kill her, kill this spirit of cruelty that wore a witch's skin, it wouldn't be for nothing. His life, his choices, that which he sold and debased in the pursuit of power, lesser evils and greater goods—all would not be for nothing. The Dark Lord would prevail, but without Lestrange, his tyranny would be less sadistic, less intrinsically malicious. Scrimgeour was still an Auror. He could serve as protector one last time.

"Ruina Corporis!" he cast, his voice cracking like a whip, his wand slashing faster, more precisely than it had ever before. "Avada Kedavra! Argenti Crescarus! Reducto!"

One by one, his curses were blocked or torn away. Conjured sheets of metal were reduced to torn slag, and ricocheting curses pulverized the wood floor, melted gouges into the stone tile walls. Not one curse did Lestrange cast in return.

"FIGHT BACK!" Scrimgeour bellowed, his eyes bulging, the pain of his wounds throbbing in time with his hatred. "Fight back, you rotten whore! Die like your brother, die like your husband, just fucking die!"

Lestrange laughed lightly, mockingly, and pouted dramatically. "I'm told I mustn't … but how can I refuse my Minister?"

She deflected Scrimgeour's Bludgeoning Curse before tracing a swooping gesture around her body with the tip of her wand, drawing a trail of black light in the air. He hurled curses at her, but they dissolved against a gathering dark cage, which only grew thicker, fuller. He was fighting badly, he knew, distantly. Speed and ire was no replacement for discipline and control. But he was past that now.

With a final gesture, Lestrange coiled the end of the black line around her wand and cast it outward, toward Scrimgeour. Setting his teeth grimly, he cast a shield, knowing in his heart it wouldn't be enough. And it was not.

It passed through his protective charm as if it wasn't there and his skin too, until he felt it settling into his bones, like cold water coursing through the marrow. His limbs locked up, black threads running through them, controlling them. He fought, furiously, but to no avail. It was like the Imperius, but worse, in a way. The Imperius soothed, numbed, offering blissful unawareness of its violation. This curse, whatever it was, allowed the victim to be fully aware of the control it held over them. Scrimgeour's lips drew into a snarl, the only expression of his disdain for the dark witch that he could still muster.

"One of my little toys," Lestrange murmured, approaching Scrimgeour and trailing a finger down his cheek. "You have my Nymphadora to thank for it … she has inspired me to seek more refined forms of control, you see …"

She slid around behind him. With all his strength, Scrimgeour tried to turn his head to keep her in his vision, but the invader in his bones resisted him, and a line of fire shot down his spine, drawing a low groan from his throat. Soft hair tickled the back of his neck.

"That was very cruel of you," Lestrange whispered in his ear. It was a throaty, rich sound that made him want to recoil. "Mocking a poor, lonely widow that way. Hardly befitting the Minister of Magic, don't you think? I'll have to correct your manners, I'm afraid. And like Mother always said … it's the harsh lesson that's remembered best."

The only warning was the briefest impression of a shifting, a coiling, of the dark magic in his limbs. Agony exploded in Scrimgeour's shoulders as bone cracked with a sound as sharp as any explosion, drowned out only by the raw bellow torn from his throat. The pain was absolute and all-consuming, pressing down on him until his vision turned black and his hearing failed, the only remaining sensation of the world a sea of fire that was gradually being consumed by numbness, as if death itself were crawling through his blood. Then, through the dark, choking veil came piercing, loathsome laughter.

Vision returned. Scrimgeour's feet dangled above the ground—he was flying, suspended by white butterfly's wings, the blades of his shoulders torn outward and spread in ghastly mimicry, like great blurry ghosts in the corners of his eye. He could feel very little, now. Delirium's uncaring mercy. But Lestrange's giggling was enough to deny any hope of peace—a knife playing along his ears, reminding him of his failure. All had been for naught, in the end.

"Oh, Bella," came another voice, as cold as the void, black ink staining Lestrange's bloody tapestry—mad … death has made a madman of me—and even now, pushed to the brink of oblivion, it brought a chill of fear. "I had hoped to speak with the man."

"Master! I wanted to—but he was most rude, Master. I lost my patience."

The Dark Lord tsked. "Bella, Bella, whatever shall I do with you? Oh, very well; I can hardly begrudge you your nature. Fly along, now. I expect there are still those hiding here and there who hope to carry on the fight. Tend to them, won't you?"

"My Lord," she purred, bowing deeply before taking flight with a flutter of black robes. Scrimgeour fell, the magic supporting him giving out, and he gasped as he crumpled to the floor, staring up into the smoky air.

The Dark Lord gazed down on Scrimgeour, his skin pale and waxen, his eyes deep and red. But a frost had settled over them, a film of white like a coat of snow upon a battlefield. The air grew cold—arctic, even. Scrimgeour blinked and found his eyes would not open again, the lashes encrusted with ice.

Oh, no. Please, let it not be so.

"She truly is something, is she not?"

Voldemort paused, as if actually expecting Scrimgeour to answer. When he did not, Voldemort sighed slightly and continued with, "I do not believe I will ever find another like her. Yet, at times I wonder how long it will be before I am forced to kill her myself. For however loyal she is to me, she is loyal to her nature most. And she is the shrike—the cruel bird who flies freely by instinct and whim, without concern of men or Lord."

Quiet footsteps sounded. The Atrium was quiet, now; the battle was over.

"I suppose you do not care about this. In your position, I would not. But I care little for your wants, and you are in no condition to grant me the conversation I had hoped for—to congratulate you, firstly, for your valiance; against all odds, you carved the feeble Ministry of Magic into a foe worthy of Lord Voldemort. To speak with you—ah, it would be sweet. I would enjoy it as I did my conversations with Violet … a shame I did not have a chance to share one more with her. But you serve a purpose still. I find men soon to be dead the only true confidantes, and I confess, I feel a certain unworthy urge in this moment of triumph to gloat. All who stood against me are dead and gone. Dumbledore. Violet. You. All that's left is a little … cleanup. The termination of a tedious alliance, though a very fruitful one.

"You see, Minister … I have broken the Prophecy, shattered it as I have all else that opposed me. The power he knows not—ha! I have stolen a silver ring. There is not and shall never be any power beyond my reach.

"I bid you goodbye, my worthy enemy. I shall grant you the mercy of death, as some would say—fools, all. It awaits you all the same. Avada Kedavra."

As the end came, as green light grew so bright as to be seen by eyes frozen shut, the peace really did come. Success or failure, rise or fall, hero or villain, Auror or criminal, Rufus Scrimgeour's tale was done.

Almost. For the Minister had given an order before the Auror embarked on his last mission. And even now, in the blackest depths of the Department of Mysteries, a secret protocol was being carried out by the man Scrimgeour trusted most. Vengeance, it was—vengeance against the serpent-hearted Unspeakables, who were doubtlessly equally content to carry out their bleak experiments under Voldemort as Scrimgeour; vengeance against those who incessantly impeded Scrimgeour, clinging to the comforts of peace in the face of war; and vengeance most of all against the Dark Lord himself, who would soon find the course of his victory not quite so smooth as he believed.

Every cage would be thrown open. Every experiment unleashed. Every circle broken. There were things below, things so frightful that even the Unspeakables spoke not of them, things known only by codenames as innocuous as Cold Room. What had he ordered released? What had he not?

Death came in shades of green.

~#~

Why even bother? What is left to fight for? What is left to preserve? What is left to destroy?

The man who still thought of himself as Sirius Orion Black watched the fire as it glimmered in the amber liquid that soothed him. From the fireplace it was born and from there it spread, to glass and liquid and silver, and then to the eyes of man. It was the dualism of fire in miniature. By its will, that which was not yet fire soon would be, and that which currently was would soon be nothing at all.

Look at you. You're even thinking in circles.

"Peh," Sirius muttered and drained the glass, and then the fire was in his throat too. "And, incidentally, fuck you's why, fuck you and your stupid fucking blood, fuck me and my stupid fucking faerie-fucking ancestors, and fuck them all for LEAVING ME HERE ALONE!"

Glass smashed. Thin slivers slit flesh, and blood welled up. Sirius clenched his fist, and the dripping blood ran clear. He opened it, and all that remained of the glass were beads of spring dew, his skin made anew. He snorted.

"You still couldn't stop me if I really wanted to. I know to use iron."

You seek to shock me, but you forget I know your heart. The Old King is dead. The Old King is now the New King. You envision an other, an intruding being that tempts and corrupts you, but you speak only to yourself now. You know this. And you know you will accept your true place in time.

Sirius groaned and let himself fall forward, banging his forehead into his fist. "Oh, just shut up!"

An irritated banging from outside the door answered him. Obviously, whomever occupied the equally moldering next-door apartment didn't appreciate the tragic nobility of Sirius's alcohol-fueled pity tantrums.

With Grimmauld reduced to a charred ruin—a change Sirius might celebrate if it didn't remind him of Remus—he had bounced around for a while, mooching off various Order members, even if there wasn't much of an Order anymore. But his ever more frequent black moods had managed to piss off almost everyone who tried to give a shit about him, which had probably been his real goal from the start. He could have bought his own place of course, but it felt better to rot in a filthy tenement far from the Wizarding world, counting his miseries and waiting to die—or worse—than to see the concern in the faces of people who really should have been worrying about things more important than a cynical bastard who'd outlived all his friends. Besides, after Azkaban, even a beer-stained mattress was a luxury. He would have put up with a lot worse to stay away from everyone.

Especially Violet, he thought moodily. He figured she'd had a good idea what was happening to him, but he hadn't wanted to distract her with something she might blame herself for. Not when it could get her killed.

Brilliant plan, Black. That one worked out like a fucking charm. Maybe you should've picked one of your mates to die with before you ran out of them.

Maybe that was the real reason why he hadn't done himself in yet. How could anyone explain to his best mate and his wife that he'd let their daughter die without even having the decency of going out with her?

"Another drink," Sirius mumbled. "For you, James, and Lily, and Remus, and Frank, and Alice, and Marlene, and Andromeda, and Violet … who else … Jon, sure … hell, Peter too … old time's sake … "

Someone banged on the door again. It made his head throb. Cursing, Sirius fumbled for his wand and stomped over. I'll hex him. I'll do it. What, is Voldemort going to charge me with muggle-baiting?

"Hey!" he barked, shouldering the door open. Whoever was on the other side jumped clear as he barged through, jabbing his wand emphatically. "I'll keep it down when you stay the fuck away from … me …"

He trailed off, staring blankly as his inebriated brain slowly realized it hadn't been some equally marinated muggle knocking on his door. Standing there in the hall outside Sirius's little slice of hell were two people he had imagined he would never see again—both as out of place here as snow in summer.

One was a man who he'd just drunk to as a friend, though since he was standing here that couldn't be. Sirius's friends died; that was the law of the world. The second visitor was a woman whose beauty made the dingy surroundings wither in comparison, like burning parchment curling and turning to char. As her frozen eyes watched him from features that feigned humanity, Sirius felt an instinctual fire rise inside him. Fury, at Winter's daring to come before him, and a more subversive curiosity—she would not be here if she didn't need something from him; what could he exact in exchange?

Disgusted, he forced it away. Summer could boil its head. He was still a mortal, and his choices were his own. Even if those choices were usually between whiskey and vodka.

He stared at the two of them, and he imagined a third standing between them. Dare he hope? Was it so impossible? If the man still lived, then perhaps …

"Jon," he said, thickly. "I've got firewhisky."

Jon smiled briefly, looking drawn. "I could use some."

And then he turned to the Lady Satria, who was watching him with an expression infinitely solemn. Strange. He remembered her the irreverent sort.

"And," he said, deliberately slurring his words, "what can I do for you, 'my lady?' "

Satria arched an eyebrow, looking him over and seeming to see far more than he would like. "Well, since you asked with such eloquence, you may accompany me to my court as an honored guest to assist in the recovery of your goddaughter … Your Highness."

~#~

Ron missed the snow.

It had been a hot August, by British standards, and even now, well into the night, the air was still and oppressive. As he passed through the fields and rolling hills around the Burrow, hearing the calls of insects and other nocturnal creatures, he thought of his bed, the sheets that were cool on the warmest nights and the window that never failed to offer a breeze. But that was comfort, and comfort could not come before duty, he knew. And he had a duty—one as sacred as it was incomprehensible to his family. He accepted that they would never understand what he had to do, so he hid it from them, to protect them. Protecting one's family, Ron knew, was the highest calling of any decent wizard.

Once he was far enough to be sure he would not be seen nor heard, he began his nightly ritual. First, he took a moment to become calm, waiting for the uneven thudding of his heart to steady and for the fierce cocktail of pride and trepidation swelling in his chest to fade. The only thing Ron loathed more than making a mistake twice was making one a third time, and he remembered his mistakes all too well. The same mistake in third duel might kill him, all too soon, before he did what he had to. It could not be allowed.

He would not be dueling tonight, of course. But he remembered his encounters with Malfoy with deep shame—and those hadn't been proper duels, not really—and he figured the only way he'd be able to look the bastard in the eyes calmly was if he got used to the feeling. It did not come naturally to him—not to any Weasley, really. But how well had that worked for them so far? First Ginny, and then it just didn't stop … if he wanted to save the rest of his family, avenge those who were gone, he had to learn to think like Violet had. Like she'd tried to teach him, if only he hadn't been too thick to see.

Before she died too.

"In your memory," he whispered hoarsely. "Thank you."

And then he began. In the night, spells began to flash, ones Violet had taught him and others, as he strained to make each stroke of his wand as efficient as possible, each syllable enunciated clearly and quietly, without emotion or hesitation. Tree trunks split and burned; thunder tolled. Sequences of spells, devised on his own and optimized over long hours of painful practice and strategizing, were repeated time and again until they seemed to flow from his wand with no thought at all. And when all was done, when sweat streamed down his face and plastered his hair to his skin, he let out a shuddering breath and prepared for the last step.

Like Violet would. Do it, coward. You've been playing at this for too long. If you're not serious, how will you protect them?

Ron bit his lip. He screwed up his face. He imagined Malfoy, the sneer on his face. He imagined Ginny, her so-young face now painfully blurred in his recollection, and the two images became the same. It was not Malfoy who had killed her, but it might as well have been. He let the calmness fade and the hatred come.

"Avada Kedavra!"

His eyes tightened as the last syllable left his lips, as if it would shield him from knowing whether the spell had worked. But there was no green flash, and if there had been, he would have seen it, eyes shut or not. He had failed. Again.

He raged, silently, for several minutes before forcing the useless emotion away and starting the slow, plodding trek home. In the hours he had been gone, the night had gone from swampy heat to a sudden, dry cold. In his light sleepwear, Ron shivered. The sky was dark, the moon absent, the stars occluded by invisible clouds. He couldn't risk lighting his wand either now that he was closing in on the Burrow. The Ministry might be far too much in shambles to take note of underage sorcery, let alone punish it, but he knew Mum would still be trying to pry his wand out of his hands over the summer even if You-Know-Who was knocking on the front door. She had all too much time now that he was her last child still living at home, the Burrow so very quiet these days. Funny how he'd wanted nothing more than to be an only child, once.

And so he walked in darkness, rubbing his hands together for warmth.

He saw the light before the flames.

It flickered on swaying pines, on rising smoke, on the silver mist that obscured the ground. The reality of it didn't sink in, at first. Ron had the strangest idea that someone must have left a lamp in their window—a very bright one.

But, of course, it was no lamp.

The Burrow burned. Flames too furious to be natural shot out the windows, blazed over the roof, charred the garden where Mum grew vegetables. Absurdly, Ron spared a thought for the gnomes—would they survive, in their burrows? Or would they slowly bake, as if in earthen ovens?

A scream, ragged and tortured, grew within him, but it found no escape. He only stood there, like a statue and twice as useless. It had happened as he'd known it would. But it wasn't fair—he wasn't ready. How could it happen now, when he wasn't done preparing?

The firelight was washed out in green. In the sky, a Dark Mark now unfurled, the skull's dead eyes staring a challenge down at him. Mocking him, condemning him. And then, Ron screamed.

Cracks sounded all around him. Figures in black robes, figures from his nightmares, appeared in a tight ring, in robes darker than the night. And Ron was calm, as he had trained himself to be. His family was burning, and he was calm.

"You?" demanded a voice incredulously, a voice that felt more familiar than Ron's own. Strident and brittle, it was shards of glass in the ears, a hated note that was all-too-fitting now. He was dreaming. This was all too familiar, too perfectly matching his morbid imaginations, half fantasy and half nightmare, to be anything else. "You're meant to be—what are you doing outside?"

There was an almost plaintive note to the voice, one Ron could not hear over the roaring in his ears. The—thing—that spoke wore a Death Eater's cloak and a Death Eaters mask, the only true such mask of any of them. The others were a motley selection, adults far older than their leader but with the nervous, shifty of those with more desperation than devotion. Some wore no masks at all, while others made do with whatever crude mimicry of their masters' guises they could find. Ron, though, saw none of that, staring blindly at the fine, silvery-blond hair that was only just visible under the hood of Draco Malfoy.

"Surprised, Weasel? Yes, it was me. I killed them," said Malfoy, his mask impassive. "Who was home, Weasel? Just your parents? Your traitorous siblings? None made it outside, you see, so I couldn't say, but personally I'm hoping we missed some. I'd hate to savor this experience only once. You blood traitors are set to become an endangered species, you know. Catching one of you will be a true prize."

There were a thousand things Ron should have said, mainly the incantations of curses. But when he opened his mouth only a dry crack came, and then a single word: "Why?"

"Because the Dark Lord commanded me!" Malfoy roared. "Because she murdered Father, and I must take his place. You want to blame anyone? Blame her. I asked for this, Weasel. I told the Dark Lord how I could serve him, and he granted me this boon. You were her friend, weren't you, always following her, simpering, hiding behind her skirts? For all that anyone was her friend. But now she's dead, and your Order's dead, and after tonight your Ministry's dead, and it's all over. It's all over."

He laughed, shrill and discordant. "It was all worth it, can't you see? Blood traitor—you should have chosen the winning side. It's all over, and we won. It was all worth it. Can't you see? It was. It was."

He wheeled around then, no longer looking, still laughing but now with an undertone of throaty desperation, as if he were afraid what might come if he stopped. "Leave him. Let the Weasel live! Let him live, like me. See how you like it when your family's gone, Weasel! See what it's like! You have nothing! Nothing! You don't even have a cause—we've already won!"

He stalked off, followed by the others, leaving Ron alone in the cold, one side of his face nearly burning from the heat of the flames that were consuming his home. His mother. His father. Malfoy barked out orders, stowing his wand in his robes, and as he began to turn in place, Ron knew he was about to Disapparate. He was about to escape.

Malfoy's robes already beginning to stir with the magic of his Disapparation, Ron became unfrozen, his paralysis shattered by certainty. The horror, the misery, all slid off him as his wand traced a familiar pattern through the air.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Ron's eyes screwed shut.

He opened them a moment later. He looked from his wand to to the grass, where green sparks slowly faded into the ash-marked grass, and finally to Malfoy, whose eyes were momentarily wide. Surprise fading, a breathy laugh escaped him.

"Really, Weasley? I don't know whether to be impressed or embarrassed for you. I guess she wasn't able to teach you very much after all, was she?"

Ron barely heard their Disapparitions. He fell to his knees, head bowed, long hair draped over his eyes, staring at the Burrow in flames through a veil of red. And he shook like a branch in the wind and made all the sounds of weeping, but even as the roof broke and fell inward with a blossom of fire and the sun rose in the east to chase away the chill night, not a tear came to him. No tears ever came.

AN: Thanks to everyone who voted for the premise of my next fic! The voting is now closed, but you can still make suggestions for it and maybe eventually get some early looks on the Discord server. Don't worry about Sleet and Hail, though. I'll be finishing it before posting anything new to this site.