Potions Master Severus Snape swept into the headmaster's office, black robes billowing behind him and a concerned frown on his face. It was the equivalent of full-blown panic on anyone else.
Albus Dumbledore dropped his copy of the Daily Prophet on his cluttered desk and looked up, lifting a quizzical eyebrow. He was actually somewhat glad for the interruption. The Prophet was filled with its usual sensational drivel and re-worded articles conjecturing yet again on what happened in Knockturn Alley last week and just what it might mean. In other words, they still had no idea who was responsible and were no closer to finding out. Not that he was surprised, really. The extent of the Prophet's talents and capabilities as far as investigative journalism was concerned seemed limited to discovering who was sleeping with who, who was cheating on who, or who was getting drunk and behaving badly in public.
He grabbed a handkerchief and held it up to his mouth before a violent coughing fit took him over. Snape waited calmly while the headmaster wheezed, hacked, and spat into the cloth. Really, the old man looked and sounded like he ought to be in the infirmary. Dark bags under sunken eyes, pale cadaverous skin stretched tight across the skull, hollow cheeks making the long beard stand out all the more, and that cough sounded like he was losing his lungs.
The old man lowered the handkerchief and grimaced at the spots of blood mixed in with brown phlegm. He scourgified the cloth and laid it to the side. "What can I do for you, Severus?" he said, his voice hoarse from the coughing fit.
Without saying a word, Snape pulled up the left sleeve of his robe, revealing bare, unmarked skin.
Dumbledore's mouth fell open in shock. "What happened?" he demanded. "You must tell me everything!"
"I'm certain I've no idea," Snape replied, barely keeping from rolling his eyes. "As I informed you last night, the dark lord sent out an emergency call to his minions. I, of course, was unable to respond as classes are in session, which he well knows. I awakened this morning with the mark completely gone. There is no existing connection with him. And now you know everything I do."
The headmaster exhaled a weary sigh. This was certainly not something he'd foreseen, and he was desperate to know more. There was no telling how the Dark Mark had disappeared from Severus' arm, nor did he have enough information to determine how it might affect his plans.
"Can you tell me where Tom was hiding?" he asked next.
"Riddle Manor in Little Hangleton," Snape answered, then blinked in surprise. "Huh. It appears that the fidelius has fallen."
The elderly wizard rose to his feet, picking up the handkerchief and tucking it away in a pocket in his robe. "Or you are now one of the secret keepers," he said, referring to the phenomenon that occurred upon the death of a previous secret keeper. "Regardless, it is imperative that I see with my own eyes. You must take me there."
"Now?"
"Yes. Minerva will cancel your classes today. This is far too important."
"Very well," the younger man replied, keeping the irritation from his voice. His acquiescence was a pretence that he actually had a choice, and they both knew it.
The two men made their way through the ancient castle to the front door, detouring only to let Minerva McGonagall know that they were leaving and that Potions classes were cancelled for the day. Once outside they hurried to the front gate where Snape apparated them away.
***EoD***
Just to be on the safe side, Snape brought them to the foot of the drive that led up to Riddle Manor. The country lane behind them went down to Little Hangleton, and in the other direction led to the abandoned chapel and cemetery. Beyond that it led several miles away to Great Hangleton.
The wide gravel drive was lined on either side by ragged Scots pines planted about fifteen feet apart. Two mossy stone pillars framed the entrance, each one capped with a black-painted cast iron statue of a greyhound resting on its haunches. An ornate wrought-iron Victorian-style double gate blocked the entrance between the pillars, and a matching fence stretched away on either side, interspersed regularly with smaller stone pillars of a matching design but without the greyhounds. The grounds within the fence were overgrown with tall grass, briars, brambles, and unchecked wild bushes and shrubs, including dog rose, blackthorn, holly, yarrow, and elder.
The two wizards walked up the long driveway, dodging the weeds that squeezed through the gravel. Neither one spoke to the other, though they did stop for a moment when Dumbledore had another coughing fit.
At the top of the winding drive, both men halted in stunned amazement. Expecting to see a grand if decrepit manor house, what they found was a burnt-out ruin of ash and rubble. Nothing stood but a few blackened timbers along with scorched and cracked stones.
"What happened here?" the old man wheezed.
Having no knowledge or even conjecture, Snape elected to remain silent.
Not really expecting an answer, Dumbledore drew his wand and cast a diagnostic spell, frowning when he saw the results. He found spell residue from a wand registered to Tav Travers and even more from a signature he recognised as Tom Riddle's. Unsurprisingly, the residue indicated an abundance of killing curses. The only problem was that there were no other recent spells discovered. Nothing to indicate who they were casting the killing curse at. Nothing to indicate how the fire started. Nothing to indicate what had happened. This was especially upsetting because a diagnostic spell cast with the Elder Wand really should have revealed more.
"Let's check the back," he sighed. Hopefully they would find something that he could use to figure this out.
What he found was yet more questions – and the implication was nightmarish.
The back gardens were filled with piles of ash and tattered pieces of black fabric. The aged headmaster cast another diagnostic at the ash, and again frowned at the results.
Snape, meanwhile, picked up one of the rotten pieces of cloth and closely examined it. He folded it, rolled it between his fingers, and even cautiously sniffed it. His look of confusion was replaced with an expression of growing horror. "Albus," he queried, his voice heavy with dread, "is this what I think it is?"
The headmaster wearily nodded. "I believe it is, my friend," he acknowledged.
"I thought it was impossible to kill a dementor."
"That appears to no longer be the case."
Snape looked around at all the piles of ash, shaking his head. "But what could it possibly be?" he said. "I couldn't do it. I don't think Voldemort could do it, assuming he'd even try. Could you do it?"
"I'm… not certain," Dumbledore admitted. "My patronus is more than sufficient to hold them at bay, but to destroy them?" He suppressed an unwanted shudder. "I have heard of nothing capable of such."
The worst part about it was that it implied that there was someone out there more powerful and more capable than himself. And that could not be allowed to stand.
***EoD***
Across the length and breadth of Britain, thousands of comatose patients revived in hospitals all across the land. The vast majority were nonmagical, but there were also a small handful of magicals who recovered, including several in the long-term spell damage ward at St Mungo's. Without fail, each patient reported a strange encounter with a demonic entity that reeked of despair and death before they succumbed to the soul-chilling horror.
***EoD***
The headmaster shut himself up in his office as soon as they returned to Hogwarts. He sent out several missives cancelling all appointments for the rest of the day and ordered one of the elves to bring him a light meal while he considered what they'd found.
It was clear that the dark lord was utterly vanquished – the total disappearance of the hideous tattoo on Severus' arm was proof of that. Harry was the Chosen One of prophecy. Ergo, Harry had somehow vanquished Voldemort, horcruces notwithstanding.
The only problem was that the evidence suggested that the boy was vengeful and unwilling to forgive. The remains of several bodies in the fire gave mute testimony to the depths he had fallen. And those piles of ash and tattered cloth that was all that remained of the dementors…
It was understood that killing a dementor was impossible, and yet the boy had done just that. Dumbledore knew for fact that there was no magic capable of such a feat, and therefore such power was unnatural. And that meant that Harry must have made some kind of unholy bargain. Coupled with his murder of the minister and senior undersecretary, and lack of cooperation and respect, there was no conclusion than that the boy was turning dark, if he hadn't fully turned already.
His status as the Chosen One was problematic though. There were still many people who would hear nothing against their hero, even with his latest deeds. He was simply too public a figure to quietly "disappear" somewhere. The only course of action left since the prophecy was fulfilled was to take the boy in hand and oversee his penance and ultimate redemption.
But first he had to find the bloody child.
***EoD***
Dementor-Kissed Regain Souls! screamed the lurid Daily Prophet headline. The article went on to document the unprecedented phenomenon that had swept through St Mungo's the previous day. It was also confirmed that several criminals regained their sapience, prompting questions of potential re-sentencing for the offenders. No one had any clue as to how this was possible, and while there were several suggestions nothing came close to what had actually happened.
Harry scanned the article while he enjoyed his breakfast, courtesy of Winky and Bipsy, and finally laid the paper aside. It was actually fairly accurate for a Prophet article, as best as he could tell, except for the conjecture – which he had no desire to correct.
Even though Riddle was no more, his puppets Runcorn and Thicknesse still held the two most powerful seats in the Ministry. However, given the overall corruption of magical Britain in general, Harry felt no more desire to try to manoeuvre an honest, competent person into either position (assuming he even could) than he did to correct the Prophet.
No, as far as he was concerned he was almost to the end. His next step would take a good deal of planning and preparation, and the consequences would be felt by everyone.
The knowledge he'd pulled from Fudge's mind right before taking his head contained a very interesting secret, one that he fully intended to exploit.
***EoD***
"Comin!" Dora called out as she swung her feet off her sofa. It was her day off so she was wearing an Iron Maiden shirt and grey tracksuit bottoms instead of her auror uniform. She lowered the volume on her telly where she was semi-watching VH-1 while reading the recently-published first novel of a promising fantasy series, A Game of Thrones.
She lived in an affordable flat in East Ham within a five-minute walk of the district Underground station. From there it was typically another forty-five minutes to the Leicester Square station on Charing Cross Road, less than a five-minute walk from both the Leaky Cauldron and the phone-booth entrance to the Ministry of Magic.
Few people knew where she lived, and she wasn't expecting any of them. Which probably meant…
"Wotcher, Remus," she said after opening the door, managing to keep her tone even.
"Hello, Tonks," he replied. "Do you have a few minutes?"
"I s'pose," she grumbled. "C'mon in." She led the way to her sitting room, leaving him to close the door. "So wot's bakin yer loaf?" She muted the telly but didn't turn it off as she returned to the sofa. "This about the bloody Order or somefin else?"
"A bit of both, I guess," he said. He carefully took a seat beside her.
"Well go on, let's 'ave it then."
Lupin exhaled and leaned back, appearing to be a little unsure where to put his hands. "I confess that I'm… concerned for you," he said at last, his voice hesitant. He flinched when he saw her glare.
"Best be 'splainin yerself right quick-like, wolfie," she said. Her voice left no room for argument.
"Sorry, that came out wrong," he back-peddled. "Fuck. Okay. You took most of us by surprise when you left the meeting last week, especially when Shack left right after. I mean, the two of you are the best fighters in the Order, especially after Moody was killed."
"Aye," she agreed. "We were. An' we were fuckin useless with our Germans bein tied up as they were! The dodgy geezah brung us in ta put the fright'nahs on the wankahs, but 'e may as well 'ave put us in the nick fer all the good we've done!"
"Tonks," he sighed, "it's Dumbledore. He does nothing without a good reason, you know."
"No, I don't know, wolfie," she snapped. "All the ol bastard seems to be doin is getting good folk browned while keepin a kid locked down tight. It ain't right, Remus."
"Look, he's our leader. He has more information than we do…"
"Wot 'e don't evah fuckin use! Why the bloody 'ell are ya defendin 'im so 'ard anyway?"
He looked away. "I owe him so much, Tonks. He allowed me to attend Hogwarts and get an education despite my… affliction. I wouldn't be the man I am today if it wasn't for him."
"Remus." Her tone was as sharp as a knife, yanking his eyes back to her own. "Yer a token werewolf, mate. Yer there so the geezah can parade you aroun' an' say Look how inclusive and progressive I am." Her mockery of Dumbledore's tone was spot on, especially when she morphed her face to look like his. "'ow many othah weres 'as 'e allowed ta come ta 'ogwarts?"
"None," he conceded after a moment.
"An 'e keeps sendin ya out on Bustahs ta rabbit wif the packs, don't 'e?"
"Yeah…"
"An' 'ow well da they take it?"
He sighed. "Not very."
"Course not. Yer a snout, far as they're concerned. They don' trust ya. An' why should they? Yer a priv'leged berk wot answers ta Dumbledore, who ain't nevah showed 'em 'e gives a toss about 'em. The geezah's usin ya, wolfie, same as 'e uses ev'ryone. 'e don' see ya as a 'uman anymore'n 'e sees them. Anymore'n 'e sees us. Ain't none of us anymore'n a piece on 'is fuckin chessboard. Soonah ya wake up an' un'erstan that, the bettah off ye'll be."
"But he's done so much for me, for our world."
"Wot's 'e done fer ya, eejit? Gotta good job I ain't 'eard about? Bringin 'ome th bees an' 'oney? Gotta real apple cat then?"
Lupin groaned and rubbed his head with both hands. "Dora, please. I can't follow you when you get excited like that."
She punched him in the arm, hard. "Yer gonna hafta bloody well learn if we're gonna have a future togethah, ya pillock," she said. "But we gotta get this othah misun'erstandin fixed if we're gonna 'ave an earthly fer us." She took a deep breath, deliberately calming herself as her hair cycled through different variants of the colour red. "Okay, I asked if ya'd gotten a good job bringin 'ome good money an' if ya'd gotten a nice 'ouse thanks to 'im." She could almost see smoke rising from his ears as he attempted to process her explanation.
"Okay, bees and honey. Money. Think I've heard that one before. But what the hell does an apple cat have to do with a house?"
She gave him a smirk. "Apple, apple an' spice, nice. Cat, cat an' mouse, 'ouse. Simple enough."
"Oh for the love of…"
"Anyways," she interrupted, "the point is, you ain't got any of that. Dumbledore rabbits a good game, ta be sure, but when it comes time ta act, 'e don'. An' ya can' deny it. 'e just collects 'is lil nuggets of info'mation an' acts like 'e can see the big pic, an' then don't do shit about it. We don' mattah ta 'im. S'long as we're useful ta 'im 'e acts all civil an' whatnot, but just ya watch. If 'e thinks yer gonna interfere wif 'isplans, 'e'll get ya fitted up like 'e done wif Sirius. Anyways, yer gonna hafta make a choice soon. Will ya stan' fer 'arry, yer best mates' son an' godson, or will ya stan' fer a manip'lative ol codgah wif dodgy motives?"
Lupin straightened uncomfortably. "Dora, Harry's gone dark," he said.
"Accordin ta 'oo?" she scoffed.
"Dumble… oh, right."
She shook her head in sorrow. "Wolfie, I'm… concerned fer ya." Maybe it was a little petty to throw his words back at him, but she really didn't care at this point. "Me lil cousin 'as fought off 'is enemies an' even taken the battle to 'em. 'e's been shat on by our own fuckin gover'ment, libeled in the newspapah, plus 'e's 'ad ta deal wif all the shit from the berks at that bloody school, as ya well know. An' Dumbledore's done nothin ta 'elp 'im. Lor' love a duck, the ol geezah's responsible fer most of it! The lad's fin'ly standin up fer 'isself an' makin 'is own way, an' Dumbledore's lost the fuckin plot cause 'e ain't listenin ta 'im no more."
"Dora, did you even see what he did to Fudge and Umbridge?"
"Yes I did, wolfie. Did ya know they sold 'im down the river? They fitted 'im up worse than they done Sirius! What kinda cunts would put a kid in Azkaban just cause 'e's more populah than the fuckin Ministah? No Remus, if 'arry's gone dark it's cause our world pushed 'im to it. I dunno where 'e's at but I reckon ta 'elp 'im if I can, if only ta keep 'im from fallin – or fallin furthah. Me question is, will ya be 'elpin me or not?"
Lupin's face was buried in his hands by this time as he searched his soul. On the one hand, he had a debt of honour – though the purity of that debt now looked quite tarnished. The old man groomed you and tamed you, and you know it, a voice inside growled. On the other hand, he had what he now realised was another debt of honour – this one to a young man who hadn't received a single break in his life and yet kept fighting, most often alone. The boy had been constantly and continually let down by everyone in a position to do anything.
"I'll help," he said at last, raising his head and meeting Dora's eyes. Her return smile was warm and genuine, and he felt a weight evaporate from his shoulders. Even the wolf inside howled its approval. "Harry's pack, same as you. I don't know where he is either, but if it's at all possible I'll be there when he needs me."
"Thanks, wolfie," she said. "I'm right proud of ya, y'know." Her hair shifted back to pink as she leaned forward cupping his cheek with her hand, and kissed him like she meant it.
***EoD***
Dumbledore frowned as he saw the name on the outside of the sealed parchment he received from the post owl. Why the hell would young Remus write him instead of calling on the floo or actually coming to his office in person? He absently dismissed the owl as he broke the wax seal and unfolded the letter.
A moment later he crumpled the parchment and banished it with a flick of his wand, his eyes narrowed in a scowl. Another Order member resigning. He cursed in impotent frustration. Irreconcilable differences, indeed!
He would definitely be letting Remus feel the weight of his displeasure, but it would have to be later. Once he got young Harry back under control he'd have enough time to deal with the traitorous werewolf.
***EoD***
It was late spring, and magical Britain had been fairly quiet for the last few months. There had been no terror attacks on muggles or muggleborns, nor had any other imperiused former Death Eaters turned up dead. Richard Parkinson was often seen in the Ministry either going to or coming from another meeting with Minister Runcorn. He was frequently accompanied by Normert Goyle, Gosfrid Snyde, Cuthbert Selwyn, or all three. No one else in the Ministry besides Director Thicknesse knew what they discussed in those closed-door meetings, but each of them always wore a worried expression these days.
Headmaster Dumbledore's cough had not improved, even with the specialised potion brewed by Snape. The potion regimen at least prevented it from getting worse, but the continued stress of trying to find Harry Potter was taking a steady toll on his health. He currently had several members of the Order of the Phoenix keeping watch on what was left of Diagon Alley and the surrounding streets, including Daedalus Diggle, Elphias Doge, and Emmaline Vance.
Not a one of them had caught so much as a hint as to where the boy might be. He had gone to ground and apparently dug in deep. He had to be getting help from someone, but for the life of him Dumbledore couldn't think of who it might be.
Harry, meanwhile, was indeed lying low, sending Dobby, Winky, or Bipsy on the occasional supply run. He decided against hunting down the remaining Death Eaters, at least at this time, so as to lull them all into a false sense of security and to let the DMLE focus on the more routine cases instead of giving them any more reason to actively search for him.
He spent his time brewing potions for healing various maladies and boosting energy, studying arcane lore from the Black library, and reviewing his plan of action for the Ministry of Magic. He also practiced inscribing runic arrays to achieve various arcane results. Those experiments in turn led him to build a series of custom runestones to assist him with his plans.
It was almost five o'clock one Friday evening when Harry entered the Ministry atrium through the secret entry via the out-of-service phone-booth. He wore his invisibility cloak (which the elves had thoroughly investigated, removing the silver-coloured threads to which Dumbledore had affixed a series of monitoring charms), and had his mokeskin bag of holding attached to his belt.
Several low-ranking Ministry employees had started to gather in the atrium so they could leave as quickly as possible once five o'clock tolled. He carefully avoided them and caught the first lift going up to Level One. Upon exiting the lift, he made his way down the hall and into the Minister's chambers.
The Minister's secretary, an attractive blonde in her late twenties, was just rising to her feet when Harry snuck through the open door and stood to the side. He watched as she knocked on the door frame of the Minister's office. "Do you have anything else for me today, sir?" she inquired.
"Not today, Julia," he answered. "I'll see you Monday. Enjoy your weekend."
"Thank you, sir. You too." She collected her handbag and left the front office towards the lifts.
As soon as she was gone, Harry silently went to the back office where Minister Runcorn was finishing up the day's paperwork. Just as he'd done with the Yaxleys months before, he focused on the reversed Sowulo rune before invoking it aloud. Runcorn immediately collapsed on his desk, unconscious.
With the Minister incapacitated for the moment, Harry set up a minor notice-me-not ward. While it wouldn't thwart intense scrutiny, it was enough to deter passing interest, effectively making the passerby dismiss anything he or she might see as someone else's problem.
He did not want to seal and lock the Minister's door at the moment because that would likely draw attention rather than deflect it.
From there he went down to the second level and stood watch outside the auror headquarters. This would be a little trickier since there was heavier foot traffic here than on the first level – the admin personnel upstairs had already left to the atrium, while the evening-shift aurors had just started work an hour ago. Several teams were heading out to begin patrols, including one consisting of Kingsley Shacklebolt, Dora Tonks, and a bloke he didn't recognise, while others were doing paperwork or reviewing cases still pending trial. If his target was not alone, he would have to let him go and continue his plan without him.
The employees of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts division and the Improper Use of Magic division left their offices for the day while he stood outside the auror offices, hidden under his cloak. He felt a pang in his heart as he saw Arthur Weasley shuffle by. The deaths of his two youngest had obviously taken a toll. He had lost an unhealthy amount of weight and his once-red hair was now grey and limp. His shoulders were bowed over as he walked as if he carried the weight of the heavens upon them.
When Mafalda Hopkirk walked past, on the other hand, he couldn't help but to scowl at her. The witch had been on his case ever since the summer of 1992 when Dobby had levitated that cake at the stupid Dursleys' house and he'd been blamed for it.
Harry's patience was ultimately rewarded when he saw Pius Thicknesse walk out of the auror offices – alone. He followed the director to the lifts and hit him with a reverse Sowulo just as the door opened. He manoeuvred the unconscious man inside and hit the Up button. Once back up to the admin level, he levitated the director out of the lift, down the hall, and into the minister's office. He dropped the man on the floor without reviving him and readied himself to wait for a few hours. He pulled a book out of his mokeskin bag – a paperback novel called Without Remorse by an American writer named Tom Clancy – and settled in to read.
***EoD***
The ornate brass clock on the wall facing the minister's desk chimed half past ten when Harry stood up and stretched before putting his book back into the bag of holding. He pulled the drapes behind the desk aside just far enough to peek out the window to the atrium floor seventy-five feet below. The floor was mostly hidden in shadow, but a single dim light illuminated the security desk, while pale blue lights within the Fountain of Magical Brethren cast an eerie rippling glow about the golden statue.
Closing the drapes again, Harry turned to the large marble fireplace against the wall to the side of the desk. The thick carven mantle was supported by two half-columns flanking the fireplace, carved in the Corinthian style. The mantle was embossed with intricate ivy and vinework along with reliefs of small magical birds and animals.
Using the knowledge he'd torn from Fudge's mind, he placed his right thumb on the middle tail-feather of the phoenix and the little finger of the same hand on the eye of the nearby bowtruckle. Keeping his right hand in place, he slid his left hand under the mantle beneath the ashwinder's head until he felt a slight indentation. He moved his middle finger over the indentation, concentrated, and channeled a small burst of magic through each finger in sequence.
There was a small click followed by a faint grinding sound as the fireplace began to move, swinging out into the office. Behind the fireplace was a narrow passageway leading to an iron-bound door. Harry stepped inside and pushed the door open into a small circular chamber. A series of alcoves was cut into the stone wall, each one lit by a permanent magelight floating overhead.
The hidden chamber was the minister's secret archives, containing the most important documents legitimising the very existence of magical Britain. There were seven alcoves in total, each one containing a tome or parchment. In the first alcove rested a thick wood-and-leather bound volume entitled Codex Artorius, the law of ancient Briton as laid down by King Arthur and written down in the year 495.
Next was the Contractus Merlini, the treaty established by Merlin in 497 that delineated the relationships between the humans of Briton and the nonhuman magical folk that shared the land.
The next alcove held the single most important document in the room: the Magna Carta Magicae. This was the treaty signed by King John in 1216 mere months before he died that established the Wizards' Council, giving magical Britain the right of self-governance but also the responsibility of handling their own affairs. While the Wizards' Council was officially replaced by the Ministry of Magic in 1707, the original treaty was with the sworn King of England and therefore with the Royal Family as descended from William of Normandy. As magical oaths were sworn, the treaty was still considered magically binding to the Queen of England, despite the change of government for the magicals and the change of dynasty of the royals.
After that was the Wizengamot Charter of 1315, drafted during the chaos following Edward II's defeat at Bannockburn and granting the magical noble houses more say in the running of their government.
Following that was Britain's copy of the International Statute of Secrecy, signed in 1692, and the 1707 Transfer of Power, which disbanded the Wizards' Council and established the Ministry of Magic. Beside the Transfer of Power, in the last alcove was the Gringotts Charter of 1865, the treaty that ended the last goblin rebellion, established Gringotts as a separate independent nation, and set them up as the sole bankers for the magic users of Britain.
It sounded to Harry that magical Britain had not come out of that rebellion as well as the leaders would like to claim, which in turn cast doubt on the claims of rebellion to begin with, especially since Gringotts did not seek to directly rule over Britain's people at all.
In the centre of the chamber, suspended in a pillar of silver-blue light, was none other than the legendary sword Excalibur. Harry had no idea what the sword was even doing here – according to the legends it was claimed by Nimue, the Lady of the Lake, after the death of Arthur – but however it had come to be here he was positive that magical Britain as a whole was unworthy of the honour, far less the Ministry itself – especially as represented by any of the ministers of recent memory.
He detached the bag of holding from his belt and held it open underneath the point of the naked blade. He brought the bag up and around the blade, careful not to touch it himself, containing it in the magical bag. In point of fact he did not believe himself worthy to wield such a blade and out of respect declined to so much as touch it directly.
With Excalibur secured, he approached each alcove, levitating the document within out and into his bag, leaving the Magna Carta Magicae for last.
Not bothering to close the fireplace behind him, he went back into the office. He grabbed a couple of the explosive runestones he'd made over the past few months and put one on the desk beside Runcorn's head. The other was placed on the floor beside Thicknesse's body. Both men were still unconscious and under the influence of the reversed Sowulo rune. They would not awaken without the intentional dismissal by the same invoker.
Harry had no intention of doing so.
He left the minister's office and returned to the second level. His magesight showed him that there were six people inside the auror headquarters, plus another three in the Improper Use of Magic offices next door. The rest of the floor was empty.
As much as he was fed up with the magical world, he had no desire to harm the regular folk just doing their jobs. The so-called leaders, corrupt lords with more money than morals, and the perverters of justice – they were a different story.
Still, he did not need any of them bothering him right now. He quickly but precisely inscribed a wide-area runic array of protection on the doors of both occupied offices sufficient to keep the occupants safe, then sealed the doors and set up anti-apparation and portkey wards. It wouldn't do, after all, for anyone to interrupt him as he concluded his final manoeuvres.
The atrium was completely deserted when he stepped out of the lift down on the eighth level. The polished hardwood floor stretched off into the darkness, broken only by the lights from the Fountain of Magical Brethren in the centre of the hall and the spotlight on the security desk at the other end next to the public entry point accessed by the non-operational phone-booth up on the London street a couple of blocks north of Leicester Square. There were dim lights between the gilded fireplaces that lined each side of the hall, but they were not bright enough to do anything more than show where the walls were located.
Harry conjured a pale blue-white magelight and anchored it to himself so it hovered over his head but followed his movements. Moving out into the atrium, he approached the left side to study the architecture.
Between each fireplace a half-column curved out from the wall, disappearing somewhere overhead in the shadows concealing the peacock-blue ceiling. The lights between the fireplaces were anchored to the columns behind small brass cages. Above the fireplaces and between the columns were windows on each level that allowed the occupants of the myriad offices to look over the atrium at their leisure.
He quickly determined that the columns were load-bearing and therefore perfect for his mission. He removed a runestone from his mokeskin bag and affixed it to the nearest column just above the light by means of a sticking charm, repeating the process until each column had a runestone attached. Once finished, he returned to the lifts and took one down to the Department of Mysteries.
The lift opened up to the familiar corridor leading to a black door. Passing through it brought him to the maddening round room with a dozen doors. As best he could tell its placement would be directly underneath the Fountain of Magical Brethren in the atrium overhead. Knowing that the wall (and the doors it contained) would appear to rotate as soon as the door shut behind him, he closed his eye and waited for a couple of minutes until the room stopped spinning.
Fortunately, his magesight allowed him to see through the doors well enough to not get disoriented – especially when he realised that it was not actually the walls that spun. It was the floor itself that spun, but the magics laid upon it perfectly countered any sensation of movement, leaving the person experiencing it feeling that it was the walls moving instead.
As none of the load-bearing columns were immediately visible, Harry needed to explore the surrounding rooms to try to find them. He didn't recall seeing any columns when he was here last year, but at the moment he'd had other things on his mind. He retraced their steps through the brain room, time room, space room, Veil of Death room, and the Hall of Prophecy, attaching another runestone to each column he came across. While in the room with the Veil (where he lost both Sirius and Hermione) he took the opportunity to stick a runestone on the stone archway of the Veil.
He also ventured through some of the other doors, mostly finding office areas, but there was also a large modern-looking potion lab as well as an alchemy lab and several general-purpose research labs. Another time, he might have snooped around and maybe even lifted some small items that looked interesting, but his purpose tonight was single-minded. He had no interest in uncovering any secrets of the magical world anymore – he just wanted to bring it down before walking away for good.
He was affixing the runestone to the third column he'd found in the offices when his inner voice suggested that he move. Long experience had taught him not to argue, so he did so with alacrity. And just in time as a reducto curse flew through the space his neck had been moments before. The blue curse smashed into the column, sending razor-sharp splinters of marble flying in every direction.
Harry whipped around and saw someone in the grey hooded robes of the Unspeakables. Given that the cowled figure had opened with a lethal curse rather than try to capture him, he had no qualms activating the linked detonator runestone he held in his free hand.
The earth lurched violently as each runestone he'd placed on the columns exploded with enough force to pulverise a five-foot gap through each one. Upstairs in the minister's office, Runcorn and Thicknesse were instantly disintegrated from the stones placed next to their bodies.
Cracks spiderwebbed across the arched vault ceiling in all directions from the broken column. Harry head a muffled curse from the Unspeakable as the hooded figure tried desperately to magically shore up the column. The young wizard's presence was ignored in favour of trying to prevent the ceiling's collapse, but the Unspeakable's efforts were in vain. The cracks widened as the spread across the vault, allowing chunks of masonry to fall from the ceiling overhead and smash to the flagstone floor below.
While the Unspeakable's attention was on the collapsing structure, Harry focused on the Algiz rune of protection. Duplicating the rune and fanning it out until there were eight copies connected at the foot like the spokes of a wheel, he rounded the arms of each rune, added three crossbars down each leg, and inscribed a circle around the junction of the eight. When the image was clear in his mind (which took only a fraction of a second from his initial visualisation) he invoked the name of the array: "Aegishjalmur."
The sigil he'd visualised flared into existence under his feet, spreading out three yards in every direction in lines of bright blue fire. A transparent blue dome sprang up at the exterior circle surrounding the array and enclosed the young wizard even as a shower of broken stone rained down from overhead. A sizable chunk of debris struck the Unspeakable on the head, knocking the figure sprawling, unconscious. The spell attempting to secure the column fizzled out with a bang and an avalanche of masonry, rubble, dust, and debris fell into the space. The Unspeakable was crushed under tonnes of rubble, fortunately not having regained consciousness.
Harry was protected by the shield despite the weight crushing down. He gave an exasperated glare towards where the Unspeakable lay unmoving under the rubble, even though he couldn't see the body anymore. "Hope it was worth it, arsehole," he growled.
***EoD***
The first indication those sealed in the DMLE offices had that something was wrong was when multiple concussive blasts went off all at once. A violent tremor swept through the offices before the floor tilted and began sliding towards the atrium. Oddly enough, the walls, ceiling, and floor did not crack or buckle. Thunder sounded all around, mixed with sharp cracks and thuds as debris struck the exterior walls. Again, nothing broke through, much to the shock of the terrified occupants. The sealed rooms tumbled out into space as the entire ministry complex came crashing down into the atrium, yet even as the aurors and operators within were tossed around a bit not a one received so much as a bruise.
The rumbles and shaking continued for several more minutes as a crater opened up in central London a couple of blocks north of Leicester Square. Nonmagical buildings collapsed into the chasm, sending clouds of dust and debris into the air. As it all settled, there remained a wide hole in the ground filled with shattered concrete and asphalt, twisted metal, clumps of bricks, and splintered wood. Bent and broken conduits jutted out from the sides of the hole. Water poured from some while swinging electrical cables arced on exposed metal. There were also a couple of roiling jets of flame where ruptured gas lines had ignited.
On the surface, nonmagical emergency crews began to converge on the scene within minutes. News teams were close behind them, as were representatives of the affected utility companies. A command post was set up to coordinate the rescue attempt and the fire brigade began the painstaking work of clearing out the debris while keeping it from shifting. At the same time, reporters began their live broadcasts with the scant information they had put together while the utility companies scrambled to cut power, gas, and water to the affected area.
Senior Auror Gawain Robards climbed to his feet and immediately began checking on his shaken subordinates, including the hit wizard team. Fortunately, other than one of his aurors pissing himself when the room went into free-fall there had been no accidents of any kind. The office had likewise suffered no damage other than being torn out of its place and falling over fifty feet to land haphazardly on a pile of rubble below.
Robards knew there was an on-duty team at the Improper Use of Magic office next door, so after ensuring that his own people were okay he tried to check on them as well. The usual interoffice paper gliders would not leave the office through the conduit, and when he tried to open the door it refused to budge. Vanishing it revealed an impenetrable wall of debris on the other side. He knew better than to attempt to clear it out – he was more likely to trigger an avalanche than open a safe path of escape.
"Might as well get comfortable," he advised the rest of the team. "Looks like we're going to be here awhile."
He decided to send a messenger patronus to his good friend Shack, letting him know that something had happened to the Ministry, but the aurors and hit wizards on duty were alive and well. He had no idea if the shift from the Improper Use of Magic office was okay or not, but asked Shack to please make sure, if there was any way possible that he could.
In the meantime, there was plenty of food in the pantry and chiller in the break room, so there was no danger of them starving. He figured that if the auror office had survived falling and being buried like had obviously happened, then the likelihood of whatever spells protecting the office suddenly failing seemed remarkably low. The worst danger they appeared to be facing at the moment was boredom.
***EoD***
Senior Auror Shacklebolt was beyond relieved when he saw the ghostly Belgian malinois fly out of the wreckage-choked crater. The message from Robards caused a huge weight to be lifted from his shoulders. Given everything that had occurred over the course of the past year, it wouldn't surprise him in the slightest to learn that Harry Potter was responsible for the destruction of the Ministry. The survival of the aurors and hit wizards though was a good sign. Robards' description of what they'd experienced combined with the devastation he himself could see found him agreeing with his entrapped friend. There was no conceivable way that the people working tonight, to say nothing of the office itself, should have survived relatively unscathed had there not been outside interference preventing their injury. That meant in turn that while there was certainly blood on Potter's hands, he was not killing indiscriminately, and was in fact trying to restrict the lives he did take to those who arguably deserved it.
Auror Proudfoot visibly relaxed when he heard the message indicating that Robards and his team were still alive though entrapped. Nobody argued against the likelihood of the Potter lad's involvement, but while he didn't necessarily sympathise with him like Auror Tonks did, neither did he want to hunt him down and bring him in.
Not that they really had anywhere to contain anyone anymore.
Shacklebolt sent a patronus back to Robards acknowledging their situation, then several others to the squads out on patrol advising them to return to the Ministry with all haste.
The first and foremost mission would be to recover any and all survivors. After that… well, the government was effectively gutted, decapitated, and the remains burnt. There was little to no chance any records survived. Typical Ministry practice was to keep relevant files in each office, protected only by wood cabinets sealed by locking charms, cabinets which were now no doubt smashed to pieces with their contents dirty, soaked, ripped to pieces, and possibly burnt. The legal division of the DMLE was supposed to keep most if not all of the records in their archives – registrations, licenses, contracts, and whatnot – but since magic-users were inherently lazy many of those records may not have ever left the offices where they originated.
Not that it really mattered anymore. Properly filed in Legal or not, the paperwork for the entire Ministry was gone.
And that was something that would have to be dealt with later. As the units out on patrol began to report in, Shacklebolt took command and set them to assist the nonmagicals sifting through the rubble. He left Proudfoot to supervise and took Tonks with him to find the nonmagical incident commander. He knew already that this was going to be a nightmare to coordinate and hoped the Statute of Secrecy wouldn't be broken too severely.
***EoD***
It wasn't until the following morning that Albus Dumbledore learned that the Ministry had been destroyed, and even that was only due to his old friend Elphias Doge letting him know. Not a one of the aurors who had been in the Order bothered to contact him, nor did any of the Ministry personnel or Wizengamot members with whom he'd carefully built and maintained professional if not friendly relationships. It was a testament to how far his star had waned – there was a time not that long ago when no one would have so much as moved without consulting him. Now, he was on the verge of insignificance, and that fact hurt and scared him deeper than anything he'd ever experienced.
His good friend Doge sounded nearly catatonic when he'd sent his messenger patronus this morning with the horrific news. The headmaster quickly transfigured his ostentatious robes into a set of clothes that was the height of fashion – for the 1870s. Starched white shirt with stiff collar, scarlet silk cravat with violet dots, double-breasted waistcoat in violet paisley, tan trousers, black frock coat, polished black low-top boots, and a black silk top hat completed his ensemble – which was actually quite understated compared to what he normally wore. After all, going into muggle areas meant dressing as a muggle. Silently congratulating himself for his foresight, he attempted to floo to the Leaky Cauldron only to find that the network was down. Which, come to think of it, should have been obvious considering that the Floo Network Authority was now deep under the ruins of the Ministry. Grumbling to himself, he stepped out onto the balcony of his office and apparated to the pub instead. He felt that would be more discrete than suddenly appearing at the site of the ruined Ministry where, no doubt, even muggles would be gathering.
He strolled out into muggle London and began walking towards the location of the Ministry, ignoring the incredulous stares and muffled laughter of the passersby.
"Nice outfit, granddad," one young man snarked as he walked past. As he was wearing a black studded motorcycle jacket over a black ripped t-shirt, tight yellow plaid trousers with multiple chains draping from them, and mid-shin black motorcycle boots with red trim, not to mention a cobalt-blue mohawk haircut, Dumbledore felt that the young man really had no room to talk.
Less than five minutes later he neared the bustling chaos of the emergency response operation. Rescue operations were well underway by this time. A cordoned-off section was reserved for the inevitable news broadcast crews, with representatives of local, national, and international networks in attendance. Images of the vast crater, multiple cranes lifting loads of debris, and rescue workers wearing reflective vests and hard hats were even now being broadcast all around the world.
The aged headmaster shook his head in irritation. This incident had gotten entirely out of hand. The muggles should never have been allowed anywhere near the scene. He looked around and was pleasantly surprised to see Kingsley Shacklebolt on the other side of the yellow caution tape. He immediately walked over, lifted the tape, and approached the auror. "Ah, Kingsley, my boy! How…"
"Albus, what the fuck are you doing here?" Shacklebolt demanded. "This is a restricted area and you are not authorised to be here. And what the bloody hell are you wearing? Are you trying to break the Statute any more than it already is?"
"I assure you…"
"Right now you couldn't assure me that water is wet. Just leave, Albus. You have no business here."
"Kingsley, I really must insist…"
"Albus, you are the Hogwarts headmaster only, though how you managed to keep that position I'll never know. You are not the Chief Warlock anymore, nor are you the delegate to the ICW, let alone the Supreme Mugwump. You are nothing more than a civilian, and if you don't clear out in the next fifteen seconds I'll have you arrested."
"This is quite unnecessary…"
"Ten seconds."
Grumbling to himself, a scowling Dumbledore turned and reluctantly crossed back to the other side of the tape. Surely Kingsley had known him long enough to understand how important each scrap of information could be! Once on the other side, he turned back to the auror.
"Really, Kingsley," he called out. "I'm quite certain that the unfortunate misunderstandings regarding my other positions will be sorted out shortly, so there's rather no point in not speaking with me. It is imperative that you tell me everything you have learned about this catastrophe!"
The furious auror stormed over to where the old man stood on the other side of the tape. "Merlin's wand, Albus! You are a walking violation of the Statute and I don't have time to deal with your nonsense! Get the fuck off the street right now, go home, and wait for the bloody Prophet article like everyone else, or I swear to Hecate herself that I'll have you up on every charge I can possibly get away with. Leave!" He punctuated his final word by thrusting his index finger towards the Leaky Cauldron.
Dumbledore pursed his lips together tightly enough that his mouth was hidden entirely behind his beard and moustache. "Very well," he conceded, albeit reluctantly. "This isn't over, my boy."
"It is for now," the auror snapped. "People may be dying while I'm wasting time with your shit. Good day, headmaster." With that, Shacklebolt turned and stalked off.
The old man turned away and retraced his steps back to the Leaky Cauldron, lost in thought. He was no closer to learning the cause of the Ministry's destruction, though he had no doubt in his mind that somehow young Potter was involved. He shook his head in sorrow once more as he considered how far the lad had fallen. He needed to find the boy and get him back under control, and every day that passed without doing so only increased the urgency.
He made his decision as he entered the dingy pub. Instead of going to the apparation point, he walked back to the courtyard containing the hidden entry to Diagon Alley, ending the transfiguration on his clothing as he went. The Victorian-era ensemble reverted back to the garish, eye-wrenching robe, open over-robe, and flat brimless cap he preferred. In the courtyard, he tapped the appropriate bricks with his wand and stepped into the Alley.
Diagon Alley curved away slightly to the right, hiding most of the destruction from the fire behind the curve. Even so, the little he could see from where he stood indicated that the repair efforts were going well. He wasn't sure if Knockturn Alley would (or even should) be repaired, but the last of the ash and debris had been cleared out just last week.
Fortunately, the Daily Prophet headquarters stood untouched by that strange fire that had destroyed Knockturn and the end of Diagon Alley. He should be able to get word posted stressing the need to get young Harry back under his authority, and with any luck someone somewhere would know something and get the information back to him.
***EoD***
Has Our Saviour Turned Dark?
Headmaster Dumbledore Proposes Alternative to Azkaban for Boy-Who-Lived
The Daily Prophet's headline and attached article alternated with another one that reported on what was known about the destruction of the Ministry of Magic (which wasn't much) and the absence of the minister and the director of the DMLE. The article about Potter was centred around an interview of the headmaster which critiqued the behaviour of Harry Potter since the end of the 1995-1996 school year. Not much was known of his activities after the school year ended, but Dumbledore did not neglect to point out that Harry had admitted to the brutal murders of Cornelius Fudge and Dolores Umbridge. In light of that, he wondered if the boy had also been involved in the mysterious murders of several former imperiused Death Eaters. It was, he said, not something that he really wanted to think was possible, but considering that the Ministry had some concern about his involvement he felt it was only prudent to acknowledge the same. If Harry was involved, then he feared the boy had turned even darker than he'd first realised. What made this tragedy even more bitter was that the boy still had an important destiny to fulfil.
The headmaster reluctantly admitted that young Harry had disappeared right after school ended for the summer. He hadn't said anything at the time because he did not want to incite panic or encourage unsavoury elements of their society to begin hunting him themselves, but he hadn't reckoned on the Fudge administration being so hell-bent on questioning the lad. He'd vehemently protested Harry being tried in absentia, but there had been nothing he could do to stop it from occurring. Even he, though, was surprised at the brutality of Harry's response. And yet, he went on, both Fudge and Umbridge would still be among the living had they but deigned to heed his wisdom.
Yes, by all appearances Harry Potter had fallen into darkness. However, Dumbledore believed that he could still fulfil his destiny and perhaps even be redeemed. The lad would have to submit himself to the headmaster's guardianship and tutelage for that to even be a possibility. He implored the public to please contact him with any information they might have which would lead to finding their hero, and he swore that he would do all in his power to bring the boy back to the light and to save him, even from himself.
Harry tossed the paper aside, disgusted with the old man. Still playing his games, still trying to manipulate and control everyone and everything in his self-perceived domain. With the final destruction of Tom Riddle, he was pretty sure that whatever destiny he may have had was fulfilled already. It was evident that if he were to ever be completely free from the old man's games then Dumbledore would have to die. He realised that the old man would never let him rest, never let him live his own life, no matter where he went. The headmaster would pursue him to the ends of the earth if that's what it took.
As much as he hated Dumbledore, though, he could not deny that the headmaster was unmatched in terms of skill and experience, not to mention sheer cunning. He was convinced that the old man was more Slytherin than Lucius Malfoy on his best day.
Fighting Dumbledore would no doubt turn out to be an extremely dangerous proposition, possibly even lethal. Even with his status as the adopted son of Odin it would be best to not underestimate the wily old man – he'd learned from Fenrir Greyback that he wasn't immortal or incapable of receiving injury.
He accepted the possibility of him not surviving his encounter with Dumbledore. It did not bother him; on the contrary, the thought of reuniting with Hermione made him all the more eager to face the old man and be done with it all.
The only issue, he realised, was the combined fortunes of the Potter and Black houses. He had no desire for either to find its way into the hands of anyone undeserving, especially those who contributed to magical Britain being in the state it was in. The only people he could think of who might be deserving were Remus Lupin and Dora Tonks, but he wasn't sure how loyal they were to the old man. And given what he'd just read in the paper he couldn't afford to take any chances. Not this close to the endgame.
He finished his tea and went upstairs to the Lord Black's office. A stately mahogany desk dominated the centre of the room. Stained and varnished a deep blood red that was almost black and featuring a raven in flight carved on the front and coiled snakes coiled up the corners, it was an imposing sight. He sat in the leather-bound chair behind the desk and opened the top drawer, pulling out a piece of parchment. He proceeded to pen a letter to Ironclaw explaining his dilemma, apologising for writing rather than showing up in person, and asking if it was possible to bequeath an inheritance with the stipulation that certain parties would never be able to benefit. After signing it, he folded it from the bottom and then from the top before removing a stick of red sealing wax from the drawer. Using a candle to melt the wax, he dripped a puddle across the top edge of the parchment and the middle over which it was folded. While the wax was still wet, he conjured a stamp that depicted the Valknut, symbol of Odin among other things, and the Sowulo rune, which was an exact match to the shape of his infamous scar.
Dobby eagerly took the letter to the Potter account manager and returned not long after with a reply. Harry was relieved to see that adding a provision in a will through magical oath or unbreakable vow was quite simple and actually done often enough to be considered routine. Ironclaw did say that since he'd never actually drafted a will, Harry would have to come to Gringotts in person, though Dobby could bring him straight to the bank and therefore avoid being seen in Diagon Alley. Just let him know when he wanted to come over and he would have everything arranged for Harry to draft it and sign.
The young man met with his account manager later that same week, discretely arriving via a loyal house elf in a secured room far from the public lobby of the bank. After a meeting that lasted a couple of hours, most of which was spent going over his assets, he had a clear understanding of just how much he was worth. It was little surprise how badly so many factions wanted to wipe him out and steal his fortunes. He split the combined fortunes of those dark families he'd conquered into the Potter and Black vaults, formally dissolving the families upon the emptying of their vaults. When all was said and done, he arranged several bequests to be dispersed upon his word or death, whichever came first. For Luna Lovegood, still laid up in the Long-Term Spell Damage ward of St Mungo's, any and all expenses for her care were set up, as well as ₲100,000 for her personal use. After a moment's consideration, he also made arrangements for the services of a qualified mind healer to be provided to Daphne Greengrass at no expense to her, in addition to another ₲100,000 for her. No one should have to bear the burden which had been inflicted upon her by the late Tom Riddle. The Weasleys were to receive an anonymous gift of ₲250,000 in consideration of his friendship with their children, but knowing that even a life-changing amount of coin such as this could never replace the loss of their two youngest, Harry felt it was better to not dredge up those tragic memories. For the same reason Hermione's parents were also to receive an anonymous gift of ₲500,000. For the rest, Lupin and Tonks were set to inherit the Potter and Black estates respectively. Neither of them would know of their windfall until Harry was no longer in this world, and they would both have to make unbreakable vows that none of the wealth would ever be given to Dumbledore or his Order of the Phoenix.
Once his will was finalised and signed, he asked if Ironclaw would indulge him for a few more minutes of his time.
"It's your money," the account manager said, not unkindly.
"I have a document that your nation may find useful," Harry explained. "I don't know what you might do with it, since as best I could tell your nation came out on the better end of the deal, but I'm sure a people as clever as yourselves could put it to good use." With that, he presented Ironclaw with the Ministry's copy of the Gringotts Charter of 1865.
Wide-eyed, the goblin took it in his hands. "Is this the actual copy?" he asked.
"I took it from the minister's secret archives myself," Harry agreed.
"Your instincts are correct, young man. I am quite certain that our nation will indeed put it to good use." Ironclaw could barely wait to place this document in the hands of Ragnok, the head of the bank and ruler of the goblin nation.
"Good," Harry said. "As I look back on the few times I've been able to visit your bank, it's clear to me that my people have behaved appallingly towards yours." The disdain in his voice as he spoke of his fellow wizards and witches surprised the goblin in its bitterness. "I won't ask for mercy or understanding for them, but I hope instead that you will be able to get some justice for their behaviour."
"Gringotts appreciates your concern and your gift," Ironclaw replied.
Harry nodded. "I'm just glad I can help," he said. "Your nation certainly deserves better than it's received in the past. Now, I have one last question, and a request."
"Proceed."
"How difficult would it be to make sure certain items are given straight to Her Majesty the Queen?"
Ironclaw's eyes widened again. "You do not ask the impossible," he carefully said. "Technically," he added after a moment's thought.
"But it could be done?"
"Difficult, but we could do it if it were worth it."
"I'd be happy to pay any fee or penalty you deem sufficient."
The old goblin smiled. "I would need to know what exactly is being presented before I could say anything further. That will determine what, if anything, can be done."
Harry smiled back and reached into his mokeskin bag of holding, carefully removing the Codex Artorius and placing it gently on Ironclaw's desk.
The goblin's mouth fell open. "Is that…?" He fell silent as the Contractus Merlini was placed on top of it, followed by the rest of the documents Harry had stolen from the minister's office with the Magna Carta Magicae at the top of the pile. He nearly fainted when the young man put on a pair of dragonhide gloves, reached into his bag, and slowly drew forth…
"Excalibur?"
"The one and only," Harry said.
"How in the…" Ironclaw snapped his mouth shut, reached up and rubbed his temples, and shook his head violently. "It doesn't matter," he stated. "Yes, I think this would certainly be worth it. Are these also from the minister's secret archives?"
"All of them. I have here a letter explaining each of these documents to the Queen. I also have an argument for how magical Britain is in blatant violation of the terms of the Magna Carta Magicae, complete with newspaper articles and photos as my proof, and just how she might revoke the treaty as she is the only one with the authority to do so."
"And when do you want this delivered?"
"I go to face Dumbledore in a few weeks – I want to make sure all the students and most of the staff has left Hogwarts before I do so. I do not expect both of us to walk away. If I am victorious, I will contact you when it is done and you may send the package then. If I fall, my will goes into execution, and you may send the package then in that case."
The goblin gave his young client a long, measured look. "It will be as you say," he agreed. "I will pray to Maglubiyet for your victory. Good luck, my young friend."
***AN***
Fall of the Ministry: Fade Under by A Tergo Lupi