Black Luminary

by YakAge

The war against the Dark Lord was the last straw. The oppressed, fed up with oligarchy, corruption, and injustice, sharpened their knives, rallying behind those who promised change. They won. Today, Magical Britain is a changed country – for the better. Hail and praise to our saviours! Finally, all is well. But listen! Can't you hear the grindstone turning still ...?

46. VoD: Divergence

This chapter is dedicated to Haley, Daze, and Shu.

Divergence

---

Aenor turned her back on the Auror as soon as she saw her spells connect, her alert eyes darting towards Harry.

'You okay, Harry?' she asked, cocking her head.

Harry didn't acknowledge her question. For what felt like minutes, the words raced up and down his nerves, until eventually some synapses that still weren't yet overwhelmed by fatigue and the brutally shifting tides of luck decided that it was about time to move some muscles in the general area of the jaw.

'What the...?! What are you doing here?!'

Aenor raised an eyebrow. 'Saving your hide – again? You're welcome, by the way.'

Pushing himself clumsily against the arch to sit up, Harry shot his teacher another, slightly reproachful look. 'What do you mean "again"? Did you attack all those Aurors in the Atrium?'

'Really? You still don't get it?' She flashed him a playful grin, slowly closing the distance. 'If you don't get it until I've finished patching you up, I'll fail you on your end-of-year exam!'

'I can heal my own wounds!'

'I'm not saying that you can't, but we might want to hurry it up. This may sting a bit.'

'What are y-'

Harry was interrupted by a pair of spells hitting his chest, knocking the air out of him. His insides were writhing, burning. To his distress, he could feel something crawling under his skin – living tendrils of flesh worming around his muscles and bones. He gritted his teeth. Ten seconds of what felt worse than Polyjuice later, the strange sensation vanished as fast as it had come, taking the accumulated wariness within his body with it. Even the bruise on his cheek felt better.

Disbelievingly, he gave his hand a shake. The cut was still there, but it looked as if the wound was days old. 'What was that spell?' he demanded eagerly, his eyes wide with envy.

Aenor chuckled. 'Not something you want to use on a regular basis. The charm overcharges the regenerative power of the body. Your cells will-'

'...age unnaturally fast. Yeah, I get it,' he finished her sentence, sighing wistfully. He should've known it was too good to be true.

Aenor looked pleased. 'Anyway, you get Davis and let's get out of here. I'm not sure how much longer the Fiendfyre will keep the Aurors at bay.'

'Wait, that was your curse back there?! And did you say Fiendfyre?!'

'Of course, it was.' She shook her head, sighing like a woman after a busy day in the office. 'If only I'd known that teaching would be such a hassle. Your grandfather is a slave driver.'

'Grandfather...?' repeated Harry rather lamely.

'Come on – get a grip already! I've been following you guys around all year, trying to keep you alive. The Forest, London, Hogsmeade – you name it. Did you really think your grandfather would let you wander the post-apocalyptic Muggle wasteland on your own? Please!'

'Wait – so that was you?! With the building? I knew it was a miracle that we hadn't been smashed...'

She beamed at him, petting his head like a dog that, at long last, had learned to shake hands. 'That's right; I'm the higher power that saved you.'

Harry groaned, trying to ignore Aenor's teasing grin. 'Why didn't you tell me?!'

'I wasn't supposed to. Guess it doesn't really matter anymore since I had to finally reveal myself. Hopefully that's enough babysitting for now.'

'How did Grandfather even manage to coax you into this?!'

Aenor's playful expression turned sour. 'Your old man is nasty!' From the tone of her voice, Harry couldn't tell if she was truly angry or impressed despite herself. 'You remember that aunt of yours that made me swear an Unbreakable Vow? The exact wording was "to never betray the trust we place in you regarding Harry's safety".' Aenor hid her eyes behind her palm in apparent embarrassment. 'I can't believe I didn't spot that one. Guess what happened as soon as that malign dinosaur you call a grandfather was back in England?! Strode right into my office – without even knocking, mind you – and informed me that, with some dark monsters about, he trusted that I'd keep you safe from any harm. What a joke!'

Aenor angrily rubbed her arm.

'Oh, er, sorry?' offered Harry with a weak grin.

She shot him a look – one of those glances that had Harry inventing excuses as to why he wouldn't be able to partake in any upcoming training sessions.

'It wasn't all bad, I suppose,' she continued, her glare softening somewhat. 'I did get to see some interesting magic at least. Anyway, you can fire your questions later, let's get out of here first. Go grab Davis and wake her up already. Otherwise, I'll fail you next year, too!'

'Wait, you were joking, right? You won't actually fail me, will you?! You healed me instantly – how did I even stand a chance?!'

She shrugged, suspiring dramatically. 'Men are supposed to take their defeats with grace! You aren't whining now, are you, Harry?'

He glowered but kept his mouth shut, walking over to Tracey. Gently, he rolled the petite witch on her back. 'Was it really necessary to butcher the Aurors like that?' he muttered, deciding he'd brave the uncomfortable question after all.

'Not at all. Originally, I only intended to pave a way for you, but a few of them were more skilled than I'd anticipated.' She pointed at her left shin, where her entire robe was missing. 'Like there – that Asian floozie got me with some strange transfiguration. Had to vanish part of my leg. Or here,' she pointed at her shoulder. 'Someone grazed me with a twofold Blasting Curse.' Realising he was looking at her robes with interest, she sniggered, pointing at a tear below her neckline. 'Or here! That one was-'

'I get the picture,' Harry blurted out, averting his gaze and blushing slightly.

'Anyway, I only stunned the first few Aurors, but those special Aurors from the ICW are annoyingly serious about their profession. They didn't even want to listen to me. I guess I got a bit angry when they tried to do me in.'

A bit angry, Harry reflected grimly, shuddering as he remembered the mess Aenor had left behind near the elevators. 'One of them looked like he died of fright,' he muttered.

'Oh. Well, at some point, I didn't bother to parley anymore. Some of those Aurors were trained to resist memory modifications. Pesky and tenacious – I guess it's a relief that the ICW isn't entirely useless but I had a schedule to keep – I never intended you to find me down here. But what's done is done, I suppose...' She held up the wand she'd pilfered from one of the Aurors Harry had obliviated in London and gave it a closer inspection. 'Good wand. I always preferred Gregorovitch... Well, whatever.' With a snap, she broke the wand in half, tossing the pieces over her shoulder.

So that's why there wasn't any wound... Harry pressed his lips together until they tingled, his eyes concentrated on the slumped body of a woman that died in a glorious display of vile magic, her entire soul ripped in three parts by means of the one curse.

He averted his eyes. Thankfully, Tracey looked relatively unharmed. Even in her rage, the late American Auror had – or so it seemed – managed to hold back. Harry rummaged with some amount of care in Daphne's trunk, deciding to nag his cousin at some later point in time on why she'd chosen to have her trunk warded against summoning items from within. Only a few seconds later, he instead vowed to never mention this incident ever again after his hands confronted him with a distinctly female item of clothing he was not in the least mentally prepared to face. He squeezed his eyes shut with all his might, listening, awaiting the clinking of glassy phials that promised accelerated healing.

Eventually, Tracey awoke, wrapped in her own blanket depicting smiling and fluffy white clouds upon which happily snoozing hippogriphs of various colours rested in front of a shockingly pink sky.

'Nice blanket, Davis,' commented Aenor with a smug grin.

Tracey's bemused expression immediately turned defensive and angry, her accusing stare pinning Harry to the spot.

Harry sighed, rubbing the back of his head. 'This might take some explaining...'

'No doubt, but I'd rather get going already. I have confidence in my spellwork, but even if the Aurors or Unspeakables try to preserve as much of the Ministry as they can, they're bound to overcome the fire sooner or later. Where's the rest of your little gang? I need to fix you all up, and you need to learn your lines.'

'Hogsmeade, but what about Dum-' protested Tracey.

'Just shut up and follow my lead. We'll go back together,' said Aenor in a commanding voice, producing another black Ministry Portkey.

Tracey, eyes narrowed, hissed angrily – like a cat forced to abandon its nap in the sun.

'No need for hostilities, Davis,' said Aenor with a smirk that worried Harry. 'I've got an exciting plan; you'll see! Did you leave any witnesses, Harry?'

'No, I obliviated that Japanese lady and her colleague.'

'Turned them into drivelling fools?' asked Aenor. Harry thought he detected a rather expectant undertone in her voice.

'Er, no?'

Aenor flicked her tongue. 'It doesn't matter, I suppose. The fire will have prevented anyone from fleeing, and my opponents are in no condition to report our identity. I'd say we're good to go!' She stealthily swished her own shiny ivory wand over the floor, etching some kind of picture into the stone. It looked like another bird, this one with a small, plump body and a very distinctive tail. Sadly, Harry was no ornithologist.

Seeing his raised eyebrow, Aenor winked at him, putting a forefinger to her lips. 'The next few hours are going to be rather nerve-wracking; I suggest the both of you better have a big swig of this to soothe the nerves. Trust me, it'll come in handy.'

From another unseen pocket within her strange robes, she produced a jug of something that smelled vaguely of apples.

Harry raised an eyebrow. 'You're kidding, right?'

It appeared, however, that their teacher was not kidding. 'Less whining, more action! We won't leave until the both of you have emptied that! And there's no telling when the Aurors will turn up...'

'It's not poisoned, is it?' demanded Tracey suspiciously.

Aenor rolled her eyes and took a small sip. 'Satisfied? Now, get to it!'

'Is this really something a teacher, no matter how dubious, should say?' mumbled Tracey sarcastically. She looked at him in question. Harry shrugged non-committally. He just wanted to sleep, and if it only took drinking this highly suspect liquid to get some sleepy time, well, how bad could it go?

'Alright,' said Tracey, raising the jug. 'This better be some damn good plan...'

~BLVoD~

'…and that's when I found them in Hogsmeade, hidden away in the Shrieking Shack, having their little drinking contest.'

Harry, through the haze of the cider, stared straight ahead. He couldn't tell if the heat crawling up his spine was embarrassment, anger, or inebriation. He clenched his fists. If only Aenor would stop smirking already. It didn't help that his grandfather and the entire Board of Governors were lurking in the background, invited to witness the proceedings. Esmerelle Greengrass' gaze, in particular, could have frozen the Great Lake.

He'd never felt so humiliated in his entire life.

'Indeed,' said Dumbledore severely, his wizened face expressionless. Their head of house stood behind the headmaster, scowling and disgusted. 'And Miss Greengrass, Mr and Miss Lestrange, as well as Mr Malfoy were just there to observe the challenge?'

'Sir, we tried our best to make them come back!' pleaded Draco, sickeningly sycophantic. 'Drinking alcohol is against the school rules, after all, and Harry wasn't even out of the infirmary y- OUCH!'

'Miss Greengrass, Miss Lestrange, detention!' drawled Snape.

'Sorry, sir,' replied Amy, unconcerned, her natural cynicism restored thanks to the first aid Aenor had applied in Hogsmeade.

'So you mean to tell us,' hissed Prewett, his left eye twitching angrily, 'that you didn't leave Hogsmeade and had no other goal in mind than to frivolously break with a dozen school rules to have a drinking contest?!'

'Why would we leave Hogsmeade?' asked Harry curiously, concentrating hard on the second of three visions of Prewett his brain was currently confronting him with. Multiplication, no matter how hallucinated, didn't improve the man much, Harry decided.

Snape's lips curled unpleasantly – but then he merely scowled again, apparently thinking better of answering.

'But this is utter nonsense!' protested Prewett, apoplectic. 'This is the most blatant, feeble, and pathetic excuse I've ever heard! Surely, you must see this, Headmaster?!'

Most helpfully, Tracey chose this moment to point at Prewett, giggling. 'Your ears are funny-looking!'

Dumbledore inclined his head, his brilliant eyes focusing entirely on Harry. After three unnaturally long seconds, he said, 'Well, Mr Black and Miss Davis do appear to be intoxicated. Did you find anything on any of them when you searched them, Severus?'

Snape's lips twitched again as if the answer was causing internal injuries. 'With the exception of that clay jug? No, Headmaster.'

'Ridiculous!' yelled Prewett, stamping his foot. 'They could've gone anywhere! How do we know they didn't leave Hogsmeade?!'

'None of these students has passed his or her Apparition test yet,' said Aenor calmly. 'How do you picture them leaving Hogsmeade, Professor Prewett?'

'He's a Black, for Merlin's sake! How can we be sure he doesn't know how to apparate?!'

'Underage apparition is tracked by the Ministry, is it not?' asked Aenor softly.

'Portkey, then! We all know he has a history with Portkeys!'

Prewett looked victoriously at Aenor.

'And yet, as far as we can tell, no illegal Portkey was detected within the grounds of Hogsmeade this evening.' Dumbledore sounded tired. With a little sigh, he leaned back in his heavy chair, his stern eyes still sizing Harry and his friends up.

'He brought it then! Must have done!'

'We are all aware that no common Portkey could breach the place you are so convinced Mr Black and his friends illegally entered, Randall.'

This, it seemed, was the last straw for their History of Magic teacher. 'YOU CANNOT LET HIM GET AWAY WITH THIS! They were there, I know it!'

'At the very least,' agreed Snape, looming over Dumbledore's throne like a carnivorous houseplant, 'Mr Black and company admit to leaving the castle.'

'True,' admitted Dumbledore. 'Do you have anything else you wish to add, Mr Black? Miss Davis?'

Tracey, bright red and leaning heavily on her best friend, shook her head. She stopped in the middle of the motion, eyes wide, both hands firmly pressed against her mouth.

'No, sir,' said Harry. As an afterthought, he added with a blithe grin, 'Except that I totally crushed the contest, of course.'

Dumbledore coughed delicately. 'I meant, if you had anything to add to your defence, Harry.'

'Oh, er...In that case, no, I don't think so, sir.'

'At any rate,' surmised Dumbledore, his gaze riveted on a portrait on the far wall, 'I'll leave the matter of punishment entirely up to you, Severus. But rest assured that I shall be writing your parents an official letter of complaint about your behaviour tonight. Yes, that includes you, Mr Malfoy.'

'But, sir!' whined Draco, casting a fretful look in his father's direction.

Harry followed the headmaster's gaze. Among the dozens and dozens of portraits that covered more than one wall, one frame was entirely charred and barren.

'Even though the latest security measures have been lifted, you acted most irresponsibly by leaving the castle instead of contacting your head of house or any prefect. I appreciate that doing so might have felt like betraying your friends-'

'...no, that's really not the case, sir...'

'But in your misguided attempt to keep your friends out of trouble,' continued Dumbledore, ignoring Draco's protestations, 'you endangered not only yourself but potentially those you meant to protect. Good intentions, you will find, make for a good excuse but a bad alibi.'

Harry's eyes were riveted to the floor.

'We'll see about this,' snapped Prewett, throwing one last hateful glance at Arcturus before stalking off.

Dumbledore watched his History teacher leave. 'Be that as it may, for now, it is time for bed. Harry, Madame Pomfrey will want to check up on you tomorrow.'

'Yes, sir.'

'You will be informed of your punishment tomorrow at breakfast,' interposed Snape.

'Do you have any concerns or objections?' asked Dumbledore, his words – for once – directed at the silent crowd in the background.

Lucius Malfoy narrowed his eyes. 'None. Such boorish and uncouth behaviour is a disgrace to the name of magic. I shall take a personal interest in the punishment to be handed out.'

Draco, Harry noticed despite the distracting gurgling noises his stomach produced and the fuzzy mist that currently clouded his vision, flinched.

'How about the children? Do you feel like you're being treated fairly?' asked a blurry shape Harry barely recognised as Mr Abbott.

Someone elbowed Draco just as he was about to open his mouth again.

'Yes, sir,' the rest of them chorused obediently.

'Well, off you go, then,' said Dumbledore with a sad little smile. 'Try not to stray...'

When Harry passed Aenor, he felt her covertly put something in the pocket of his robes.

Daphne's trunk! he thought, grateful that he wouldn't have to explain to his cousin that the teacher she hated most was currently in possession of her belongings.

'Professor Rose?' They heard Dumbledore's voice call out as soon as the door closed behind them. 'A short word please...'

On the way down the steps, Harry nearly collided with Professor McGonagall, who seemed to be in a particularly foul mood. She looked dazed, holding her head as if suffering from an intense headache. She was also – mysteriously – glaring angrily at Harry. 'Po... Black – detention!' she barked, groaning and staggering up the stairs.

'What's got her all riled up?!' asked Draco in a hushed voice as soon as they were out of earshot.

'I have no idea,' confessed Harry, nonplussed.

'Daphy!' groaned Tracey. 'I'm not feeling so well. Carry me!'

Daphne, however, kept staring straight ahead, acting as if her best friend was some total stranger.

'Why are you and Tracey drunk again, mate? This is utterly ridiculous!' complained Draco. 'Look at the trouble I'm in!'

'Please...let's not go there tonight. I just want to go to bed...'

'Yes, who cares?! This is fun! Come on – princess carry! Please, Daphy, just this once!' whined Tracey.

They all marched on in silence.

'I can charm my eyes green like Harry's if it helps,' Tracey offered.

'Can we all agree not to give Tracey any alcohol – ever?' proposed Amy, dead serious.

They all nodded somberly, especially Draco, who had been treated to ten minutes of various forms of 'What is vain, snobby, proud, probably an albino, and rhymes badly with sex toy?'

Tracey giggled. 'I love you guys,' she slurred, her voice purring like a cat. 'Except you, Harry, because this is all your fault! And Draco – but who could really love Draco anyway.' She clapped Draco, who was ashen with anger, happily on the back. 'Good thing you're rich – you might have died all alone otherwise!'

~BLVoD~

Arcturus watched Dumbledore and Snape question Rose, outwardly unmoved. She did well, he had to admit, given that she was cross-examined by both the headmaster and Slytherin's head of house, both individuals of praiseworthy cunning in their own right, not to mention several more liberal or neutral Board members. At least Esmerelle would pose no problem here – she would do all she could to keep the incident as inconsequential as possible to prevent the public impression that her family still had ties to his. Rodolphus, on the other hand, looked disinterested. Good man. It was also fortuitous that the Longbottoms had to send a proxy in their stead. Frank was straightforward and – as such – easy enough to deal with, even if he possessed by all rights a very keen mind. Alice, by stark contrast, should always have been a Slytherin.

'Please, describe once more the exact scene you witnessed as you stumbled upon the students in as much detail as you can recollect, Professor Rose,' requested Dumbledore politely. It certainly sounded like a request.

'As I said, Headmaster,' returned the young woman calmly, 'they were all huddled around Mr Black and Miss Davis, who kept passing the jug between the two of them. The others, with the exception of Mr Lestrange, were cheering them on, though Miss Greengrass, at least, seemed somewhat apprehensive.'

'Who held the jug when you found them?' asked Snape, a great deal less polite than Dumbledore.

'Mr Black.'

'Why were you out of the castle again, Professor Rose? We could find no trace of either you or Professor McGonagall upon our arrival – though Minerva's absence has, of course, been explained since,' inquired Abbott curiously.

Arcturus suppressed the urge to chuckle. Rodolphus didn't, earning himself a fierce glare. Minerva was currently seated in a corner of the magically expanded room, cared for by the ever-faithful Poppy.

'As I explained, Mr Abbott, I was heading for a stroll outside. I was given to understand that the Board usually announces inspections ahead of time, so I didn't give it a second thought. Am...Am I in trouble?' she asked, looking so lovingly worried, so vulnerable.

Well done, thought Arcturus with commendation. Carrot and stick, both wrapped in a soft layer of innocence. It seems I wasn't the only one teaching my descendant rhetoric. I just wish Harry had a bit more of her casual confidence...

'No, no, my dear!' Abbott assured the seemingly anxious young lady. 'We just wish to get a clear picture of what happened tonight.'

'Oh. Of course! Is there something else I can help with, then?'

Regrettably, not all of those present were taken in as easily as Abbott or as readily provoked as Prewett.

'I seem to recall,' said Dumbledore, 'that the...recommendation...we received to accept your application mentioned your mnemonic prowess. Could you, please, tell us in which order the students sat – as you say – huddled around Mr Black and Miss Davis?'

Mnemonic prowess Miss Rose will indeed need this evening – if only not to get tangled in contradictions.

'Tell me, Professor Rose,' drawled Snape with an evil glint to his dark eyes, 'theoretically speaking, what would be the most likely way for a group of students to invade the Ministry. As the Defence the Dark Arts teacher, you surely have some ideas – purely hypothetical, of course.'

And evade implicating questions...

But, to his temporary relief, Rose did well after all. Ten minutes of gruelling and devilishly tricky questions most hardened criminals wouldn't face unless called before the entire Wizengamot, Lucius and the ever so expedient Abbott patriarch raised thinly veiled concerns about the appropriateness of the proceedings.

'I apologise, Professor Rose,' said Dumbledore, shrinking a bit in his seat. 'It seems we went a bit too far. The Ministry will, if I may be so bold as to hazard a guess, likely seek an official statement from you in the coming days – if I know our History teacher at all. As far as Hogwarts goes, you may consider this matter closed.'

'Thank you, Headmaster.' She bowed politely, first to her colleague, then the Board, and finally to Dumbledore. 'I think I shall retire for the night. A good evening to you all.'

A dozen pairs of eyes watched her leave. Arcturus felt gratified that she had chosen to rub it in that some people, at least, still knew their manners.

'I have to ask, Dumbledore,' began Lucius, his voice drenched with venom. 'You and your staff seem...oddly fixated on implicating Mr Black, Professor Rose, and my son! Should I be worried that you're taking this personally? If so, I might feel inclined to...follow your example!'

From the corner of his eye, he could see that both Poppy and – surprisingly – Minerva looked a shade uncomfortable.

Dumbledore inclined his head. 'Not at all, Lucius. I'm sorry to hear that you feel that way.'

'What then is the reason for this mysterious endeavour to frame my son and the other children?' asked Lucius in the tone of a barely concealed demand.

Snape and Dumbledore shared a glance.

'Professor Prewett and Antonius are still quite close – even after all these years. I'm afraid I cannot tell you specifics about his investigations but-'

'It seems to me,' said Arcturus, raising his voice for the first time in quite a while, 'that you are telling us that – in point of fact – you questioned students to whom you are sworn to offer guidance and protection as well as a junior teacher under your care because of hearsay, rumours, and unfounded accusation. I wasn't aware it was Hogwarts' headmaster's duty to conspire with foreign Aurors to assist in extra-legal investigations.'

Dumbledore sighed, rubbing his temple. 'I will not, nor have I, shared any knowledge with Antonius or his subordinates about what transpired or may have transpired – you may rest assured.'

'It's not assurance I need,' Arcturus returned coldly, turning around to leave. 'I need a headmaster who knows his duty and place.'

As if it were the most natural thing in the world, the rest of the Board followed him outside. Arcturus shook hands where needed, made compliments where expected, smiled where appropriate, and loudly thanked Abbott for his exemplary conduct. The man looked flustered and a touch embarrassed by the praise he received from the head of a family his political alliance considered their enemy.

Arcturus dropped the polite smile as soon as Abbott disapparated from within Hogsmeade. Only Lucius remained.

For the first time this entire evening, Arcturus produced his left hand from within his sleeve. Blood shone in the grey flood of moonlight where his nails had bit into his flesh the moment he knew Harry had arrived at the Ministry.

Lucius gave his hand a quick glance. 'Getting soft in your old age, Arcturus?'

Arcturus wiped his hand with his dress handkerchief, still clutching his wand with the other one. 'Want to try me, Lucius?' he asked mildly.

Malfoy chuckled softly. 'Not tonight, I think.'

~BLVoD~

The man who called himself Antonius strode through the foetid cesspit usually referred to as the Atrium of the Ministry, his mouth a tight snarl. The Aurors were still busy tidying the place up. The Minister himself had given orders that knowledge of what had happened at the Ministry that night was to be restricted – not particularly difficult, Antonius surmised, given that the Ministry barely knew anything in the first place.

With suppressed rage, he watched two women carry what remained of the...remains away. There really wasn't much to carry, which sadly didn't help at all with how gruesome the task was.

He scowled, stepped into the lift, slammed the shutters close, and jabbed impatiently at the number nine.

'Level 9: Department of Mysteries'

He was late; domestic Aurors were already securing the place. Briefly, he wondered where Williams was. He was sure she wouldn't ever let him forget how he was late because of a school inspection.

The corridor leading towards the department looked as if a gentle breeze might cause the entire structure to tumble down. Indeed, even now wizards were frantically applying spells to the brickwork. He didn't have to look far for the source of the devastation; one cross-way ahead, only a few dozen yards from the old courtrooms, a few British lads and lasses were still fighting what looked liked the last pockets of a voracious and suspiciously wilful fire. Antonius knew that you could see just about anything in the flames granted you looked long enough, but the head of what looked like a cockatrice was a shade too lifelike to be entirely imagined.

Fiendfyre – Merlin, how he despised the stuff. Reckless, haphazard, and abominably destructive. From his experience, only the worst of the worst resorted to this kind of magic. Those who used it successfully and with some measure of control were worse still. Those were people that needed to be dealt with – conclusively.

In front of the door that led to the interior of the Unspeakable's sanctuary, a man he recognised cowered, his face a grimace of terror, his features contorted by the mind-shattering fear he must have felt during his last moments.

Torres...

A perfunctory glance revealed no obvious wounds.

The Killing Curse or a Legilimency attack...

He gently closed the eyes of the man, wondering why nobody had thought to do so. Where was Williams?!

The door itself was a mess, the familiar charm blinking in angry green and yellow warning lights indicating that the object was cursed and still not entirely safe to handle. Careful not to touch the stone, he swept inside.

British Aurors were everywhere, buzzing around the few Unspeakables that, like icebergs in the turbulent sea, seemed to be almost disturbingly in control of themselves. He waved the few junior Aurors away who questioned his right to be there, strolling past one of the younger Unspeakables who was shouting orders at the Aurors in a soft and kind voice that seemed entirely unserviceable with commanding a rabble of Aurors. Her hood turned in his direction for a second, but – as of right now – he was apparently of no concern to their department.

He walked past a few sick junior Aurors fresh out of the academy. He knew where he needed to go, where he would find answers. He hadn't left Williams at the Ministry due to a wild guess.

'Death Chamber,' he barked at the room, and – to the protests of the British fresh meat – the room obliged. He kicked the door open.

His schooled eyes widened, taking in every last hint in a fraction of a second. The missing rows of stone benches, the strange gleam surrounding the arch and the Unspeakables studying it, the cracks in the supposedly nigh-indestructible ceiling...and the unmoving body in the back of the chamber.

His gaze hardened. Ignoring Shacklebolt's gloomy greeting, he walked straight towards his own people – two of his people. Fujiwara looked grave, curbed. Boris, on the other hand, was barely standing, his entire face hidden under layers of bandages.

They felt like a thousand miles, those few dozen paces he had to make.

Fujiwara's dark eyes stared back at his own. Then, she began to tell what they'd pieced together. As if he were drunk, he listened as words like 'ambush', 'obliviation', and 'sole survivors' flew past him. One of the Unspeakables had joined their group, twaddling something about a barrier.

In cold anger, he gazed at the woman he'd promoted only weeks ago. Fujiwara was waving some kind of broken wand in front of his face. He didn't really watch or listen.

They were all dead! He'd brought ten people he trusted with him, and someone had damn near killed them all?! Someone really wanted to make this personal.

He felt a prickle in his thumbs. With a scowl, he crouched down.

'...Sir?' asked Fujiwara, confused.

He didn't answer. Carefully, he inspected the corpse.

'I need light, Fujiwara.'

A second later, a soft and slightly modified wandlight shone down upon the very latest captain of his personal entourage. Maybe the job was cursed after all.

In the violet light of the wand, subtle lines in the stone came into focus. A picture! But even as they watched, the lines seemed to fade.

'Bird,' grunted Boris.

'I'm no bloody birdwatcher! You have any idea, Fujiwara?'

The woman eyed the etching for a few moments. 'I believe it's supposed to be a magpie.'

'A magpie...?'

That...seemed to mean something – even if, right now, he couldn't exactly remember what. Fujiwara and Boris, as well as the Unspeakable, seemed completely in the dark.

'You,' Antonius said, pointing rudely at the Unspeakable. 'I need access to your library on symbolism, both occult and historiographic.'

For a second, the man seemed inclined to argue, but then he had a second look at his eyes. 'Er, yes, I'm sure that can be arranged – er, sir?'

~BLVoD~

Harry slept for nearly two days – not because of any malicious magical malady but because he felt liberated, unburdened of some unknowable weight he'd been carrying for months. Since Poppy was of a mind to have him run any test she could think of – as punishment, he figured – he just relented, alternating between sleeping, reading, and learning from Poppy's purposefully absent-minded ramblings. It wasn't bad, really.

Unforeseen, his streak of loafing was interrupted on the morrow of the third day by a person he hadn't dared to expect.

'Grandfather?' Harry shouted, immediately sitting up.

'Harry,' the man said with a quick smile. 'I had to have a short word with Daphne, but I'm pleased that I found the time to check up on you. How are you?'

Harry's eyes darted around the room. Arcturus, with a soft smile, grabbed Harry's hand. Harry felt the chill of the disguised signet ring press against his skin like metallic Calming Draught. 'I'm...better.'

'A start, I suppose,' said Arcturus. 'We shall speak more thoroughly this summer; there are matters that need to be discussed in private.'

'You're really leaving already?'

'Alas, as of late I find myself with less and less time to spare even though I seem to need less and less sleep. I wonder if I'm growing slow...'

'You aren't that old yet, Grandfather!'

Arcturus chuckled lightly. 'When you turn twenty, my son, you'll think you're getting old but at least you're not thirty yet. Turning thirty, you'll think, now I'm old – but at least I'm not in my forties. But, and this is the miracle, when you finally approach the dreaded hundred, all you can think of is that – at the very least – you're now so old that you can do and say whatever you please.' Once more, he gave a warm chuckle, standing up from the chair next to Harry's bed. 'Don't worry, we shall speak this summer. I promise.'

'Why...did you intervene, Grandfather?' asked Harry in a hushed voice, looking around furtively.

Arcturus Black turned around, thoughtful. 'Do you think I acted prematurely?'

'...No.'

'Or that you could have guaranteed your own safety while making good on your misstep?'

'...No.'

The brow of the old man wrinkled. 'Then what is it that really bothers you, Harry?'

'Don't the rules of our family say that it should've been me who solved it all?'

'And didn't you? I don't recall warding the Veil, my son,' Arcturus said with a flicker of a smile.

'Yes, but you had Aen-'

'That is between me and Miss Rose, Harry. Did you honestly think I'd wager my heir because a few of our relatives might complain if I bend the rules a bit? We'll speak of that this summer.'

With a smirk, he twirled his walking cane around his fingers like a man sixty years younger. 'Besides, those aren't exactly rules – they're more along the lines of suggestions, as far as I am concerned. The world belongs to those of nimble minds, Harry – don't grow stiff and awestruck. Ideologies, like anything else, are a tool – a crutch. They help us understand the world in simpler terms. But sometimes,' with a gentle smile, he bent the cane around his fingers one last time before it plopped down. Immediately, his entire body leant on it as if the stick was all that kept him standing. 'Sometimes, ideologies are just fancy baggage. It's not the rules or even the game that matter, my dear boy, just playing – and winning.'

~BLVoD~

Antonius carelessly flung another book over his shoulder, ignoring Fujiwara's reproachful look. She, too, was currently engrossed in some lecture called The Truth of Triviality – A Study on Symbolism in the Occident. Boris, despite his partially unhealed injuries, had insisted on being present as well – as 'moral support' as he had called it. Currently, he was snoozing noisily, resting his head on a few of the books his commander in chief had thrown away.

'Sir?' asked Fujiwara eventually.

'What?'

'Shouldn't we be reporting back to headquarters?'

'You know they'll pull us off this mission!' This didn't seem to convince the Japanese, so he added, 'Don't worry, I've had Ahuja take care of the relatives. But I'm not leaving without some answers! I'll pay you and Boris out of my own pocket if you're worried about that...'

'It's not money I'm concerned about,' she replied, indignant.

'Stop your worrying! I'll take full responsibility. They can't dismiss me, and they can't discipline you if I say I ordered you to stay.'

'Whatever you say, Boss,' mumbled Boris, idly fishing for some uncomfortable tome under his back and throwing it away. With a content sigh, he closed his eyes again, smacking his lips like a man about to enjoy another well-earned siesta.

'Could the both of you treat these books with a bit of respect?' snapped Fujiwara, finally losing her patience. 'They were lent to us in good faith!'

Antonius rolled his eyes. 'They're all protected from physical harm.'

'It seems...disrespectful!'

'Japanese!' snorted Boris, eyes still closed. 'Good thing Glucksburgh isn't here. The Jerry's just as annoying about order and cleanliness.'

Fujiwara's mouth became a thin line of displeasure. 'It's pronounced "Glücksburg"! And it's bad manners to speak ill of your colleagues!'

'Oh, what's this?' Boris gave a bark of laughter. Blood started to ooze through the bandages around his chest in reaction to his roaring laughter but this didn't seem to perturb the man – or quench his amusement. 'Have your eye on him, Fujiwara? I bet the both of you would christen your children in disinfectant – if procreation is still a thing of possibility in your perfectly sterile world, of course.'

Antonius ignored his subordinates' bickering. With the uncertainty that came with the obliviation, tensions had been high, and a bit of stress relief would do them good. Still, he was grateful Glücksburg wasn't here. Luckily, his monstrosity of a family tree that linked him to all notable pure-blood families in Europe as well as almost any nobility of the Old World had given Antonius the perfect excuse to leave him behind, safely tucked away behind Antonius' own desk, 'holding the fort' – as he had chosen to euphemise it.

He had to grudgingly admit, though, that it had proven to be a mistake not to take any of the Loremasters with him. He'd lost one battle specialist, one Tracer, one expert on runes, three Minders, two beast handlers – and those were only the specialists he'd brought along. And – again – his adjutant, who had also been extremely proficient with transfigurations and all matters of wards and, to his secret delight, linguistics. It had been Williams who had confirmed his suspicions that the Veil was the likely source of the Lethifold incursion. He should've called for more duellists, but Williams had assured him that there was still almost a week until those horrors would make another bid for this world. She had probably been right, but now she was dead all the same.

Grimly, he turned the page.

'In contrast to East Asia, the common magpie has been held in low esteem in Europe since ages past, often portrayed as thieving, an omen of death, or even associated with witchcraft itself...'

Supporting his head with his hand, Antonius turned the page.

'...modern studies indicate that the magpie's level of intelligence is...'

He sighed, shutting the book with a snap and tossing it carelessly over his shoulder. He grabbed another tome at random: Historiography of Omens of Magic – DoM.

From one second to the next, he sat up straight, gazing at the title with interest. He hadn't expected department-owned documents to be included. In fact, they weren't supposed to be included. His liaison had plainly told him that, without proper petitions through the right channels, this was the best they could do for now. Had there been a mistake? But the British Unspeakables were famous for being meticulous. Could they really make a blunder like this? At a time like this? With all of them being on alert?

With a frown, he inspected the binding of the book. The book was clad in cold, smooth leather – as was the custom in these parts. The writing was done professionally but looked otherwise unremarkable. There was, as he had expected, no hint about the author; this was, after all, intelligence.

But there was one thing out of place, one thing to disturb him. All the bookmarks were neatly lined up on the first page, ready to be used – except one. With apprehension, his fingers ran over the expensive fabric. Holding his breath, he turned to the marked page near the middle of the book.

It was the entry on the symbolism of magpies in wizarding Europe.

'What the hell?!' he exclaimed, narrowing his eyes.

'Sir?' asked Fujiwara, looking up from her own reading.

'You better come see this. It seems we've received a gift.'

Boris scrambled over, leaning heavily on his shoulder. 'You sure that's genuine, Boss? Could be a diversion or a false lead.'

'It certainly looks genuine. I've seen a few British reports from the department before. See? Even the coat of arms and the legal warning is here,' said Antonius, opening the first page to make his point.

'But who could have possibly hidden it within the pile we received? The Unspeakables? The Minister? Could one of those British families have enough pull to make something like this happen?' asked Fujiwara, intrigued.

'I don't know... Why would anyone help us?' Antonius glared at the book, willing it to answer his questions.

'We should look at the last entry first,' proposed Fujiwara assiduously. 'We don't need to know about Europe's past fascination with burning non-believers.'

'Really?! That's all you reduce a thousand years of history to? It's not like we burned everyone,' complained Boris, looking oddly hurt by the insinuation.

Antonius pointed to the last entry.

'The last noteworthy and most controversial instance of stylised corvids in modern Europe dates back to the trials of Grindelwald. Shortly before his incarceration in his own prison fortress-'

'Shortly before his incarceration – what?!' demanded Boris angrily. 'Turn the page already, Boss!'

Antonius did so. The next page contained a new entry: martens.

'The devil's going on here?!' complained Boris. 'They didn't finish the entry?!'

'No,' Fujiwara corrected him, lighting her wand. 'Look closely! One page was ripped out.'

'Someone's toying with us!'

'Not necessarily. The information might be restricted even for Unspeakables, though I have to admit that the method seems a bit...crude,' admitted Fujiwara.

Antonius didn't say anything. He had been there – almost fifty years ago.

He clenched his fists, memories flooding his mind.

Grindelwald!

Grindelwald – sitting shackled in his chair, poised and stoic. Grindelwald – speaking with a fervour that was...entrancing. Grindelwald, even dosed with Veritaserum, the most fearsome demagogue the world had ever seen. Grindelwald, whom they had to gag when, after his initial speech, the crowds began to riot. Grindelwald, the man they had hailed as the most powerful wizard in history – right until Dumbledore won the duel with a hundred people watching from afar. Grindelwald, the monster who had butchered thousands and thousands with the ardent belief of being in the right!

The bastard who had killed his family.

The piece of shit he'd vowed to root out of Europe until nothing but weathered gravestones and boring history books remained.

Grindelwald!

'Get ready to travel,' he said succinctly, pocketing the book.

'What? Why?'

'Sir?'

'You two – ever been to Nurmengard?'

~BLVoD~

Like the last few Saturdays, Harry sat in Professor McGonagall's office, his quill scratching over dozens and dozens of empty sheets of parchment. Longingly, he stared outside, watching some distant figures zoom around the Quidditch pitch. The weather was finally coming around, and he dearly wished to be outside for a breath of fresh air with his friends. Frankly, any company but the irate transfiguration mistress seated in front of him would be a welcome change of pace. Alas, he still had eleven more of their private sessions to look forward to.

He also needed to get serious about his studies. The exams, as Hermione pointed out every other minute, were coming ever closer, and even though he didn't really care about the Muggle-born's one-sided challenge, it would be slightly...irksome to lose.

The parchment in front of him gave a screech, and McGonagall coughed pointedly, raising an eyebrow in no uncertain manner.

He sighed, resting his chin on the ball of his thumb, watching the almost automatic movement of his right hand.

I must not hex cats wandering the castle. I must not hex cats wandering the castle. I must not...

It was particularly insulting that Professor McGonagall had decided to have him write lines for hours and hours. The parchment, charmed by his teacher, would always give a warning whenever his mind wandered – and his writing turned into even more of a scrawl.

It had to be the dullest form of torture ever invented by humanity.

The pointers of the clock crept by, occasionally interrupted in their sluggish turns by the screeching of Harry's parchment. At some point, a strange yowling, like that of a wounded dog, echoed all the way from the Quidditch pitch into McGonagall's office window. Teacher and student had stared at one another for a second before, with a shrug, they had both decided that it was probably just another prank by Peeves, or the Weasleys, or some other incident that constituted a perfectly ordinary day for Hogwarts' student body.

Three hours, some forty sheets of parchment, a few dozen reminding screeches, and some pointedly raised eyebrows later, Professor McGonagall finally dismissed him. 'That will do for today, Black,' she said, vanishing the ink from the parchment in one fell swoop of her wand, banishing the stack neatly into the corner of her office where it would lay in wait for him seven days from now.

It was really demeaning to have her demonstrate how entirely pointless the entire exercise was. Given her subtly smug expression, she seemed to be aware of that.

'Yes, Professor.'

'See yourself out. I shall await you next week at the usual time.'

'Yes, Professor. Good night, Professor.'

She nodded primly, returning to grading some papers. 'Good night, Black.'

Shutting the door with a polite bow, Harry reflected that Professor McGonagall's new way of addressing him seemed, at the same time, somehow both exasperated and melancholic.

What in Merlin's name did you do to that woman, Sirius?!

Flexing his right hand, he made his way towards the Slytherin common room. Maybe he'd get to finish Flitwick's essay tonight. Tomorrow, after all, he still had his other detention with Tracey – again. Professor Snape had assigned Daphne and the rest three detentions cleaning potion cauldrons. Tracey and Harry, on the other hand, had – with the nastiest smirk Harry had ever seen on the Potion Master's face – been informed that they were to help Rosmerta in Hogsmeade for eight hours each Sunday for the rest of the term – dealing with drunken patrons...and their waste. Without magic.

Tracey had gone spare.

Harry really wished he could sneak up to his dormitory right then to catch some sleep, but Flitwick's essay was due on Monday, and he really didn't want to sabotage his good relationship with the excitable Charms Master.

Resigned, he approached the hidden entrance to Slytherin's common room. 'Pater Familias,' he muttered, watching the hidden passage reveal itself.

The common room was unexpectedly packed with students – nearly three-quarters of the serpents seemed to be present, and – for the first time – the grand room with its elaborate mantelpieces didn't seem quite as forlorn.

'Hey, Harry. How'd it go with McGonagall?' asked Leo, raising a hand in greeting.

'Same as usual. What's the commotion about?'

Leo pointed towards one corner of the room, where a gaggle of girls containing Tracey, Daphne, and Amy were chatting with glee, taking turns to imitate someone holding their behind while crying like a baby.

'Well,' said Leo, shaking his head, 'some of the guys thought they'd stretch their legs – so to speak – and have a bit of a friendly game of Quidditch.'

'So?'

'Well, Draco was extremely vocal about being included. He wanted to recommend himself to Flint.'

'He wanted to show off, you mean.'

'Yes, I suppose so.'

'So? How did he do?'

'Oh, he did quite well. Until he subtly shifted his seating on his broom. Turns out, someone hexed it or something. He's currently down in the infirmary with, er, a lot of needles spelling the word "lecher" on his backside.'

Harry winced. 'Why didn't Flint just remove them?!'

'Well, they did try that. But they're charmed to not come off, and Rosier said the wound showed symptoms of Doxxy poisoning.'

Harry's eyes flew towards Daphne and Amy. 'They – Merlin! – publicly inspected the, ahem, wounded area on the Quidditch pitch – with girls present?'

'I'm afraid so.' Leo nodded gravely. 'The whole event was pretty popular with a few of the girls. A lot of them had come to watch the boys play.'

'Bloody hell...' whispered Harry.

'Yeah,' Leo agreed drily.

'Well, at least I know what I'm going to get Draco for his birthday.'

Leo looked at him expectantly.

'Well, it'll probably require help and pointers from Aenor or Grandfather, but maybe I can make some progress with targeted Obliviations.'

Leo nodded seriously. 'That seems like a decent present right now.'

Both boys looked apprehensively towards the corner. The girls were still giggling, taking turns imitating Draco in varying displays of drama.

'Yeah. That really seems like a good idea,' repeated Leo again, nodding emphatically.

~BLVoD~

The rest of the year was a hectic blur for Harry, who had to make up for the detentions he had to serve every weekend with many late night sessions. At least, as Tracey had remarked jokingly, Rosmerta had hinted with a big wink that she'd take them on if they flunked out of Hogwarts. This good-natured comment made Harry stay up even longer; he had no wish to become the first Lord Black to work in a pub, sweeping the floor and cleaning toilets.

In the end, he did reasonably well in Transfiguration and Astronomy. Herbology and Potions, however, turned out to be a disaster. The lack of sleep finally caught up with him, and he dozed off in the middle of the Herbology exam, all Leaping Toadstools happily escaping from his bucket. At least Professor Sprout let him sleep for the entire hour, levitating him into the corner and conjuring a blanket for him.

The Shrinking Solution Snape had set them to brew also required a delicate touch, but Harry, through bleary eyes, had stirred the cauldron too quickly. As a result, the potion that was supposed to be vivid green had turned into...

'Blue, Black! A deep, purplish blue!' Snape made a quick note on his board that looked suspiciously like a P.

Harry sighed, watching Daphne hover nervously next to her lime-green sample. Snape examined it carefully, giving it half a stir and sniffing it. He didn't say anything, which could only mean that Daphne, for a second year running, had performed perfectly.

Harry smiled at her, causing the girl to nod towards his own potion with a commiserative look.

Next to his cousin, Tracey had – much to the irritation and vitriol of their teacher – still outdone Harry. 'Black and orange stripes? Tell me, Miss Davis, can you read at all? Maybe we should assign you to the Hufflepuff class; they at least might feel enough pity to read the instructions aloud for your benefit.'

As soon as Snape's back was turned, Tracey stuck out her tongue.

'Detention!' said Snape icily. 'And if you do that again, Davis, I'll have you clean the cauldrons with that flapping tongue of yours.'

Charms was a walk in the park, and even though Harry had never attended a single of Prewett's lessons, the History test was almost laughably easy. At least Harry thought so. Founding of the Wizengamot, Ministry departments, election periods – he'd learned all of that when he was six. Surely, anyone could beat this test! Looking around, he couldn't help but notice that many of his classmates seemed to be of a different opinion. Hermione was biting her quill in frustration, looking as if she was desperately struggling to recall her mother's birthday.

The Defence practical was plain weird. He and Aenor chatted for ten minutes until, with a surprised look at her clock, she told him that the exam was over.

'I've seen quite a few examples of your spellwork this year, Harry,' she said with a smile. 'I'll grade you fairly on what I saw.'

And while Hufflepuff – to nobody's particular surprise – won the House Cup, Slytherin at least came pretty close to winning the second, unofficial cup only the student body celebrated – the Cup of Shame.

Amy's unyielding determination to do as she pleased in combination with Harry's somewhat frequent outbursts and fights in the corridors had set the stage for an exciting head-to-head race between Gryffindor and Slytherin as to who would lose the most points during the year. In the end, the Weasley twins did pull ahead by vandalising Snape's office, but it was a very close thing.

Harry found it hilarious that both twins, wearing formal robes and pompous expressions, came to shake hands with him and Amy in front of the entire school, congratulating them on their performance.

'Simply splendid, old chap,' praised Fred Weasley in a loud voice just before Dumbledore could officially start the End-Of-Year Feast, wringing Harry's hand for a third time, peering at him through a ridiculous fake monocle. 'Marvellous! We particularly applaud your ground-breaking and inspired decision to boycott our great-uncle's class. Future generations will, I am sure, look back at this historic moment with fondness. "That," they will say, "was when we all started to realise – why attend History at all?" We shall look forward to another worthy competition next year!'

Even Amy laughed along with all the rest.

Professor Prewett was not amused.

Hermione, who had been very cross with him for 'behaving very immature by sneaking out of Hogwarts', was nagging him for almost the entire course of the feast to finally show her his grades. Harry still had the report in his robes, deriving great pleasure from crumpling it every once in a while.

'You're at the top of the year, Hermione,' repeated Harry for what felt like the twentieth time. 'It even says so on your report.' Angrily, he mauled the document in his pocket again.

'All the same,' she said, looking petulant, 'I just want to see where I'm standing!'

Tracey, with a crouse grin, interrupted their conversation. 'You can do the Summoning Charm, can't you, Honey?'

Hermione, with a gleeful look of triumph, immediately rummaged for her wand. 'Accio Harry's report!'

Harry stared expressionlessly back at her, his right hand almost lazily blocking her charm. Hermione's enthusiasm slowly made way for a glare. 'Show-off!' she muttered darkly.

Tracey, however, with a cry of triumph, snatched the parchment out of Harry's decidedly slower left hand, now that he had been forced to use his right to cast the charm. 'Got you!'

Harry flicked his tongue angrily. Tracey was really fast if she wanted to be.

'Just let it be, Harry,' said Leo compassionately. 'They'll find out sooner or later anyway.'

'Find out what?' asked Daphne.

'YOU GOT A P IN DEFENCE, HERBOLOGY, AND POTIONS, HARRY?' yelled Tracey, causing heads from across the hall to turn. Seeing his darkening expression, she added in a carrying voice, 'Er, just joking, everybody. He did, er, totally fine. Yup!'

Laughter broke out, and Fred and George Weasley could be seen raising their mugs in his direction again.

'Wait!' interjected Draco, his smile almost painfully wide. 'You failed Defence, Harry?! That's hilarious!'

'Leave me alone,' responded Harry with annoyance, listlessly stirring his cup with a voiceless spell.

'Well, er, I guess that means I really did win?' asked Hermione, astounded.

'I told you repeatedly that you won!'

'Yes, but, erm, well – I didn't really believe it, to be honest,' admitted Hermione with a sheepish grin somewhere between embarrassment and pride.

'How did you fail Defence, Harry?' asked Daphne seriously.

'I don't want to talk about it.'

'Actually,' added Mulciber from a few seats further down the table, 'Professor Rose let slip that Black performed the worst out of your entire year. All the Prefects were talking about it.'

'Great,' muttered Harry. 'Just great.'

Well, I guess my family did force her to watch over me or die a gruesome death, but how was any of that my fault?!

Tracey's entire body was trembling with suppressed glee.

Amy, with a playful smirk, put down her fork. 'But, Tracey! You wouldn't want for Harry to steal the show, would you? Why don't you show us your report?!'

Tracey gave a start, not-so-subtly shaking her head with a pleading expression directed at Amy.

'What do you mean?' asked Daphne. 'Tracey, you said you did okay!'

'Well, I couldn't help overhearing,' explained Amy with a smug smile directed at the desperately waving witch sitting to Harry's left, 'that – thanks to our very own Tracey – Professor Snape had to hand out the first T to a Slytherin in nearly a hundred years.'

'You promised not to tell!'

'I promised I wouldn't tell Harry,' said Amy, picking up her fork again. 'Luckily, it was Daphne who asked first.'

Everything leading to their departure was the usual, barely controlled chaos. On the positive side of things, at least the first years got out of their way when they saw Amy approaching the Hogsmeade station. Daphne, once more, managed to make him promise to attend her birthday again. To his surprise, however, he wasn't the only one she insisted on inviting during their traditional ride back. 'You will have to come too, Granger. That way, you can practise your social graces a bit before you make a fool of all of us next Yule,' she added in a small voice, shying away from Tracey's exuberant smile.

'Oh. Erm, okay,' replied Hermione, awkwardly. 'Thank you for having me.'

Harry followed their exchange with vague interested. He hadn't realised that Daphne and Hermione had actually started to get along during the year.

When the engine finally slowed down, and happily waving parents and siblings appeared outside their compartment window, even the boys left their luggage for him to bring along. Wondering when his friends had got the impression that he strove to be a suitcase-carrier, he levitated the stack of trunks out of the train, making sure to decorate Leo's and Draco's trunks with very prominent, pink unicorns.

Astoria, wearing an almost antique set of robes that was clearly meant to impress him, awaited him just outside the train, jumping to embrace him with a laugh. 'I'll come next year, too!' she squealed, excited like a puppy. 'You'll watch me being sorted, won't you, Harry?'

'Of course, I will,' he promised.

Astoria cheered and, obviously inspired by her older sister last year, placed a very shy kiss on his cheek before she vanished in the crowds, giggling madly at her own daringness.

Nonplussed, Harry scratched the back of his head, deciding that he should probably look for his grandfather as soon as possible before Tori decided to boast again. There was no telling what Daphne might do if she felt like she was outdone by her little sister...

~BLVoD~

Arcturus closed his eyes and took a very long, conscious breath, allowing himself to sag into the leather armchair behind his desk. It was still difficult not to think of it as his father's desk. Here the man had plotted and conspired, bringing Britain's most notable family to the brink of extinction with his greed and delusions of controlling the Dark Lord.

This year too had been difficult, so very difficult.

On the one hand, there was his continuing efforts to rally as many European leaders as possible before it was all too late – on the other hand, there was the daily political struggle of his family. As of late, the voices complaining that he was entirely too satisfied with the situation in Britain grew louder and louder within his own family. And while all of that preoccupied his mind, Harry – the boy they'd rescued and made their own, his grandson – had stumbled from one catastrophe to the next.

Arcturus would never admit it, but the first time he'd felt their ancient curse, the first time he'd seen the runes in the duelling chamber, he'd almost had a heart attack. With Bellatrix and a few others criticising his directions, he couldn't leave himself open to further attacks against his position which – to his regret – included playing by the rules and letting Harry redeem himself without his aid, at least ostensibly so.

With another calming breath, he poured himself a brandy. He was thankful that bit was over now.

Humming appreciatively, he touched an inconspicuous part of his desk. A long and thin drawer surfaced where only massive wood had appeared to be. Resting on a cushion of silk, half a dozen black cubes gleamed in the dark – two little depressions in the cushion were empty. With the utmost care, he placed the two cubes from within the folds of his robes into their rightful spots.

Bellatrix had done applaudably well, neither her own daughter nor poor Daphne had noticed the subtle compulsion. As promised, he would have to give her free rein with how she handled Harry – at least for now.

Not a sound could be heard as the secret compartment slid shut again, blending seamlessly with the grain of the wood.

It had been difficult, a lonely dance in a crowded ballroom, to steer Harry, to help him without even him realising, without the rest of the family suspecting. Arcturus was all for accountability, and he would do his best to impress that very lesson on Harry within the next two months, but expecting to have a fifteen-year-old overcome abominations that the very best of magic's proud history would rightly fear was beyond foolhardy. He could only hope that Harry realised that his entire victory was, from his perspective, a chain of fortunate events. If it all served to push him over the edge, to finally have him win over his most glaring weakness, it would all be worth it.

Bellatrix had proven useful, so her little favour would be granted. His most important piece, however, had been another. Truly, he should be counting his lucky stars every day that made it possible for him to have a source within the department itself.

And lastly, 'Rose'. Yes, she too had been useful. But unlike the others, whom Arcturus had come to think of as carefully calibrated instruments, Rose was a charging bull in his orderly world of exact devices. He could steer her for a time, pave a way, have Harry walk in her wake perhaps, but he knew that, at some point in time, there would be the inevitable crash. He just needed to stall for a bit more time!

That Harry had caught Rose's interest was a happy development. Rose could teach Harry where Arcturus could not, and Harry would slow Rose where Arcturus – again – could not. Still, Arcturus and the woman both knew there were ways around the oath she had been forced to take. It would be a risk to push further. No, the rest would be up to Harry. It was paramount that Harry learned as quickly as possible, especially Occlumency, and it was equally necessary to constantly remind him to keep his head and growing attachment in check.

Harry's magical education he would leave to Bellatrix and Rose. Preparing him for what to do with it, that would remain his privilege.

...and that included the following, harsh lesson about the reality of love and life.

~BLVoD~

Harry knocked on the door of his grandfather's study.

'Come in, Harry.'

Making sure his appearance was in order, Harry opened the door. 'You asked to see me, Grandfather?' he said, bowing politely.

Arcturus smiled, indicating the seat in front of him. 'Take a seat, my son. How are you?'

'I enjoyed sleeping in again today,' returned Harry with a light-hearted grin. 'And it's good to be home.'

'It's good to have you home,' agreed Arcturus with a smile of his own. 'We need to talk, Harry.'

Harry involuntarily stiffened ever so slightly. 'Yes, Grandfather?'

Arcturus poured himself a small measure of brandy in a glass that already stood on his desk. 'You know I cannot apologise for this, Harry, but,' he looked up, setting down the glass, and gazing at Harry, 'you have my word that I have never lamented anything these past fifty years like I did letting you face those monsters without my help. I know you must have felt disheartened that I didn't explain it more, tell you where to go, what to do.'

Harry nodded tensely. 'Can we...talk about it now?'

Arcturus nodded. 'Of course, we can. You know our family dynamics discourage independent action that reflects badly on the family as a whole, but now that you've absolved yourself in the eyes of everyone, nothing prevents me from being entirely open with you.'

'What was that letter about?'

Arcturus raised an eyebrow. 'I told you; you had two months to remedy the situation. It usually takes some time for Lethifolds to gain enough strength to enter our world. While I allowed you every opportunity to try and test yourself against your creations, I thought it prudent to set a time frame in advance. It was regrettable what happened in London, truly, and I doubt you would have wished for such a tragedy to repeat itself. Thus, I calculated a timespan in advance that was reasonably safe to only allow them the opportunity to roam free once – even should your actions result in their temporary defeat, as later indeed happened.'

Harry's mouth formed a silent 'Oh!'. After a second of hesitation, he asked, 'How much did you really help me?'

'Some,' admitted Arcturus carefully. 'Suffice it to say, my son, I did not judge it entirely reasonable to demand of you what most grown-ups would fail to achieve. But,' he said, still gazing directly at Harry, 'I have to impress on you the real magnitude and severity of your misjudgement, Harry.'

'I know,' returned Harry in a quiet voice, hanging his head.

His grandfather didn't continue, his stern eyes never leaving Harry's.

Harry, almost fidgeting, eventually confessed, 'I'm sorry for putting you and everyone in danger. I realise that I...let emotions get the better of me.'

Slowly, Arcturus nodded. 'You need to do two things. First, you need to make sure the same never happens again. Secondly, you need to find a way to repent. Not for me,' he added quickly, 'or even the family, but for yourself. Find a way to look forward without the past eating away at you. You've learned you have weaknesses, my son – we all have. But, given enough time and thought, even weaknesses can be turned into strengths. You can be rash, effervescent, too passionate. You also tend to act alone, despite really needing help. Harry, if you really want to prove yourself to the family, you need to win – not to fail winning alone. The head of a family is still a member of a family; we aren't kings, ruling from some lofty throne in a palace. Nobody expects or will ever expect you to do everything alone, know everything, be everywhere. Not completely unrelated,' Arcturus finished, standing up, 'you need to finally overcome what happened ten years ago.'

Harry shrunk in his chair, humiliation rising from him like steam.

'I'm not speaking of what happened at Potter Manor,' clarified Arcturus. 'We have spoken about that, and you have my every confidence that – given time – you will overcome that shadow darkening your heart and past. No, I'm talking about your willingness to sacrifice yourself to prove your worth, your desperate measures to gain even the smallest edge for your family – to your own detriment. You, Harry, are part of this family. As such, it is only natural that you should look out for your own interests – otherwise, you weaken the family as a whole. And,' Arcturus said, motioning for him to stand up and follow him, 'as grateful as we all are that you are part of this, our family, you need to realise that sometimes you will be expected to make decisions that may affect a family member's future. You cannot let your past keep you from making choices. You are Harry James Black, my heir – not the small boy desperately wanting to belong. Act like it!'

Harry's stomach felt like it had been filled with stones. With a closed expression, Arcturus opened the door, holding it open for him.

'Where are we going?' asked Harry, subdued.

'The undercroft.'

Harry led the way in silence. 'You've spoken with Daphne about Dora.'

'Obviously.'

Harry's stomach almost turned. Even though the Tonks weren't exactly associated with the Blacks, mostly due to Andromeda's independent streak and her decision to marry a politically controversial Muggle-born, they were still technically part of the family – even though not in any politically realistic or significant way. And even if you disregarded all that, Dora – especially Dora – was one of the people Harry had the fondest memories of during the early days of his stay with the Blacks.

Feeling apprehensive, Harry grabbed a torch, lit it, and – with an ominous creak he didn't appreciate right now – opened the door leading towards the oldest part of the mansion. His grandfather didn't say a single word.

Careful not to slip on the roughly worked stone, he made the slow descent into the ever-dark remnants of their family's past. Nearly twelve feet deep, dug in stone was the first level – and another twelve below that the other one containing, among other things, the ritual chamber only the main branch was allowed to enter. The torch hissed and spat angrily in the cool and damp air of the place one would be hard pressed to describe as anything but a dungeon.

'Where now?' he asked, his voice hoarse.

'The "guest room".'

A shiver ran down Harry's spine.

Puzzled and more than a little nervous, he navigated the narrow corridors, heading for the very same room Bellatrix had tried her damnedest to have him master the Unforgivables in.

'Extinguish the light and step aside, Harry,' commanded Lord Black behind him.

Harry doused the torch with a quick flick of his wand. It hissed at him again. Then, he respectfully stood aside.

Arcturus opened the room and waved his wand. Cold, clinical blue light fought against the oppressing darkness all around them, barely revealing his grandfather's face. Most of the room remained shrouded in shadows.

'Harry,' said Arcturus, his tone grave and formal. 'Tell me: what is it you feel for your family?'

'Love,' he replied immediately, feeling only slightly embarrassed.

'Could you ever perceive yourself to betray your family?'

'No!' he shouted, eyes widening in alarm.

'So does love protect you from betrayal?'

'Of course, it does! I could never harm any of us!'

'But you have, Harry. You have already... The world isn't black and white, my son. Even love can be dark, even love can turn people evil, even real, genuine love can be betrayed. Refusing to confront unpleasant realities can and, more often than not, will result in further unpleasantness. And now, face the result of your indecisiveness, your unwillingness to choose.'

With a wave of his wand, the cold blue light flooded the entire chamber. Everything was as Harry remembered it to be: the smears of blood, the stench of darkness and malevolent magic of old, the ancient remains of chains and shackles.

But there was one exception.

Dangling in very extant chains from the far wall, bodily unharmed but clearly delirious, hung Nymphadora Tonks.

'NO!' yelled Harry, making to dash to the other end of the room.

Arcturus hand fell heavily on his shoulder, causing him to stumble. One second later, he felt his limbs freeze up by a spell of his Grandfather's.

'As you might recall, Harry, you were forced to take Nymphadora with you. You couldn't bring yourself to simply obliviate her, so your friends were forced to stow her in your cousin's trunk. But she knows, Harry. She knows.'

'Please don't kill her,' pleaded Harry. 'Please, Grandfather, I beg of you!'

Arcturus inclined his head ever so slightly. 'What are you talking about, Harry? Wasn't it you who forced the issue? Wasn't it you who denied her mercy? You are the future lord of the Blacks! You made the decision that she wasn't to be obliviated. I respected your judgement. And now, here she is. What did you expect would happen?'

'Please,' begged Harry, his grandfather's charm the only thing that kept him from throwing himself at the man's knees. 'Please!'

'The past few days, Nymphadora has been treated with some amount of care. Currently, she is heavily influenced by several truth serums. You need to hear this, Harry.'

'You drugged her?!'

'Of course. Would you take Veritaserum if I asked it of you?'

'Yes!' he answered automatically.

'Then why shouldn't the same apply to Nymphadora? If she is truly family, you need to demand an equal price of everyone, not just yourself. Don't apply double standards just because it's you!'

'Please!'

'Harry Black, listen and learn!' thundered his grandfather's voice.

Harry, not daring to breathe, watched with tears in his eyes as Arcturus approached Dora, waking her with a flick of his wand.

'Who are you?' demanded Arcturus in a harsh tone.

'...Nympha...dora Tonks,' answered Dora in a weak voice, eyes empty and dull.

'Of which family?'

'T...Tonks...'

Harry froze.

'Who is Harry Black?'

'My cousin, my li...my little brother in all but name,' she mumbled.

Harry shifted nervously. What was the point of this?

'Who is Arcturus Black?'

'A...distant relation...Dangerous...'

Harry grimmaced.

'And now,' said Arcturus with a grim expression, 'I want you to listen very carefully, Harry.' Turning his back on Dora, he spoke in a clear voice, still addressing the woman but his eyes resting solely on Harry.

'Do you love Harry as family, Nymphadora?'

'Yes...'

'Would you have betrayed Harry to your superiors?'

The coldness of uncertainty seeped into Harry's heart...

'Yes...'

...and all the colours in the world suddenly lost a bit of lustre.

'Why?' continued Arcturus mercilessly.

'What...they did was wrong...'

'Even though you love him as family?'

'...Yes...'

Arcturus, his grey eyes unmoving, started moving towards Harry. 'Would you betray your family, any family, if they were in the wrong in the eyes of those you swore to serve by profession? Even if that could result in their lawfully sanctioned deaths?'

'NO!' shouted Harry. 'Don't answer, Dora. DON'T!'

For a second, Harry hoped his words had reached her. But then her mouth moved with the same dull purpose, without any indication of her usual spark.

'Yes.'

Harry, mouth still open, gaped in horror at Dora. His heart, he thought, felt as if someone had taken a blunt and rusty knife to carve out some inner part.

...And one floor above them, in a room with a vast and magical family tree stretching over generations and generations, a name at the bottom began to sizzle, letters and even the picture of a young witch with a cheery, carefree smile slowly turning dead and unrecognisable...

~BLVoD~

Harry entered the ancient room as soon as his grandfather was asleep, tasting the foul air, filling his lungs with the scent of blood and fear, eyes closed.

Night surged inside through the charmed window.

Three days. It had taken him three days to reach this point. Dora was still hanging from the chains one level above him, and Harry had been prohibited from seeing her. Arcturus had frankly admitted that Nymphadora Tonks was a security risk for the family, and the most reasonable course of action would be her removal, to have her vanish along with all the other Aurors who had died at the Ministry.

But if – and only if – Harry could prove to him that he had completely overcome his weakness, he would allow her to leave, her memories modified, forced to swear an oath that would kill her even should she miraculously regain her recollections.

That was the reason for Harry being down here.

He'd been in the ritual chamber before, quite often, in fact. But only now that he had tasted the Lethifold's unique scent of power and dread did he truly understand the horror of this chamber and the nature of the wards protecting their house.

Find a way to make sure this never happens again...

The ghost of his grandfather's words cavorting through his mind, Harry's almost dead-looking eyes inspected the softly fluttering curtains near the magical window, the squiggly, almost imperceptibly wandering, age-old runes covering the entire room.

Slowly, he knelt down, placing the silver bowl full of water in front of him and on top of a white tablecloth.

...make sure this never happens again...

...kill the guilt, Harry...

With blank eyes, he stared at the bowl until a sudden gust of cold air startled him.

'Thy heart dost tell falsehoods, young one. Thou must act with haste!'

Slowly, he produced his wand, laying it carefully on top of the small basin, the tip pointing his way. Gripping the bowl with both hands, he closed his eyes, taking deep and calming breaths, looking inwards, searching...

Three hours later, Harry opened the door to his bedroom, feeling...strange. Different. At once somehow cured and somehow...fragmentary. It was peculiar, but he would have time to get used to this feeling – years, decades even.

Making sure he was truly alone, he barricaded the door, producing two phials. They were filled with a cloudy, shimmering substance. Harry felt nothing as he stared at the glass and the nebulous, softly swirling silver within. The memories were there, but the rest was static – grey and drab.

One phial was labelled 'London', the other 'Dora'.

The longer he stared at the phials, the more nagging the feeling at the back of his mind became, like an itch he couldn't reach, like a word he just couldn't remember. But that was it – there was no anger, no melancholy, no fear, and no lingering regret. Just...a pit.

For a second, Harry wondered why he'd gone to such lengths to save the woman. True, he didn't really want any more blood on his hands than necessary, but fiddling with his mind and emotions just to save an acquaintance from his past suddenly appeared...excessive, illogical.

With a shrug, he stuffed both unbreakable phials behind a row of books he hadn't moved in over five years.

Ah well, out of sight, out of mind. And now...there's only one thing left to do.

And some more time passed.

Harry sat in the library, a huge pile of blank parchment in front of him, another equally towering stack of notes at his side. The room was a sea of light, every surface awash with dim candles that, despite their sheer number, only served to spend more shadows than light, more smoke than clarity. Currently, he was fiddling with a heavy leather binding he'd poured as many charms into as he could – and quite a few curses too.

Carefully dipping the tip of his quill into the charmed ink, he moved the writing implement towards the very top of the first page.

'These,' he wrote, 'are the recollections of Harry James Black. Whoever may find this text, be warned to not make the same mistakes I did.'

He had worked on his notes for two weeks, and only now was willing to begin writing it all down in earnest. Harry had no way of knowing this, but the words he wrote were almost the same, letter for letter, as the lost introduction to another book still residing in his library, the very book from which he'd first learned about Lethifolds and the possibility to summon them, the one book in their library that had already claimed so many lives including its author and would, presumably, claim even more with its dark promises of power.

The title of his work, set in silver and written in regret, was:

A Veil of Death

– Darkness and Blood –

Ruminations and Observations on the Topic of Lethifolds

…

…

…

Epilogue

Mr Jansen, fifty-nine, was believed by most to be a little weird.

He was an extremely confirmed bachelor, didn't own a car, didn't own a phone, grew his own vegetables, caught his own fish, and had surrounded his cabin in the woods with high fences covered in aluminium foil – to keep the Visitors and their mind-controlling devices at bay. As an additional benefit, the highly reflecting boundary also served to blind any potential enemy within a few hundred yards when the sun stood low. The children from the village sometimes dared each other, trying to approach his cabin, but other than them, Mr Jansen's only social contact was the postman who came by every few weeks. But Mr Jansen could afford to show the postman some small amount of trust (even though he was employed by the government); he had taught him a secret password almost forty years ago – in case he ever was replaced by the Visitors. Also, it would be remiss to conceal it, the man happened to be his brother.

Mr Jansen liked solitude and independence. After twelve years of legal struggle, he had managed to deposit a substantial amount of money with an escrow who would pay for any accumulating taxes and dues. The procedure took twelve years because Mr Jansen dismissed twenty-three public trustees – on account of him suspecting them of belonging to the Visitors – and sued both the state of his residence and the competent authority thrice.

Mr Jansen was an extremely suspicious man. He didn't trust strangers, the villagers, the pesky brats, and certainly not the government – or the weather forecast.

Yes, Mr Jansen was extremely suspicious – but he had reason to be.

Even though he owned one of the most remote plots of land in the area, put up signs warning of dangerous animals, dug pits, set up fences and even black powder charges all around his property – with the exception of the road after that little incident with the explosive ordnance disposal unit – he just knew there were people up and about. Strange people, too.

Sometimes, he saw them; wearing outlandish outfits, speaking in tongues, secret handshakes, all of that and more he had witnessed when he'd patrolled his property during the night, shotgun slung over his shoulder and night vision gear enhancing his sight.

Once or twice, he'd woken up in his bed with no recollection as to when he'd come back and without rearming the three secret pins he stuck between the door, the hinge, and the floor to check if any invisible intruders had entered his home in his absence.

It paid to be careful, and the aluminium foil did seem to keep those things in check, but you never knew.

Tonight, it was another normal nocturnal patrol for Mr Jansen, who – gun, machete, and home-made hand grenades at the ready – was about to finish his rounds near the northern border of his land when he heard a disturbance from within a few dozen yards ahead.

With practised ease, he let himself fall upon the soft forest soil, levelling the gun, hoping to finally catch that stupid raccoon that kept nibbling at his aluminium foil. He didn't move a muscle as he waited for the abominable trash panda to get between his cross-hairs.

'How much further is it, Boss?' asked one voice that was most definitely not a raccoon – probably. He hadn't heard of English-speaking raccoons yet, but he wouldn't put anything past the Illuminati or the Bilderbergers. Maybe it was a ploy.

'The clearing is just ahead. Be careful where you step; some kind of lunatic roams these parts and sets explosive traps.'

Mr Jansen allowed a complacent smile to appear on his tanned, weathered face. So they knew of him – good!

'I somehow imagined Nurmengard to be somewhere...grander,' opined a third, slightly disappointed-sounding female voice. Mr Jansen thought he could detect a faint Asian accent.

'It's a fortress – not a blasted fairy-tale castle! If you want to go on a sightseeing tour, I recommend the Rhine area.'

'Oh, thank you, sir!'

'Is the prison really still standing?' inquired the first voice. 'This place looks feral!'

'There's nothing feral here except a few wild boars,' replied the one Mr Jansen assumed to be the leader.

He wasn't right, of course. Pigs were easy enough to deal with – they messed up your garden every once in a while, but raccoons were the real nuisance.

'The place is still very much standing,' continued the leader, voice two. 'The ICW keeps a small detachment around the place – for security reasons, obviously.'

'Wait, Boss! You don't mean to say...Grindelwald is actually still alive?!'

Grindelwald, thought Mr Jansen, producing a small notebook from within his military fatigues. Wonder what kind of code that is.

The three Visitors came to a sudden halt. He could actually almost see them, just behind the next group of beeches, holding their strange wooden torches.

'This is top secret, Boris, and I mean top secret. There aren't more than a hundred people alive privileged with that information. Even Ministers keep getting obliviated.'

'He's...not suddenly about to break out, is he?' asked the female Visitor.

Voice number two snorted scathingly. 'Of course not. He himself built this prison with the intention of holding wizards his equal. He's been here for more than forty years! It's perfectly safe, you'll see.'

The group started moving again.

Mr Jansen was about to follow when – most luckily – he decided to check the compass dangling from his neck. North-north-east – the place he had labelled the Forbidden Zone.

Figures, he thought. Guess I'll have to wait.

In absolute silence, he waited for almost half an hour, still clinging to the faint hope of catching that cursed nightmare in grey and white. It didn't show up. But, as he had known they would, at least the Visitors returned all too soon.

'Well, that was a dead end,' said the first voice.

'Yes, everything seemed in order,' replied the female Visitor.

'In order, yes,' agreed the second voice dully.

'Guess we should be heading back? Check for other leads?'

'That does seem like a good idea. Also, sir, could you please point out which stretch of the Rhine exactly...'

The leader flicked his tongue, groaning as if he'd forgotten something. 'I get the vague feeling that something's amiss. Strange... Anyway, let's regroup for now.'

Three soft cracks like the surface of a frozen lake breaking later, and they were gone.

Mr Jansen nodded, underlining the words 'vanishing with a crack' in his booklet.

As was his standard procedure, he waited for one more hour and a random amount of minutes he always rolled three dice for before he vacated his hideout – in case of an invisible rearguard. You never knew.

Careful to back-pedal using his own trail, he arrived at his cabin at about 4 a.m. He checked his secret pins (no invisible intruders today – or at least none that foolish), safely stored his gun away, sharpened his machete while noshing a bit of dry bread, and took a seat in front of his very sparse desk.

His desk was a matter of pride for Mr Jansen; every bit of evidence he'd ever gathered was aligned in such a way that it all made sense: The Illuminati, Chemtrails, the Bilderbergers, the Visitors – everything.

With a thoughtful expression, he added a new index card, provisionally labelling it 'English-speaking raccoons (?)'. After all, you never knew.

Then, he opened one of the thicker files (Visitors), carefully writing down his observations and the term freshly overheard, codeword 'Grindelwald'.

Reflectively, he stared at his files, particularly the pages devoted to the Forbidden Zone. Even Mr Jansen admitted that he was probably on the cautious side of things, but he really had good reason to be. It had all started with the Forbidden Zone. When he had been a young lad, he'd suffered from short-term memory loss the doctors couldn't explain. At first, he'd suspected the government. And while he still wasn't absolutely sure he wasn't right about that, he'd soon come to learn that, when he broke his leg chasing a wild sow from his potatoes almost forty years ago, his memory remained distressingly sharp for weeks and weeks.

The next few months, he'd carefully documented every change in his daily routine – from bathroom times to drinking habits – looking for anything that might have caused him to lose his memories. Finally, after suing the government over water pollution for a second time, he'd determined that his ramb- forays into the surrounding forests were to blame.

It took him a further three years to carefully map the area which caused him to wake up in his bed with a blurry feeling in his head. He was a bit embarrassed it had taken so long, but the migraine caused by the secret and purposeful air pollution the government organised as well as his medication complicated matters. The result, in the end, was the Forbidden Zone, a quadrant of no more than a hundred hectare.

And since Mr Jansen was such a suspicious man, he'd tried for years to find out what really went on in there. Ultimately, a complicated construction including some six dozen mirrors, a few objective lenses that had cost him more than one hundred twenty troy ounces worth of pure gold, and a professional single-lens reflex camera had yielded the desired result.

Scratching his impressive beard, Mr Jansen stared down at the photo of a ruined castle keep overgrown by vegetation. With a nod, he pencilled the word 'Grindelwald (?)' above the picture.

Yes, Mr Jansen was widely regarded as being a little weird, but he thought he still had it better than most. That so many strange people in long cloaks came to visit some crumbling pile of rubble in the middle of a forsaken forest only to leave with vaguely confused expressions some ten minutes later was more than just a little weird. Some people evidently didn't know what to do with their time. Maybe it was some kind of alien memorial? Or maybe they were all lured by some cheap, foreign travel guide book? Some people would believe anything, after all.

He gave a jerk as it suddenly hit him: it didn't make any sense at all – it was all a hoax, a diversion! With a grim grin confident of victory, he vowed to increase his patrols on the southern part of his plot starting tomorrow.

Nodding contentedly, he put down the pencil, rearmed the chemical trap protecting his documents, and went to bed.

Maybe he'd catch that blasted raccoon tomorrow.

Black Luminary – A Veil of Death

fin

AN:

Hey, everyone! Seeing as this is the last chapter of the book, I'd like to say a few things.

(1) A Veil of Death: Firstly, I'm really glad I managed to wrap up this year in a reasonable way. I'm particularly happy with the epilogue – not only because it was fun to write but also because I finally managed to give you guys the first real clue as to what the overarching plot of Black Luminary really is about. Personally, I also think the second year, as a whole, is a major improvement over the first year in just about any way possible. To be honest, I still was kind of wet behind the ears when I started writing the first year, and I can't help but realise that it shows. But what do you guys think? Do you feel like the second year turned out better, too? Please feel free to write a short or not so short review or pm about how you feel regarding my take on Harry's second year.

(2) Memory Lane (still a working title): Harry's next year will be quite different from VoD. To give you a few hints about the things to come: we'll explore Harry's magical talent, learn more about the inner workings of the Black family, and follow Antonius' investigations – and those are just some of the more prominent subplots! In many ways, Memory Lane will be at least as much a battle of wits as it is a battle of might.

That being said, because the plot is kind of complicated, I'm still fiddling with my draft to make it all run smoothly. And that leads me directly to...

(3) Schedule: As you might have noticed, my schedule these last few chapters has been all over the place. And even though the chapters have been huge (ranging from eleven to nearly seventeen thousand words), you probably didn't appreciate the irregularity. Neither did my betas (though they were too polite to actually tell me so). Neither did I, for that matter.

Due to health issues and some private stuff, the buffer I had pretty much evaporated this year. It didn't help that I struggled to weave it all together again at the end.

That all being the case, I would first like to actually finish writing a few more chapters for the next book before I start dishing them out again. I know that's probably not what you wanted to hear, but all I can say in my defence is that it's super stressful to write these big chapters with the feeling of disappointing the readers if you don't publish anything soon. Also, I don't have as much time as I'd like to smooth the edges of the plot. In case you're not writing yourself, let me tell you that it's vastly easier to write a good chapter if you still have the ability to edit some of the earlier ones. Writing it all in one go is a massive pain and requires an absurd amount of planning and foresight.

So yeah, long story short, I'll probably take a break for roughly four to six weeks. It's not a hiatus; I'm still working on the next chapters. But I really need some time to think on some issues, and I don't want the – well, let's generously call it – 'quality' of the chapters to decline because of time or stress issues.

I hope you can understand that.

As a compromise, I'll add small updates on my progress under this very chapter every once in a while – just so you know I'm not merrily drinking my life away in some pub with either my friends or some random strangers.

All the best – and thanks for sticking with me so far!

~YakAge

P.S.: Anyone know a good club in Marseilles? :D First time in the city, and my French suffers after a few drinks.