"Hidden Grindelwald Stronghold Discovered! Grindelwald remains at large! Goblins threaten economic sanctions!

Five weeks after Dark Witch Hermione Gorlois used previously unknown dark magic to escape auror questioning in front of a train full of petrified Hogwarts students and three weeks after Minister Fudge committed a further fifty thousand galleons and ten auror squads to the MISC lead search already underway, the mysterious island fortress of Hexemeer has finally been discovered!

'I am pleased to report that the island was discovered just before midnight last night and our cursebreakers were able to dismantle the wards in less than a day. Unfortunately, Hermione Grindelwald was not found, nor was there any recent magical residue on the island. We are forced to conclude that the island has indeed been abandoned since at least Gellert Grindelwald's arrest in 1945.' Admitted an ICW spokesperson, speaking from MISC headquarters.

This news will not come as a surprise to most readers; popular opinion is that Hermione Grindelwald is ensconced on the fortified island of Avalon, but legislative difficulties have so far hindered attempts to search the island.

'The difficulty is that Avalon Island is the official residence of a number of innocent witches and wizards, as well as Grindelwald. Whilst every residence within the walls has its own wards, the grounds are considered communal and therefore the wards are the property of every adult witch or wizard living within the walls, despite being under the control of Grindelwald. Without receiving unanimous support, we cannot legally bring in cursebreakers.' Explains Bones, head of the DMLE.

Beyond that, fears have now arisen over the security of the magical economy should Aurors move on Avalon. Gringotts reiterated its threats to lock the government accounts should any move be made against Grindelwald.

'The goblins have gotten it into their heads that she's some kind of long-lost queen.' Cresswell, Head of the Goblin Liaison office, looked flustered when we approached him outside the bank last night. 'We've tried to use the enforcement powers granted under the 1765 Goblin Oversight Act but they've abandoned every known warren.'

The Ministry of Magic assures the Daily Prophet that appropriate measures have been taken to protect the magical economy and that the threatened sanctions will not affect the everyday witch and wizard.

For more on what was found on the Grindelwald Island, turn to page 2.

For a complete analysis of the economic sanctions threatened by Gringotts, turn to page 7."

Hermione flicked idly through the rest of the paper, briefly skimming over page seven and the very short summary of the threats High King Ragnuk had made in the financial section. It had been delivered that morning, bare moments before both Lord Nott and Sirius had been summoned to an emergency session of the Wizengamot.

She pushed away from the desk and crossed to the doors, throwing them open and striding out onto the square tower-top. A strong breeze snapped the flags at each corner, whilst the massive crowning pennant whipped and cracked sharply overhead. It carried with it the sharp, early chill of winter and the ominous threat of rain smudged the dark clouds that capped the surrounding mountains. Below the parapet, Avalon was just beginning to wake. A pair of guardians were exercising Anneken and Berg's beasts, trotting them past the steady trickle of goblins working their way up from the warrens. The werewolves were returning through the gates looking tired but at peace after a full moon spent in the woods as a pack, whilst Master Slughorn was setting up his usual line-up of rejuvenation and minor healing potions for them outside his home. Her guests were beginning to rise as well; shutters blinking open and smoke starting to spiral from chimneys.

It was a beautiful, peaceful magical community that was growing bigger and stronger every day, and Hermione was willing to bet her entire legacy that the ministry were voting at that moment to shatter it.

Mordred materialised in her place before Hermione could call for him. His chainmail clinked as he stepped up beside her, leather creaked and his cloak snapped, stirred by the steadily building wind. The rain clouds that had been slowly rolling down the mountains spilled over the lake, sending whitecaps scudding across the lake. He awaited her order in silence – a word, and the wards would close. The heavy gates would be barred, portcullises crashing down, guardians armed and armoured, the city prepared to fight.

It was her right, to defend her home; her family legacy. Yet she could not bring herself to give the command.

'This will not be the greatest trial our line has faced.' Mordred informed her, once the silence had stretched. Hermione glanced at him from the corner of her eye, wondering if his words were meant to be reassuring or admonishing. Or perhaps he'd misread her hesitation – Hermione had no doubt that Avalon could hold the ministry off, perhaps indefinitely. What she feared was the effect the conflict would have on the wizarding world, even beyond those she trapped within the fortress with her. The goblins had sworn economic havoc, the ministry would be weakened, the people distracted, Voldemort would grow stronger and the progressionists would use the fight as an excuse to once more extend their choking hold on the old ways.

She shook her head sharply. She had promised safety to those within the castle walls – that was the most immediate problem. A besieged castle was not a sanctuary.

'No.' She eventually decided. 'This city is home for many more beings than me. What right do I have to force them away? Or worse, to force them to fight?'

'Your right?' Mordred asked, baffled. 'The city is yours. It is your right to do with it as you please.'

'If you owned a hippogriff, you would have the right to beat it. Having the right to act as you please wouldn't stop the hippogriff gutting you, and you could hardly blame the beast it.'

Mordred fell silent, considering. The racing rain clouds reached overhead, throwing grey fingers across the sun. The temperature dropped instantly then, the bright stone of the castle dimming with the sky.

'So what would you do? Surrender the castle that was gifted to us by the fey themselves?'

'No… not surrender it. But I could leave – let the ministry in to see I'm not here and they'll leave everyone else alone.'

'You know that's not true, Priestess. The wolves, the goblins; they're here because you offered an escape from ministry oppression. You can't believe they'll suddenly be treated well, or that the ministry will allow Avalon to remain independent without you here to defend it.'

There was little in that statement that Hermione could argue. It felt like there was no right decision, no way to fulfil her obligations to every party.

'Have them vote.' Mordred eventually suggested, pensively. 'The people. Then they can choose whether to risk losing this home, or whether they think it's worth defending.'

Hermione twisted, blinking owlishly at the knight… the Witch King, the wixen who achieved autocratic rule of an entire country, was suggesting a democratic solution. A solution that was somehow even more terrifying than dictating a decision and demanding her allies accept it. A vote meant opening her heart, listening as the people she would sacrifice everything for decided not to do the same for her. It meant accepting a public judgement upon her.

But it was the right solution, she knew. She just had to do it – take a step whereafter it would be impossible to retreat.

'Flighty.' Her house elf appeared with a crack, her pillowcase billowing. The elderly elf scowled, informing Hermione that she better have good reason for being outside in just a summer robe.

'Yes, Flighty.' Hermione sighed. 'Summon everyone to the throne room immediately. Inform them it's urgent.'

The house elf's eyes widened.

'The ministry is coming? We is going to war again?'

'The ministry is coming.' Hermione agreed heavily, 'but we will be voting whether to fight, or whether I should surrender the city and flee.'

'Voting?' Flighty squeaked. Then her eyes narrowed in the manner Hermione usually associated with being made to eat more vegetables or put on a cloak. 'All the wixen be voting?'

'Everyone will vote – wixen or not.'

'And the elves? The elves is getting a vote?'

'Yes!' Hermione shook her head, 'You live here too, don't you?'

Flighty's eyes narrowed impossibly further before the elf gave a sharp nod.

'Flighty be gathering everyone in the city, ready for voting.' Then the elf disappeared with a crack, just as the first splatters of rain stained the pearlescent stone of the tower. Hermione spared one last glance to the ominous sky before hurrying back into her tower to change.

It didn't feel like nearly enough time had passed before she stood alongside the only three members of her council not at school or on the wizengamot, waiting in the dark passageway between the antechamber and the throne room. The interminable wait for everyone to arrive suddenly felt too short when the horn blew outside the room, drowning out the distant tolling of the hourly bell. With a clang and a crunch, the door was hauled open and the assembled crowd was revealed to her.

Still concealed within the deep gloom of the passageway, Hermione reeled at the sight. The entire goblin hoard was assembled to the right, bedecked in polished armour worthy of their smithing nations. The guardians were no less impressive; rank upon rank of them arranged with roman precision like a sea of Gorlois blue, their glittering silver helmets like white horses on the waves. Apophis was for once dwarfed by the colossal doors, coiled like a great, living grandstand for the pinpricks of Flighty's house elves. Right at the foot of the dais, the hundred wixen that lived within the walls made up for their numbers with a splash of colour. The ghosts were present too – a translucent barrier of beings between the wixen and goblins, drifting with little regard for gravity or the personal space of those closest to them.

'High Priestess?' Mordred prompted from her shoulder and Hermione realised with a jolt that it had been several seconds since the doors opened. She hastily strode through, fixing her eyes firmly on the slightly darker patch of stone where the throne had once stood. Someone in the crowd started clapping, but hastily fell silent when nobody followed suit. Twenty-six thousand beings could never be perfectly silent, but the slight creak of her boots felt deafening as she reached the central spot and pivoted. Mordred, Anneken and Berg took their positions behind her, then waited.

She took a deep breath, drawing on her occulumency to drown out the nerves. When she began, her voice was picked up by some ancient spell, carried clearly across the room and drowning out even the continuous creaking of the guardians, as though a silencing charm had been cast on everyone but her.

'An emergency session of the Wizengamot was called this morning.' She informed them all. 'It is my belief that by noon, the legal loophole that had protected us will be closed and aurors will attempt to enter this castle and arrest me.'

The mutter of malcontent that moved through her audience could have meant anything, but Hermione forced herself not to think on it. 'Avalon is part of the legacy of my line but it is also your home. My duty to you is more important than my stewardship of this castle, and the decision of what to do will affect us all. As such, I have decided that we will vote on how to proceed from here; whether to surrender the city to ministry control, or whether to bolster the wards and hold our ground.'

'As if the ministry would let us stay here?' A sudden shout came from among the wolves, and every being in the hall twisted to look at him with a hiss of fabric and shoes on stone. The rest of the werewolves parted to reveal Nathan Langritch, the muggle werewolf who had once saved Hermione from Fenrir Greyback. 'We've seen how the Ministry of Magic work – as if werewolves would be permitted to remain somewhere as important to wizards as Avalon. We'd be kicked out and left to starve, forced to turn to Greyback's pack to survive. But you've shown us real kindness, Lady Gorlois; you've fed us, clothed us, given us meaningful work and safety and for that, we wolves will follow you wherever you go – even if the rest of this lot want to see you chased from your own home.'

Hermione bit her lip, gratitude welling and lungs suddenly feeling too big for her chest.

'Thank you, Mr Langritch. Does he speak for all of you?' She swept her eyes over the rest of the werewolves questioningly, surprised when they nodded firmly in unison.

'Aye. We may be beasts on the full moon, but we're smart enough to see what's coming the rest of the time. Your ancestors might have had a pack of grims to protect them, but you've only got the one yet. You'll have to settle for a pack of werewolves until then.' Nana Johansen, confined to a wheelchair now and looking haggard after the full moon, was none-the-less firm.

'The Goblin Nations stand united behind you.' High King Ragnuk of the goblins banged his ceremonial hammer against the pommel of his sword, snatching everyone's attention to him. 'Goblin-kind have been oppressed by the false council for centuries, but we smell change coming. The false council will fall, to you or to the bastard of Slytherin's line. The war for freedom against the ministry is not new to us, but it would be our pleasure to fight it with the might of Gorlois beside us. We need no vote; the Goblin Nations will never again surrender a warren to foreign powers.'

A screeching, bloodcurdling roar of support went up from the assembled goblins as their High King finished his speech, the women banging their weapons against the stone floor and the males drumming their ceremonial hammers.

'The elves too!' Flighty cried, from the back of the room. Apophis let out a terrible, sibilant hiss, mighty body stirring. The goblins fell silent. Flighty was a distant figure dressed in white and blue, perched alongside the basilisk's great crest. 'Avalon is being the only city where elves is free to live without being enslaved. We is not giving up our home to more nasty wizards.'

'Well I'm not going anywhere.' Rita Skeeter declared loudly, almost cutting off the elf. 'And neither are you, Xeno. We're going to make sure the whole world knows that the Ministry of Magic is repressing the freedom of speech, spreading misinformation, assaulting the homes of innocents and minors and altering our civil rights on a whim.'

'Of course.' Mr Lovegood agreed, looking as dazed as usual. 'We'll be here when the fey come too.'

'Yes. That too.' Skeeter looked briefly pinched, then waved a dismissive hand. 'The point is, we're going to be right here, making sure our readers know the truth.'

'If the ministry gets the castle, the Dark Lord as good as has it too. I'd rather go on the run with you.' Lucian Bole clutched at his forearm, meeting Hermione's eyes as the other graduated members of the defence group and families of those still at Hogwarts made sounds of agreement, pitching in with their own support in a roar of positive sound.

'That's unanimous, Hermione.' Berg leaned forwards to whisper in her ear. Hermione bit her lip.

'They don't know what they're agreeing too.' She muttered, regretfully.

'Some don't perhaps, and perhaps the revolution was longer and bloodier, but many of these people have known war too. Don't discredit them by assuming they're naive.' Berg spoke just as quietly, barely a breath in her ear, so that he couldn't be overheard.

'Then why would they choose to seek out a fight?' She asked, almost frustrated.

'Because sitting on the side-lines whilst the world tears itself to pieces is little better – war will come to them whatever they do, picking a side at least gives them a semblance of control and perhaps influence in the way those pieces fall.'

'Oh.'

'Yes, Oh.' Anneken said dryly. 'Now stop being self-depreciating and be the leader these people want.'

Hermione nodded briskly, immeasurably grateful for both of her old friends. She held her arms up, wordlessly calling for quiet. It fell quickly, the people of Avalon anticipating her words eagerly – her declaration of war.

'Thank you all for your support; Heir Tunninger informs me that everyone present has been spoken for, in support of holding the city against the ministry. This is not an act of aggression – I do not condone war, nor do I believe that violence against innocents is ever the solution. But it is our right to defend ourselves and our city with all the might it may bring to bear. Avalon is mighty, and our alliance is even mightier.' A quick cheer swept through the hall, falling quiet again quickly as High King Ragnuk stood and banged his ceremonial hammer again. Hermione nodded to him respectfully. The High King climbed the dais, bowing deeply to her before turning to face the assembled crowd.

'In support of Avalon and the Hight Priestess, the Goblin Nations will cease administration of our London Gringotts branch, effective as of the moment of the invasion of this island. Should you wish for your accounts to remain protected by more than the… honour… of the Ministry of wizards, we will be opening a new branch in the Silver Tower. The dragons, along with all other protections owned by the Nations will be removed to this island to protect the new vaults within the caverns. Let this be the beginning of a new era in relations between Goblin-kind and Wixen, and may our enemies suffer.' High King Ragnuk turned on his heel, bowed his head deferentially to Hermione, then left the stage the the blood-curdling shrieks of his people.

'Thank you, High King.' Hermione dipped the slightest curtsy in the direction he'd left, then turned back to the hall as quiet fell again. 'There is much to do to prepare the city. The guardians and Mordred will see to the physical defences. To everyone else – see to yourselves, and to each other. The portal will remain open, protected by the wights; ask Lady Krum to teach you how to use it and gather your belongings and supplies. There are currently working links to Europe, Diagon Alley and Nott Manor. The floo will be closed – I ask the wolves and some volunteers from the Nations to assist Heir Tunninger with the task. Access to the beaches is still possible through muggle means, so Apophis' den and the livestock will need to be moved into the city. The elves will need as many hands as possible to assist with harvesting or transplanting every magical crop that can be and burning the rest.' She folded her hands, falling comfortably into the role of the commander of a castle preparing for war. She had done it far too many times already. 'I imagine the wizengamot will conclude proceedings shortly, and I dare say the aurors are already waiting to deploy. The city bell will ring as soon as I receive word from our allies on the wizengamot, from there you have five minutes to return to the city before the wards close. There is little time to waste – good luck.' She bowed.

'Semper ad meloria!' Mordred cried from behind her. It took everything Hermione had for her to not spin on the spot at the sound of the almost forgotten vow she had made all those years ago. Whether they understood it or not, several people repeated the words. When Mordred bellowed it again, more people returned it, and by the third time the entire hall was thundering their response, those without tongues banging feet and shields. Standing up at the front, receiving all that support and enthusiasm… it was impossible not to like it; the terrifying allure of power.

She left quickly, to thunderous cheers and applause which echoed down the hall behind her, ringing in the darkness and calling her back to the stage like a siren song. A small, dark part of her wished that the throne was still there, so that she could have sat back in it and soaked in the adulation. She forced that thought viciously from her mind, burying it into the deep, distant, occluded corner of her mind where she kept all those kinds of dark thoughts.

'Berg, please make sure our allies in the wizengamot remember to return via Lord Nott's.' Hermione instructed, just as the two elderly wixen peeled off towards the courtyard. Berg paused, looking back at her, then nodded.

'You did well, Hermione.' He informed her quietly, before slipping away.

'He's right, Hermione.' Anneken agreed, eyes gentle. 'And don't worry – it is natural to enjoy the love and support of a crowd; I would be worried if you received it and felt nothing. Your family… Gellert… they did not seek out love – they sought awe and fear, and that is where they went wrong. You do not need to be afraid.'

A knot in her shoulders relaxed at the reassurance. There would always be a part of her that feared following in the footsteps of those who had come before her, but knowing that Anneken had watched Gellert go that same way and did not see familiar patterns was a great relief.

She thanked the older witch who followed after Berg, ready to give portal lessons. Then Hermione found the closest doors, taking the shortcut up to Morgana's tower, then out onto the roof of the square tower. She understood exactly why the tower had been built, providing a perch upon which to survey the city – all that was technically hers, and certainly under her protection.

The guard at the door offered her it's cloak as she stepped out into the weather that had swept in whilst she was in the hall. The wind and rain seemed to pay little heed to the thick, impervious-charmed garment, tearing it open and sending it billowing behind her like another flag. The sky was a dark grey, thick clouds whipping and snatching at the colossal pennant above her head and threatening to swallow it entirely. The far side of the island was almost obscured by thick sheets of rain, visible only because of the white spray that rose up over the battered pier before being torn away.

Yet somehow the sounds of the preparations for war remained audible – the sharp tempo of the guardian's feet against stone as they marched out of the hall and wound in smart ranks like a painted river down the streets of the city, to their posts. Like the yawning of a great dragon, the bastillae on the rooftop below Hermione was loaded, heavy chain clanking. A moment later and the one on Hermione's rooftop was being prepared as well, the ancient pivots groaning as it was turned on heavy tackle.

Wixen, borrowing Gorlois guardian cloaks as though it were some kind of uniform, hurried down the streets and out into the fields, accompanied by tiny elves and teams of sharp, stout goblins. Others huddled around the bright crimson figure of Anneken by the portal, whilst werewolves and goblins scaled the carved surrounds of the massive floo wielding buckets of the reagents needed to activate the ritual that would sever their connection to the floo network, etched into the stones by the goblin craftsmen who'd made the massive fireplace so many months ago.

The wait was torturous. Logically, they needed every minute of time they could get to harvest as many crops as possible, to herd in as many of the livestock, to remove from the outer beaches and fields anything which the ministry might be able to make use of. Her allies had been instructed to stall the wizengamot for as long as possible to give them that time, yet Hermione wished all the same that the matter could be done with, the wards closed, the interminable siege begun. At least then she wouldn't be waiting on tenterhooks to activate the Gorlois wards; wards which even she didn't fully understand… or even know would still work as Mordred promised.

There was no sun by which to judge time, but Hermione was soaked to the skin by the time the complex magical net of the floo connection shimmered into purple visibility in the mortal plane, each link flaring brightly as it was magically severed by the golden counter-magic cast by Berg's sorcery. Hermione watched the experimental process succeed with no small measure of relief. Flighty tried at some point to insist that Hermione retreat to Morgana's tower to wait in the dry, but Hermione couldn't stop watching over the city as people prepared. She accepted a finger snap change into battle robes, a dry cloak and a cup of hot tea instead, and continued observing as the cattle wound their way into the small park nearest the outer walls, balancing her saucer on the merlon and pondering her options for her own part in the castle's preparations.

Morgana would have called for one of her Grims to send word to raise the family defences and prepare for war, but Hermione wasn't sure yet whether she trusted Cavella again after the hound had taken her across planes and into the Unseelie Court. The jaunt, which had seemed fleeting to her, had cost her almost a month in the real world, in both timelines. Cavella had spent the past weeks since begging for her forgiveness in an entirely unconvincing, although endearing manner – small dead creatures, scraps of fairy trees fresh enough to still contain tatters of the glamours which fey used to make their deathly plane beautiful, a wand which Lord Nott had identified as belonging to one of the released Death Eaters…

The appearance of a great silver winger heron made her jump badly enough to send her cup hurtling to its death several Avalon-sized floors below, on the distant roof of the Healing Tower. She barely paid a moment to mourn the bright splatter of prehistoric pottery, attention riveted to the conjured messenger of Lady Longbottom.

'As you predicted, Lady Gorlois, the amended legislation has been passed. Lord Black has, I believe, gone to press all the buttons in the lifts to stall the delivery of the warrant to the auror office. You have minutes at the most.'

Hermione sent a surge of magic along her bond to Mordred before the message was even finished, receiving an almost immediate response. Half a second later, the city bell began an urgent clamour, far removed from the measured dolling it sounded on the hour. Sudden sparks of movement greeted the sound – a flood of blue-cloaked figures moved in from the fields, trailing bright orange flames behind them as the remaining crops were set alight and left to burn. She counted the seconds anxiously… would the aurors anticipate just how powerful the wards might be and attempt to approach cautiously, or would they try to portkey or apparate in on the assumption that she hadn't managed to raise them in time?

After two minutes, Hermione summoned her patronus. The conjured Dullahan appeared as if pulled from the very clouds around them, dismembered head grinning savagely as its arm pivoted it to survey the armed bastillae and burning fields. Stoked by magic, the flames had begun to catch despite the heavy rain, carving deep furrows of fire through the rich green of the Welsh island.

'And so the House of Gorlois once more enters the fray.' Her patronus spoke, and Hermione nodded grimly.

'Would you be so kind as to deliver my orders to Lord Gorlois?' Aware, now, that her patronus was the true servant of the Sidhe King, as opposed to some conjured apparition, Hermione was careful to ask rather than order.

'Your hound meant no harm, High Priestess.' The Dullahan assured, the implication negative. 'She is young and wished to show her mistress her home.'

'This is an important task.' Hermione argued, careful to remain respectful. Cavella may not have intended harm, but her youthful naiveite and excitement had cost Hermione heavily. Delivering her orders to Gorlois was not something that could be left to chance - lives rested on it being done accurately and promptly.

'And she will fulfil her role proudly. Have you thought on my Master's words?'

'Yes.' Hermione shook her head, hauling her thoughts around to follow the sudden non-sequitur. She didn't dare tell the Dullahan that she had more important things to be doing at that moment than discussing the esoteric advice he'd passed on at his last visit. 'I've had little time…'

'You should speak with Morgana.' The Dullahan raised a hand, cutting Hermione off.

'I have.' Hermione barely managed to not hiss. 'I've spoken to her statue.'

'Think, High Priestess; you are no fool. And send your hound with your orders; her mistake was well intentioned, but she will not make it again. It would devastate her to be passed over for such an important duty.' Then, without further ado, Hermione's patronus faded.

She sighed, then reluctantly called for Cavella. The grim responded instantly, bouncing twice like a puppy half her size and letting out a small, excited yip before hastily sitting obediently, as she was meant to, tail shivering as if it took physical effort not to wag it. Grims, it appeared, could perform puppy eyes just as well as any muggle dog, and Hermione was not immune. She caved, slipping her ring off her finger with a tight sigh.

'Avalon is under threat. Take word to Lord Gorlois; protect our boundaries, let our enemies see the might of our line.'

Hermione handed over the ring and the Grim took it between gentle teeth. With a final, distorted yip of pleasure, Cavella disappeared along with her cargo and the orders for Gorlois.

Logically, she knew that it would take several minutes before the warden of The Barrow could fulfil her command and close the wards, but it was still a nerve-wracking pause as she waited to find out if her pet had obediently filled her role, or whether the young and excitable pup had strayed again, whether the people would make it through the gates in time, or whether the aurors would arrive sooner than predicted and bring the whole plan crashing down. Of course, matters weren't helped by the reality that Hermione had absolutely no idea what to expect when the wards closed. Blau Berg's had grown outwards from seemingly random points across the great protective dome, semi-transparent and glittering with the individual magics of the coven. But those wards felt nothing like the ambient, intent based, semi-sentient wards that constantly blanketed Avalon in a mild protection. They were entirely different classes of magic.

There was no obvious change for two and a half long minutes – enough that Hermione began to fear she would have to summon the Dullahan again and have him chase down Cavella and her precious cargo. Then, just over six minutes since the bell sounded, her magic surged – not her sect, but rather that foreign and powerful entity that lived deep within her; her family magic.

Like a great slick of oil, something dark and iridescent bubbled up through the cracks in the paving stones in the streets below, etching each pearly slab in darkness like a city-wide mosaic. It didn't stay still, running down the island like a thousand tiny flooding gorges. She stepped forwards to lean further over the crenelation, then looked down abruptly as her feet squelched and stuck. The roof of the square tower matches the streets below, inky, viscous fluid pooling like tar in the long, central gutter before spilling off the side of the tower towards the sea. She darted forwards, throwing herself against a merlon and leaning out precariously over the perilous drop to see the strange substance running like treacle down the pearly stone. It hit the rocks below, separating into three separate streams over the crest of a rock before spilling into the sea where it disappeared - continuing down into the storm-whipped water or dispersing, Hermione couldn't tell.

She spun, dashing back to the side of the tower facing the city, barely noting that the strange inky potion was fading from the edges of the tower roof, as though the source had run out. Far below, the gutter of the Healing Tower roof was also full, spilling into the deep 'V' between the sloping roof of the Halls of Learning and the entrance hall.

'The whole city is a ward.' Hermione breathed, eyes roaming over the concentric curtain walls, spiralling out from the central point of the portal courtyard. The angular run of gutters, curve of the curtain walls, the forked streets and the strange pattern of trenches in the upper garden, the smooth sweep of liquid hitting and spilling over boulders. She'd flown over the city hundreds, if not thousands of times, and never seen the runes built into the very structure of the city. How could she, when it was over such an enormous scale?

She screamed when the magic flared – a sound echoed across the city, as light… no, darkness, because the blades of colour were as black as the markings they'd come from, danced upwards to about head-height. From the sky, like an unholy aurora, more sheets of darkness speared down, dancing and wavering in the howling wind and rain but unmistakably reflecting the mark formed by the city below in a three dimensional curve above them.

And then the rain suddenly stopped. The wind stopped too, like someone had switched it off at the wall. In the sudden silence, the low, static buzz and crackle of the light was dominant. Far above, the rain splattered against an impenetrable surface, sliding off in twinkling rivulets. Incrementally the lines of black magic began to fade, light dimming and the dark, sticky black liquid seeping back into stone and leaving it pristine again.

For a heartbeat the impenetrable dome held above them, then as the last of the black ink faded, it disappeared and released a sheer blanket of water over them with enough force to be painful.

More wards were weaving themselves to life by the time Hermione cleared her sodden hair from her eyes – traces of golden thread weaving up from the beaches, almost invisible behind the thick clouds of smoke and lashing rain. Closer, the rattle of the massive portcullis slamming closed was loud enough to carry all the way up to the tower and it sealed with a pulse of magic that felt similar to the larger city ward, but was too far away to see properly.

'The city is secured, High Priestess.' Mordred reported from behind her, Katana's wings snapping the air as the dark knight set his borrowed mount down upon the stone towertop. He dismounted, then helped the shieldmaiden Cwyllog down as well. Hermione's beast nuzzled her, pushing aside her cloak to search for treats beneath.

'Do we have a way to find out if they're coming?' Hermione asked, gently pushing away Katana's head peering out across the lake with slitted eyes, as if she might be able to discern the approaching ministry through the inclement weather. If the aurors had any sense, they would remember the bastillae and approach carefully on broomsticks, cloaked beneath disillusionment charms. The rain would hide them until they were close enough to begin sounding the wards, giving them a far longer and uninterrupted chance to attempt cursebreaking than they would get it the weather was fine and Hermione's defences rendered blind. She said as much to Mordred, who was part-way through suggesting they deploy sentries of their own out through the sally gate…

They both cut off quickly, observing each other in silence as they comprehended what the other was saying, then they both began talking again at once.

'What do you mean send them out through the sally? I thought the wards were locked down?' Hermione demanded, just as Mordred agreed with her concerns about the weather. They both paused again, then Mordred deferred to her with a slight bow. Hermione flushed, but repeated her question.

'Of course the wards are closed.' Mordred looked flummoxed by the question. 'The wards are built into the walls, and therefore a break in the walls causes an equal break in the wards. Should you open a gate, you may then pass through it.'

'But what happens if the walls are damaged?' Hermione almost shrieked, on the verge of panicking. 'Then the wards are useless.'

'That's unlikely, High Priestess.' Mordred frowned. 'The wards and walls form a symbiont circuit - the walls hold the ward, the wards protect the walls. The only real risk is if a gate is improperly closed, or if the enemy breach one whilst it is open, but that is no different to the defence of a non-magical castle.'

'Oh.' It did, when she actually considered it, make sense. She was grateful that only Mordred and Cwyllog had witnessed her foolish conclusion and reaction. It was not the response of the powerful and measured leader she wished to portray. 'Then yes - scouts… what about a caterwauling charm? Could we set one of those without interfering-'

She was cut off by a sharp crack-thwack, close and loud enough to make her jump. Her eyes flew instantly to the source of the noise - a bastillae on the north curtain. She barely considered that it might have been a misfire before the five remaining weapons fired in quick succession, guardians hurrying to reload. One of the projectiles scored a hit, the potion gourd payload exploding in a cloud of unmissable lime green smoke. Seven remaining purple clad figures swerved sharply on their brooms, formation scattering into chaos. One soared after the panicking seagull that had once been the eighth, the remaining six spread wide, presenting a more difficult target as they resumed their approach.

The first bastillae to fire had reloaded, sending another projectile buzzing towards the aurors where it hit the water uselessly.

'Get concussive gourds on those shafts.' Mordred snapped briskly, leaning towards the conflict as intensely as Hermione. Cwyllog nodded, lifting her horn and blowing three distinct notes. The sound was whipped away immediately by the wind, but Hermione knew that the glowing runes around the rim would replicate the sound from the mouth of every Gorlois horn in the area. The order would be heard across the castle.

A second volley of shots came before the north curtain had reloaded. Hermione spun, quickly spotting a second squad of aurors approaching from that side. They scattered, shots falling ineffectively into the water between them. One shaved too close to the leaping waves, tripping on his own speed against the sudden resistance and plunging into the water.

Then the south curtain released their first volley of concussive shafts, sending them buzzing through the air towards the racing broom-fliers. They exploded with a shockwave two seconds after release, the first setting off the others. Water was thrown up from the lake and rain diverted into a visible shockwave that sent the light brooms careening off wildly. Two more aurors hit the waves, another was thrown clear of his broom and cartwheeled upwards before gravity eventually brought him too into the lake. The remaining five hastily picked up their comrades and retreated to a safe distance, beyond the range of the fearsome medieval weapon. Those approaching from the north quickly followed suit, arching smoothly away, skimming the wards that would have shattered the enchantments on their brooms with meters to spare.

'No more.' Hermione instructed. 'They won't try that again and we need to conserve those concussive gourds, unless Mr Lovegood has another erumpent horn somewhere?'

'They'll try a shield charm next. We should load steel tip projectiles - there's a high chance non-magical weapons will go through.' Mordred advised. Hermione scowled at him quickly.

'Broken bones and transfigurations are one thing, but even modern magic cannot heal a two inch hole in a chest. Those spears have no purpose but death and I refuse to take that step. Shield maiden, have half the bastillae loaded with black pitch - it will obscure the shields and force them to drop them. Follow each shot of pitch with concussive gourds.'

The two medieval warriors simply stared blankly at her. Cwyllog had half raised her horn to her slack jaw, but it hovered there whilst she performed a remarkable rendition of an unimpressed expression despite having no facial features.

'There is no signal for that, High Priestess.' Mordred informed her, perfectly respectful in that medieval, authoritarian way that meant he would follow her every order to the letter, even to his own ruin. Whether he thought her idea was a good one or not, she couldn't tell.

'Oh for Circe's sake.' She huffed. Katana's wing was already lowered, as if he'd sensed her intentions. She vaulted up, boosted by the offered joint, and took up the reins. 'I'll deliver the message myself, using words. Have Lord Black find me when he returns - I want to know exactly what happened in the Wizengamot.'

And Katana leapt into the air, gliding off towards the north curtain, the labouring guardians and their mighty bastillae. She was hardly one to lead from a gilded tower anyway and she might be able to land a couple of wardbreakers from the front lines.