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Chapter 20: The Things We Do In War

There was no sound inside Malfoy Manor. A shaft of moonlight slanting through a slit in shutters that obscured a window overlooking the marble fountain was the corridor's lone light source. Little could be seen but for the silver patterns stitched into the dark-green rug he tread across.

The fact did not trouble him. This was not his first trek through these dark halls. Not often were his nights spent away from this despondent place, and when they were he seldom slept. The Elder Wand burned inside its holster. It often flared when scouting here. Too many times he had been forced to quell its ire.

Soon, he assured the wand, opening a polished door without any trace of sound and continuing down the corridor beyond.

The sitting room he stepped into mocked him. He could all but hear Hermione's shrill sobs, all but see the blood trickle from where Bellatrix pressed the knife against her throat. The chandelier they had broken had since been replaced. A strong urge to shatter it again came over him, but he stilled his hand. That would only give him away.

A man in black robes lounged against a blank wall Harry knew to be enchanted. The malignant air of vicious wards buzzing behind it would have told him so had he not been sure already.

His hand reached into the pocket of his robes and closed around cool metal as he approached the man on watch. Silver flashed bright in the room's dim dark as he drew the blade across the tall guard's throat. The stream of blood thickened and left Harry's hands warm and sticky when the man tried in vain to scream. A bubbling gargle was all that left his lips as he collapsed onto the rich red carpet.

Harry wiped blood-stained hands against his trousers as he frowned around. Countless hours had passed with him concealed here in this room, searching for a quiet way past the trick wall and down into the basement. The Dark Mark was what allowed the jailers through, but he lacked one of his own and knew the one burned into the dead man's arm would no longer be of use to him.

Harry glared from the dead guard to the blank wall. How he loathed that mark. Placing the guard under the Imperius Curse and forcing him to gain passage would have been so simple, but there was no telling in what way the mark would have thwarted such a scheme.

His shoulders squared. There was no quiet way and he had known so all along. It had been naive, hoping he would find one.

Harry knelt and extracted a Decoy Detonator from the pocket of his robes. There was a moment's pause before he placed it flat against the wall and stepped back. This would alert the manor to his presence surer than tomorrow's sunrise, but they would have a hard time finding him beneath the cloak, and it was the only way.

The device exploded with thrice its normal force and blew the wall apart. The wards triggered and hateful magic lashed across the room, but its grasping fingers slid harmlessly along the silver silk protecting him.

The cloak might not be perfect, but it is damn useful, he thought while walking untouched through the ward.

"Magic does not give endlessly," Dumbledore had once told him. "There is always sacrifice involved."

Harry could not cast magic from underneath the cloak, but that was a sacrifice he would make without complaint.

She was awake and waiting in the basement. The sight of her surprised him. He had expected shackles at her wrists and ankles, but she was unchained.

A resounding ache throbbed through his heart as he examined the face of his closest friend alive. Unchained, but not untouched. Hollow cheeks framed wide brown eyes which were no longer warm and kind. Their haunted cast reminded him painfully of Sirius the first time they had met inside the Shrieking Shack.

Once bushy hair, now lank and threadbare, fell across her face when she looked into his eyes.

That's not right, a part of him whispered. She can't see me. A hundred times he had relived this scene and never had she seen him.

"You're too late." Her voice shook and wavered the way it had in those final moments. "I'm his, Harry. I'm his."

The bushy brown hair thickened and grew dark enough to match the basement's lack of light. "You shouldn't have rejected me!" Marlene snarled in place of Hermione. "This is all your fault! Now I'm his."

Her dark eyes brightened into an emerald shade shining with despair. "You're too late!" His mother's red hair bobbed through the darkness as she sobbed. "Please—" There was high, cold laughter and a blinding flash of bright green light.

"NO!"

Harry launched himself up and slammed through something soft and silken. The sound of tearing fabric came from behind as hard stones rushed up to meet him.

He gasped and flailed against his empty lungs, fighting his way upright but stumbling right back down as nausea bowled him over.

"What the fuck is going on?" a deep, gravelly voice yelled from across the room.

A shrill squeak answered. "I-I think he's having a f-f-fit."

The first said something back, but Harry was too busy spilling the contents of his stomach out across the floor to comprehend whatever it was saying.

Someone seized him and he snarled, but their grip had more strength than he did and they held him firm. "Harry! Are you all right?"

His father… that was his father's voice. "You're dead," he whispered. "All of them are dead. I was too late; I couldn't stop him."

"He's mental." Sirius — the first voice belonged to Sirius.

"No," James snapped back. "He's not mad, just…" the words faltered, but not for long. "Harry, it was a dream. Whatever you saw… whatever you've been through, it's over. It's in the past. We've got to move on. That's what Dad told me when I talked to him."

I've got to keep moving. Harry latched onto that mantra. Over the years it had grown as familiar as his own skin. I can't fail. No one can stop him if I fail.

"Fuck," he rasped when awareness flooded into him. "Fuck, James, I'm, I'm—"

"You're all right." His father hauled him upright. Harry's legs shook as the room swayed back and forth, but the nausea was passing. "I've had my fair share of nightmares lately. Anything I can do?"

"Water." That high, cold voice ceased its laughing inside his head. "I just need water and to get my mind off it." A crystal goblet James must have conjured was placed into his hands. "Thanks." Harry swallowed in hopes of clearing his throat. "I'm sorry I woke you. I didn't mean—"

"You're fine, mate. Sirius is just a grouch. It's almost sun up anyway." James ran a hand through his nest of hair. "I… uh, flying usually helps distract me, but I don't know if you're into that sort of thing."

"I play seeker… or I used to — it's been a long time since I've had a broom."

James seized his arm and pulled him towards the door. "Come on, we'll steal you Sirius's and go out flying."

The beating wind and soaring sensation that leapt up through his stomach as he shot skyward was enough to rid him of his haunting thoughts.

Harry found himself lost in the feel of flying, comparing this broom's stiff handling against the Firebolt he had once owned. How long had it been since he had flown? Really flown; freely and for pleasure on a broomstick — not the jittery, painful half-flight of raging winds and well-placed charms.

Dawn was breaking in the distance when they landed near the forest's edge. Harry needed no mirror to be certain his own hair matched the windswept mess atop his father's head. "Better?" James asked into the long and awkward silence.

Harry breathed in deep, then let it out. "Loads."

"I'm not surprised," James said. "You must really be into quidditch — Merlin, you can fly. We could have used you on the house team this year."

"I don't know how well that would've gone," Harry muttered. "You're captain, aren't you? Would you have given me the spot back then?"

James spat into the snow. "It was so fucking stupid. I could have been doing so many things." The Head Boy shook his head and scowled. "Was I really the reason you didn't join?"

"No," Harry said. "I can't say I was thinking much about quidditch. I was still trying to get over the amnesia."

"I'd… actually forgotten about that." Harry's gaze was forward, but he could hear the snow crackle as James shifted from foot to foot. "Did you ever… you know, get over it?"

Harry toyed with the clasp of the cloak that James had conjured him. "I don't have the memories back, if that's what you're asking, but I've accepted that they're gone."

"But… you remembered playing quidditch?"

Harry scolded himself. That had been a foolish slip and carelessness could not be afforded. "I remember some small things like that, but not many. Most of them are just impressions or… I don't know, almost like facts. I just know they're true."

Small wings fluttered from the forest's edge behind them. Harry glanced over his shoulder and spied a bluejay perching on a slim, dead branch. "I don't know how you deal with it," James murmured.

"The same way you deal with anything," Harry said, casting his eyes ahead again. "You move on, just like your father told you."

James fussed with the shoulders of his own cloak. "It's not easy, is it?"

"No," Harry admitted, "but your dad's got the right of it."

"He usually does. There's a reason he's in charge around here."

"I can't say I envy him," Harry murmured as the Elder Wand grew heavy in its holster. "I've always found it easier to just go along with things."

James was looking off into the distance as he nodded. "It's a whole lot safer, that's for sure."

"Was the attack this winter not the first?"

James cocked his head, as if considering. "The first real big one, I guess. There have been attacks on Dad, plus power plays and all sorts of rubbish like that, but nothing so direct or brutal."

"How are the repairs coming along? I heard whoever broke in did a number on your family's manor."

James's laughter, harsh and mirthless, was the last thing Harry had expected. "Those bastards should never have got credit for that."

The cold air slashed at Harry's cheeks as his lips creased into a frown. "What do you mean they should never have gotten credit?"

"Most of that was Dad. They did a number on the ballroom, but the front wall was Dad's work. He conjured up the fiercest storm I've ever seen, right there in the ballroom and blew the fuckers out the window."

"Wait, what?" Harry's mind spun. "All that damage was because your father conjured up a storm?"

Vacancy crept into the edges of James's expression.. "I've never seen anything like it," he half-whispered. "It would have blown me out with them had Dad not caught me with a charm."

Pieces never before seen clicked into place. Sgriosfàile, it had to be. No other air-based spell could do that. But Merlin, that's a lot of damage. Harry saw now why the Potters had been Gryffindors for so long; unleashing malevolence given form in the very air inside one's own ballroom was a special kind of bold.

A possibility crept through his thoughts, slow but stark as the spreading dawn around him.

Had Riddle recognized the spell? Did he see a pattern between his thwarting at the manor and the heist he had been victim to? Might he think Charlus had been the thief on Yule? Or had he suspected the Lord Governor from the beginning? Was that why he had attacked the Potters?

"That's a powerful bit of magic," Harry mused before James noticed him drifting off.

"Like I said, there's a reason Dad's in charge around here." James's chest protruded just a smidge further than the norm. "They say he's the best conjurer in the world aside from Dumbledore. He did all sorts of things like that back in his day."

Did he now? If James's words were not simple boasting and those exploits were well-known, Riddle suspecting Charlus would make perfect sense. And it wouldn't matter if there's no clear motive. Not to a man like Riddle, who saw shadows everywhere he looked.

Harry could practically hear the boulders rolling off a side path and leaving him a clear road.

But should he take it? Did he dare place his grandfather in the crosshairs of a man like Riddle?

Worry welled up inside him. It was likely Charlus was already in Riddle's line of fire. Disgust assailed him as he considered ramifications, but he shoved it aside the best he could. Harry could not change Riddle's suspicions, but he could use them to his advantage.

He hardened his heart against his worry for the Potters. Charlus would just have to keep himself and his family safe until Harry worked out how best to use this against Riddle. I need to be hard.

Harry fought against his urge to glare at the headmaster as he and James entered the Great Hall for breakfast. I need to lure him out. Only then might Riddle condemn himself. So the question is, what would make him throw caution to the wind?

"Mind if I sit with you?" he asked James when they drew near their house table. "I wanted to ask you and Black about that favour."

James brushed his question aside. "You can sit with us whenever you'd like, now that I've pulled my head out of my arse."

"You better not have bent my broom twigs," Sirius warned the moment they sat down. "I straightened those just a week ago."

James scoffed. "Your broom's safer in his hands than it is in yours."

Sirius straightened in his chair. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

"Kalloway can fly," James said, emphasizing the last word. "I think he might be the next best here after me."

"High praise," Remus said with the barest hint of a smile.

James's shrug could almost have passed for modest. "What can I say? I give credit where it's due."

Sirius gave James a disgusted look, then turned to Harry. "You said something to James about that favour?"

"Yeah." How the hell had he heard that? "I was wondering if either of you could draft me up an NDA?"

The pair exchanged a puzzled glance. "An… NDA?" Sirius asked.

"An NDA for what?" James followed up.

Pettigrew hid a snicker behind his hand. "It's not exactly like he plans on sharing if he wants an NDA, is it?"

"Guess not," James said before turning back to Harry. "Either of us could probably have one drafted up, but you'll want some specifics in there. It won't be much use to you otherwise."

"I can put you in contact with someone, if you'd like," Sirius offered. "James or I can just front the bill for whatever you want drafted, that way the details stay out of it."

"And you'd trust them?" Harry asked. "Even if you were dealing with someone really slippery?" If anyone could worm free of a nondisclosure, it would be Narcissa.

Fucking Narcissa, of all people. Harry must have made a fool of himself, standing there and gaping in the doorway when they had met. It was just… she had been the last person he had expected, and even then there was something different about her — something… softer in her demeanour, something sharper in the way she dressed.

Sirius stuck his nose up in mock indignance. "I'll have you know that I am the heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black," he drawled. "No one does slippery the way we do, and we deal with no one but the best."

Remus swatted him on the arm as James smirked and Pettigrew snickered yet again. "All right," Harry said. "I'd appreciate if you could cover the cost of one."

Sirius waved a careless hand. "Have a few drafted, if you really want. I figure that's fair enough for all the shit in autumn."

"What were you sitting with that git for?" Lily asked when he joined her in the queue of students waiting outside the warding classroom.

Harry found himself choking down a scowl. "I told you, I think he's changing. I… had a bit of a problem this morning and he helped me out. We went flying to take our minds off things." Lily looked at him as though he had three heads.

Marlene stepped close and placed her hand against his forehead. "Huh, no fever."

"Oh, shove off," Harry said, but he was grinning now. It was the most affable she had been in ages. Hopefully it meant she was over the party, at long last.

A dreadful flash of that morning's dream assaulted him, but he shoved it into that dark, forgotten place where he buried the worst of all that haunted him.

Marlene was more herself that day than she had been in almost two months and he found himself smiling more those next few hours than he had in even longer.

"I really like this year's curriculum," Marlene said as they exited their final class that week — history of magic with Professor Bathilda Bagshot. Seventh years studied 'the historical foundations atop which the ruling philosophies of our time were built'.

"I'm not sure what Merlin and the druids have to do with how the order governs things, but it's an interesting topic," Harry agreed.

"The druids fought for the salvation of magic," Marlene explained as though it was obvious. "They knew their gifts were noble and that they could be used to better life for everyone. They fought for what was right. They're a good example."

"I guess." Things like this still left him tongue-tied.

"The only part I don't get is the emphasis on Merlin," Marlene went on.

"Merlin was the greatest wizard of all time," Harry said in the same lecturing tone she had just employed. "He standardized wand movements and was one of the leading druids."

"Oh come on," Marlene scoffed, "that's just not true. Loads of druids renounced him once he pushed for wands and such. They thought it was an admission of defeat. They weren't quitters and he was never one of their leaders."

It was so preposterous, Harry almost laughed. The lone reason he quelled his mirth was for Marlene's sake. She had been highly sensitive for months and he did not want to squander the momentum they had built that day. "I guess that's true, but it's different looking back now," he said. "I can see how the druids must have looked at him back then, but look at everything his work has accomplished."

"The only reason his work is still so important is because he lost," Marlene retorted. "I'm not saying he wasn't a great wizard, but it's a bit weird that the order is so obsessed with him, if you ask me."

"Professor Bagshot mentioned something about that earlier this year," Mary chimed in. She was the third and final member of their group studying NEWT-level history. "She says it's because Merlin wanted to unite everyone in peace just like how the order did."

"Oh, come off it Mary, the order waged the bloodiest war in history. It's not like they really followed in his footsteps, is it?"

Marlene's words brought Harry up short. That was odd, now that he considered it — not at all like Dumbledore. Maybe Grindelwald rubbed off on him more than I gave credit for. The idea made Harry's skin crawl.

His contemplations must have shown across his face because Marlene now looked smug. "See? It's weird when you think about it, isn't it? It's almost… I don't know. Hypocritical?"

"It's an interesting point," Harry admitted. Dumbledore had called himself a hypocrite and spent his entire life making up for the mistakes of his boyhood.

That must have been mirrored here. It might be that Grindelwald had swayed him back when they were boys, and war was war — the victors fought the way they had to — but once the fighting ended, Dumbledore must have taken a similar approach.

Harry felt himself relax. That made much more sense, and besides, it was the intent that mattered.

Harry warred against the impulsive twisting of his lips as he studied Riddle's blasted tapestry. He had hoped his attack had destroyed it, but not a single strand had been displaced. His eyes flicked towards the windowsill, under which the glass case and its encased trinkets had once rested. That space was now unoccupied and the dark-green carpet that had been ruined by his fire was gone as well. A midnight-coloured replacement granted the office a darker, more foreboding air.

Harry brought his stare back onto Riddle before the man could grow suspicious of his examinations. A month away had changed nothing about the bastard's handsome face, but it was easier looking past it to where the last headmaster's portrait should have hung. In its place was a large banner, on which a black triskelion emblazoned beneath a silver moon and murder of crows stood proud against silk the colour of blood. "What does that symbol mean, Headmaster?" Harry asked into the silence.

Riddle tracked his gaze. "It represents my goddess."

His… goddess? "I… don't know much about religion."

"Most don't," Riddle said in tones as smooth as tranquil water. "The world has grown all but godless."

"Because of all that happened in the Middle Ages?" Harry asked, remembering Hermione expressing surprise at the relative absence of religion among witches and wizards until she had considered their history.

Riddle's long, pale fingers were still and interlaced, but Harry got the impression each one was restless. "It is a tale much older than that," the headmaster said. "The loss of religion among our people predates the Dark Ages."

"I don't know much about England before the Dark Ages," Harry admitted.

"Most of what defined us then has been lost." The regret in Riddle's words was all but tangible. "It was no accident. The Romans recognized the power they were facing when they came upon our shores. They always did their best to supplant the beliefs of those they conquered. They understood the power in things like faith."

Harry found himself nodding. "I never thought of it like that." Yet there was truth in Riddle's sentiment, loathe as he was to admit it.

A sour smile curdled on the headmaster's lips. "I think you'll find that is the exact thing they intended."

"So your goddess — does she predate the Roman conquest?"

Riddle's bitter smile fell away. "She does."

What sort of deity would Riddle go through so much effort for? There's no way he actually believes. So what did he have to gain from this facade? "What was she the goddess of?"

"A variety of things." Had there been the briefest flash of scarlet behind those dark-blue eyes, or had Harry imagined it? "The old gods were not so singular as the pretenders that came after them."

"Why is it you chose her? It sounds hard choosing between gods and goddesses who don't stand for anything."

"You misunderstand me," Riddle said. "I did not mean to say the gods stood for nothing, just that what they represented was not always so clearly defined. Take my goddess, for instance. The Morrigan is often linked to war and death. It is true the Celts of that time gave her offerings and waited for a blessing before they went to war, and it was said she could predict the outcome of a battle if so inclined, but what she really represented was the feelings involved."

How could a dispassionate monster like Riddle sit here and talk about feelings like he thought they mattered? It's no wonder so many fall under his spell. "What do you mean by feelings?"

Riddle's voice became a soft caress. "The fury, the elation, the disgust, the horror; all these things are hers."

"I still don't understand why you chose her," Harry said with halting care. "There hasn't been a real war on British soil since the Surrender."

"Is life not war?" Riddle spread his long arms wide. "The highs, the lows, the sacrifices — one man's victory is another man's defeat. There is no other way to live, no matter how much you might wish for one."

"You will never understand," Voldemort had once chided him. "There is no such thing as good or evil — ambitions are fulfilled at the cost of others' dreams."

Harry caught himself considering, if only for a moment, whether Riddle might really believe. His sentiment did echo the one Voldemort had preached, but it was spoken in a different way and painted clearly a perspective that Harry had never considered.

"Every man is the hero in his own story and all of them believe in the justness of their causes," Dumbledore had said one bleak night when Harry had vowed vengeance against Voldemort and the Death Eaters alike.

"But they're wrong!" Harry had argued. "Anyone who fights for Voldemort is wrong!"

"I, of course, agree," Dumbledore had said with a soft smile, "but I'm sure they would say the same about us if they were here."

It was among the few things the pair of them had always disagreed on, but now Harry wondered whether he had latched too hard onto a mere metaphor. Could it be that Dumbledore was trying to convey something not dissimilar from what Riddle had just said?

"We have become distracted," Riddle observed. "I wanted to congratulate you on your continued excellence. Your professors are overjoyed, but you have left a number feeling guilty."

"Guilty?" Harry asked, refocusing on their conversation. "Why would they feel guilty?"

"Because they recognize how unchallenged you are. There is nothing an educator craves quite like the spark of learning, but seeing it in a student who has nothing left to learn from them is difficult."

Harry could feel the conversation veering in the direction Riddle yearned for, but he bowed his head and permitted it to happen. Executing his plans would be far simpler if Riddle believed him charmed like all the others. "Thank you, Headmaster."

"I understand that your position is not only frustrating for the professors." No one could conjure artificial sympathy the way Riddle could. "I too found myself unchallenged at your age. It breeds stagnation."

Harry arranged his features in a way he hoped implied unease. "Are you saying I haven't been trying hard enough?"

"Not at all." Riddle flashed an understanding smile. "I am saying you have been deprived of the chance to learn. I hope to see that rectified."

Where was this going? "Rectified, sir?"

"I understand if you're unwilling," the headmaster assured him. "Minds like ours understand the value of time, but I promise it will be worthwhile."

A shock pulsed through Harry. Is he trying to recruit me?

At first it sickened him, but then his fingers tingled and his head grew light with comprehension

It was perfect.

Harry dragged a shy smile up onto his lips. "It would be an honour, Headmaster. I'm sure you, of all people, will make the time worthwhile."

No daylight filtered in through the castle's many windows as he exited the headmaster's office and plunged down towards the dungeons. The urge arose to skip gleefully down the marble staircase despite the gloom outside. How had his fortunes turned so fast? Months had been spent looking for the smallest chink in Riddle's armour, and now the man had stripped it off in front of him.

The path ahead was clear now — all he had to do was worm his way in and then make Riddle feel threatened. It was the one advantage they had always held against Voldemort; the man knew no way but offence and that presented openings they had learned to predict and plan for.

Sounds of merriment first reached his ears when he stepped off the final stone step and entered into the dungeons. Harry drew the Elder Wand as the sounds grew louder and transfigured his plain black robes into a finer set that was trimmed in forest green.

"Harry!" Slughorn waddled forward on wobbling legs and seized his arm when Harry stepped across his threshold. The professor's breath was thick with the fruity stench of wine. "Good to see you, good to see you! I wasn't sure you'd make it after the way you skived us off last month."

"It wasn't like that," Harry insisted. "I—"

Slughorn clasped him on the shoulder. "It's all right, m'boy, minds like yours always find too much to do. I understand. Tom was the same way, you know. You remind me so much of him sometimes."

Harry clenched his teeth so hard as he smiled, he feared they might crack and shatter. I'll never be like him! he vowed. Never!

"What was that?" Harry asked. Slughorn's expression had grown expectant. "Sorry, Professor, I didn't hear you."

"I was just explaining that Tom himself sees the resemblance as well. It's not often he offers extra learning, you know." Harry failed at masking his surprise. "Not to worry, not to worry." Slughorn winked. "Your secret's safe with me."

So it was meant to be kept secret — that erased any trace of doubt which had remained. Riddle really was attempting to groom him into a future Death Eater.

Harry was shown off to a handful of government officials who did not sound half so important as Slughorn made them out to be before the Deputy Headmaster caught sight of James and excused himself.

A smile teased his lips as Harry watched the Potions Master bustle off. Always a Potter, right in the thick of everything.

"Harry!" It still warmed him, seeing Marlene so uplifted by his presence once again. "Where were you?"

"In a meeting with the headmaster." Her eyes went wide and Lily, who appeared just behind her shoulder, looked up into his face. Harry ensured he maintained a neutral visage. No longer could he show any signs of dissent from Riddle around these two — not if he was to infiltrate the monster's ranks.

The truth of it burned him. I can't even show my feelings to my mother without worrying she'll betray me. How had Riddle grown so expert at taking everything away from him?

For the briefest blink of an eye, a part of him was glad no way home had yet materialized if this was what was going on here.

Then his senses returned and the longing brimmed up like fresh blood welling in an open wound.

"Spill!" Marlene ordered. "What did you talk about?"

"I can't," he said with his most apologetic smile. "The headmaster asked me not to share."

Marlene failed to keep a scowl off her face, but Lily rested a hand on her arm. "Stand down, Marlene. If Headmaster Riddle wants it kept between him and Harry, then you shouldn't pry." Lily's words were enough to still Marlene's questions, but not enough to quell her scowl.

"I think this is the quietest of the meetings I've been to," Harry said to break the awkward silence.

Marlene finally misplaced her scowl. "It's hardly a surprise. The first quarter of any year is always busy for the ministry and the empire in general. That eliminates most of Slughorn's contacts." She stood on her tiptoes to peer over Harry's head. "Do either of you see a table for food? I'm starving."

"There's one off behind us," Harry told her. "I saw it right before I got ditched by Slughorn. Come on."

They were stopped halfway there by a knife-thin man with golden hair and sea-green eyes. "Am I interrupting?" the man asked. Harry did his best not to stare as frustration gnawed at him. Where have I seen him before?

"Not at all," Lily assured the newcomer. "We were just looking for food." She gave Marlene a swat on the arm. "Our friend was getting a little bit impatient."

"I won't keep you," the tall blond said. "I was just wondering if I could have a word with Mister Kalloway?"

Harry's suspicion grew thicker than the herd of bodies clustered tight around his father. No one important had sought him out this way — no one but Dorea, whose words returned to him through the vaulted halls of time.

"Anyone important enough to know what happened in Greece has an opinion about you, but they all seem different."

Only when the pair had broken off into a quiet corner did Harry offer up the same apologetic smile he had just used against Marlene. "I'm sorry, sir, but I don't think we've met."

"There is no need for apologies," the blond said with a graceful inclination of his head. "My name is Dionysus Yaxley. I am an Imperial High Martial."

Harry's agitation over his failure to place the man evaporated. They had never met — this Yaxley just closely resembled the one whom he had fought against for years.

Wariness rose up to take his agitation's place. It's no wonder he knows who I am, if he's an Imperial High Martial. The position was a high honour among the venators, exceeded only by the lord consul himself. "It's a pleasure to meet you, sir."

"The pleasure is all mine," Yaxley insisted. "I've been curious about you for quite some time."

"I can't say I'm surprised." There was no purpose in an outright lie.

Yaxley's smile cut like a knife. "Good. Reports of your behaviour in Greece had me worrying this would be more difficult."

Harry dragged up a mournful facade. "I… was out of my right mind."

"Yes, yes." Yaxley waved a hand. "I'm not interested in where you came from."

If that was true, Harry would swallow the nearest tablecloth. Never had he met an influential man who did not want to know everything about everyone. "What is it you're interested in, sir?"

"A proposition."

Harry paused. Surely he was not about to be offered a job? "What sort of proposition?"

"I have… stakes in duelling," Yaxley began. "My family has been involved for a long time and it's a profitable business when you can predict the outcomes." The man's pale face took on a meaningful cast. "It can also be profitable for those who make the outcomes so predictable."

Anger bubbled up and burned away every trace of Harry's wariness. Here he was, trying to bring down Riddle and thus save countless lives, and all this man cared about was the gold inside his vaults. "I'm not a duellist." Finality punctuated Harry's flat reply. "I don't know the first thing about professional duelling, and I don't really care to."

"You have time to learn if you change your mind, and I urge you to leave that door open." Yaxley offered up his hand and Harry seized it out of grudging obligation. "Think about it. I'm sure an owl can find me once you have reconsidered."

Harry glared at Yaxley's back as the selfish prick retreated, now aware of what had inflamed his temper. Their exchange had reminded Harry painfully of Fudge, and how he'd had more concern for his reputation than his people's safety.

The hour was late when he disentangled himself from the thinning throng and left the dungeons in his wake.

Harry's heart beat faster with each metre of distance he put between himself and the deputy headmaster's office. The feeling reminded him of Yule as he ascended through the castle in a manner not unlike the one he had adopted that night.

He emerged onto the second floor, hidden beneath his disillusionment, and strode towards the bathroom he had known as Myrtle's. Frustration surfaced as he drew near. Its ward scheme remained beyond his skill despite long hours studying.

Focus. If he had his way, Riddle would be dealt with long before he had the chance to unleash his monster.

Harry set his jaw as the soft sound of footsteps came up behind him. No surprise showed across his face and not a single muscle tensed when a blank-eyed Derrick Mulciber stepped up beside him.

The son of a man Harry knew to be a Death Eater, Derrick was unmarked but would soon join Riddle's ranks judging off of what had happened where Harry had come from. All day long, the boy had waited patiently inside a hidden passageway under the Imperius Curse.

Harry steeled his resolve as he looked the broad boy up and down. The resemblance between him and his father was uncanny. That was good — it would send a clear message.

Harry stepped far back from the wards and gave the wordless signal.

Mulciber drew his wand and launched a crude attack against the ward scheme. The boy's spine stiffened as the traps flared into motion. Harry held his breath and waited, prepared for every gruesome outcome he could think of.

Nothing else befell the boy.

Harry hummed aloud with realization. The bathroom was off limits because of alleged structural failures, but the first layer being tripped was still a possibility Riddle must have planned for.

And so triggering the outmost layer would hold the blameless student in place long enough for the wise old headmaster to come free them.

And to make sure his wards are still intact.

Guilt pricked inside Harry's skin, too light to be called a stab. He had killed too many men in war to feel much more than that.

A sweeping flourish of the Elder Wand produced a bright tiara wrought from shining silver. Harry examined it with care. It could be mistaken for the diadem at first glance, but a closer inspection would reveal the imperfections.

But it is silver, and that's what matters. Silver, like all of the alchemical metals, was impossible to conjure.

Unless you have the Elder Wand.

Or, as far as Riddle knew, unless you were known as the world's greatest conjurer not named Albus Dumbledore.

Harry hardened himself against what must come next and crowned his pawn with the false diadem, then slashed his wand towards the nearest window.

Glass sprayed through the corridor. Harry summoned a storm of shards and sent them slicing through Mulciber's once black robes until what remained of them was tattered and blood-stained.

When Harry finished, the shredded fabric left Mulciber's pale chest bare. Carved in jagged, still bleeding wounds between his pecs was a crude mockery of a skull with a protruding serpent tongue.

A final flick of the Elder Wand banished the body into the warded bathroom. There. It would not do for students to stumble across this scene, but Riddle would find it.

Harry cast one last glance down the glass-strewn corridor and mourned another casualty. His heart ached, but its pain had grown familiar over long, torturous years. The things we do in war…

He spun on his heel and took a running leap out the gaping hole left in the shattered window's place. Cold air snatched the breath from his flattened lungs and the bottom dropped out of his stomach as the pearly lawns rushed up towards him.

"The ends justify the means."

— Niccolò Machiavelli

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