The Tragedy of Harry Potter

by Momento Virtuoso

As Harry lay dying on the forest floor clutching the Resurrection Stone in hand, he is offered a choice between passing onward or continuing forward to his prophesied fate. However, Harry's story wouldn't pick up where he left off at the Battle of Hogwarts but instead finding himself in a world and time in which he only ever saw in photographs. AU. Time-travel.

8. The Silver Serpent

A/N: Hi folks, hope we all enjoy the chapter.

AU Changes: Wizarding Laws. Amelia Bones Canon Age. Canon-Character changes. OC Backstories

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The Tragedy of Harry Potter

By. Momento Virtuoso
Edited By: BoredBarrister & Nandoska

A/N: I do not own Harry Potter unlike J.K.

Chapter 8

The Silver Serpent

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Within the Hospital Wing of the school, Albus Dumbledore looked down at the broken form of another student he had failed to protect in his long tenure as Headmaster. Professor Creon Renault stood beside him and the student's bedside, inspecting the comatose form of Jeanne Wilkes with his wand. The kelpie on the man's forearm appeared as if to guide his hand.

The young Hufflepuff prefect had been found during the night by another prefect making their patrol rounds. It was unknown to them how long she had laid in the passageways, but a blessing that she was still amongst them.

Jeanne Wilkes was covered head to toe in bandages, except for her arms, which Creon had unwrapped to inspect the girl's magical damage. A hospital sheet had been pulled up to her stomach to provide a little warmth in the vast room. Her features rested peacefully in a magically-induced coma that the Madam had put the young girl under. She was to be transferred to St. Mungo's shortly.

"Are you sure, Creon? It was an Unforgivable, amongst other spells?" Albus asked, wishing to clarify what he had heard from the professor.

Creon sighed, a look of frustration evident upon his face which Dumbledore could not miss.

"Aye. She was tortured, Albus. What's odd is that she was mostly made to do it herself. She essentially lit her own nerves on fire, from what I can gather — some kind of mind magic, potentially the Imperius by itself, but I'd wager the Cruciatus Curse made an appearance too.

"She'll be lucky if she ever has any feeling ever again… anywhere, let alone have any return to her extremities. She's beyond our help. She needs to be delivered to St. Mungo's." Creon couldn't draw his eyes away from red markings littering his student's arms like a pox - electrical burns which criss-crossed over one another like longitude and latitude lines on a map. Albus did not watch the victim before him but instead his employee, intently, as if studying his every reaction.

"Please, Creon — continue, my dear boy." Albus requested with an air of detachment, gesturing towards the patient they were discussing.

Creon felt bile rise unbidden in his throat. Seeing a student, someone so young and damaged like this. It sickened him to his core. Images of another time, of another girl, bedridden like Jeanne Wilkes, flashed before him momentarily. Creon shook his head free from the dark thoughts; he had a job to do now. There was no sense of languishing upon what could have been.

"Whoever did this… they got bored with psychological torture, so they switched to physical. Her bones were snapped and then mended again — over and over. Whoever cast the healing spell was shoddy… the piss poor mending job would have caused Ms. Wilkes far more physical pain than the bones actually breaking," Creon observed, his years of study in healing magic finally being put to the test, albeit in a way he would never have hoped.

Dumbledore nodded, as if in thought. Creon couldn't help but think he was performing some sort of exam for the eccentric Headmaster. He thought it highly unlikely that a wizard of Dumbledore's quality truly needed him to spell out these observations for him so blatantly. With his inspection over, Creon rebound the bandages covering Jeanne's arms before stowing away his wand.

The tattoo of the kelpie on the man's arm neighed sorrowfully, though no iota of sound escaped the man's skin. The artwork was docile, flicking its tail in a subdued manner as it looked over the fallen student before attempting to comfort the man whose body it inhabited.

"You spoke of a curse upon her mind, Creon. Placed at the very end. What do you know of its origins?" Dumbledore asked.

"A Maladied-Mind Curse. It's a nasty one, Albus. Arabic or Persian in origin… used most often in executions involving exposure to the elements. The curse will distort the world around you… sometimes it's gentle, other times it's horrifying, all depending on the caster's intentions. The Shahs of old used to cast it on the condemned, then leave them out in the middle of the desert to die. It's considered a kindness in that culture though, as the curse would lead them to an oasis only in their heads," Creon informed, though the last thought sat uneasy in his mind.

'Who would even cast a such curse — especially after the torture was all done?' he thought, racking his mind for the potential reasoning. Perhaps, however, there was a certain cruelty in giving a victim a false hope — an oasis in the desert didn't necessarily mean salvation.

"We tried to lift it earlier, but Ms. Wilkes didn't take to any counter spell we knew. The Matron thought it reasonable to keep her in a comatose state. We think it may render the curse inert, but we truly don't know… I tried everything I could to lift it, but it was to no avail," Creon recounted the efforts of himself and Madam Pomfrey to Dumbledore.

Defeat draped itself around his neck, embracing Creon like a noose; his shame made the timbers of which formed his gallows. Jeanne Wilkes had not been a pupil of his for long, but he had come to care for her like many other students who had passed through his door in the weeks gone by.

He was capable of so much but a defeat like this left a bitter, ashen taste in his mouth. As if sensing his despondency in failure, Dumbledore sought to uplift the downed professor.

"Fret not, dear Creon. There are many mysterious spells which elude even the most enlightened of us. There is no shame in admitting defeat, rather only in surrendering to it," Albus said.

To Creon, Albus might as well have gifted him the sword to throw himself upon on his mountain of failures.

"Easy for you to preach, Sir. Some of us, however, are mortal. I don't like failing… much less failing a student — another child," Creon whispered the last two words softly.

Dumbledore's eyes flickered to the man for a split second as his ears made note of the confession.

"Merlin knows I'm already a sprawling and floundering teacher, but I'm supposed to protect them… you called me here to prepare them for the outside world. Normally you're right Albus." Creon breathed a hefty sigh, his shoulders sagging. "You're always right… but I fear you're wrong about me this time, Albus."

Albus Dumbledore nodded at the Defense Professor's words, a deep seed of regret growing in his chest for the man next to him. 'Desperate times… desperate measures… always for a greater good, is it not?'

The kind, grandfatherly man in him wished to comfort the conflicted Professor. He also wanted to protect every student in his care but he knew there needed to be a few who paid a price for the protection of many. However, Creon Renault didn't have to be one of those few.

'Not yet,' Dumbledore decided, affirming himself.

"Humility is a trait many lack, Creon, but you, my boy appear to possess it beyond measure," he said, turning towards his fellow staff member, his blue eyes twinkling behind half-moon spectacles, "and that is why you are the right choice to defend the innocent. Every time," Dumbledore remarked, smiling at the man. "I am mortal, and if being wrong about you is my sin, then I shall atone the only way I know how… by believing that you can do your very best. I often try not to add doubt to my long-list of wrongs," the old wizard said with a half-chuckle.

Creon snorted, feigning his disgust at the old man. He could smell a bullshitter when he was near one.

Albus Dumbledore was a man in an ivory tower, unable to see the world as it really was from his position atop the clouds. Creon, on the other hand, had traveled so extensively he had walked around the Earth's surface twice. Still, despite his repulsion to Albus's words, a warmth burned itself in Creon's chest at having his old mentor's trust. Oh, what a unique wound it was to bear.

After years of being a Midas among wizards, where everything he touched turned to galleons with only a few black spots marring his long record, his reputation garnered amazement and awe. Few, however, saw him for the man he was inside, rather only for the talented wizard he appeared to be.

Creon hated that it was Albus who truly saw him. He owed much to the old Headmaster, one of many mentors to his adventurous life. In a way, that had earned Dumbledore his loyalty — loyalty which Creon clung to, perhaps to a fault.

The two educators turned their attention back to the still form of the student before them.

"You've reported this to the Board of Governors, Albus?" Creon asked, wondering what had been done about the situation.

The Headmaster hummed in displeasure; he had grown markedly tired of the group of trustees. "I have, yes. But it would seem that Lord Malfoy, the director of the board, is unwilling to put forth any kind of investigation, despite Lord Wilkes' insistence this morning."

Creon shook his head at the errors of bureaucracy. "Is he not concerned?" wondering how such powerful men could let a child go unaided. "She needs to be in St. Mungo's, Albus… yesterday," the man stressed, his mind replaying all the diagnosis he found while looking over the comatose student. "Promise me, Albus. Promise me you'll send her today — Morrigans-hell, now practically."

"She'll be sent first thing. I'll ensure it before I depart myself and I shall take any responsibility for the negligence, Creon. You have my word." Albus conceded, submitting to his faculty members' plight.

Dumbledore thought about it all for a moment, the pieces laid out before him in a game that he could not recognize yet; a game that had him ensnared. 'It's a witch hunt of sorts… but without the mob at the door.'

Dumbledore shook his head. "No, my boy. It would appear not. Lord Malfoy cited that there was insufficient evidence to warrant any investigation. Many are under the impression that dark curses cannot be cast within the school, due to the restrictive enchantments on wands. I find it most amusing — we tell ourselves lies for so long that they become a truth of their own."

Both men chuckled humorlessly. Dumbledore thought of his own fabled wand, while Creon reflected on the irony of fighting a war in a world where wands were supposedly incapable of casting spells. It was a paradox which saw the wizarding world dig its head in the sand.

"That is the truth of my request for your expert presence in this further inspection. With the evidence you've gathered on the spells used, perhaps we can submit an inquiry to override Lord Malfoy's decision," Dumbledore finished. In truth, that was largely irrelevant — he had wanted to observe the new professor's demeanor. The last time he had seen Creon Renault, was as a broken man.

"Why young Ms. Wilkes, do you think, Creon? What importance was she?"

Creon shook his head, shrugging his shoulders and asked, "Who knows, Albus? Perhaps it was the wrong place at the wrong time? It's hard to say. Why would someone torture a student to such extremes?"

"Perhaps Ms. Wilkes will enlighten us upon her recovery," Dumbledore supplied, revealing nothing of his inner thoughts. "Unfortunately, I suspect this is just the beginning of our troubles."

He knew deep down that this was merely the opening shot, a test of their battlements before a long siege. Darkness had been looming over the country for some time.

'I know you had little choice, my friend, but I'm grateful you answered the call regardless,' Dumbledore thought, wanting to say the words to the man next to him. He was grateful to have such a man as Renault by his side.

The Headmaster grimaced imperceptibly. Even Creon's presence would mean nothing in politics — something he knew he would soon be utterly inundated in. A miniscule sigh escaped his wrinkled lips. He dreaded the backlash of this latest development, and a pit formed in his aged stomach.

---

The large, court-like room was filled with noise. Several Lords stood in their seats and yelled out at one another across the galleys. No press nor visitors were allowed in the current session of the Wizengamot, so no one felt the need to be cordial. Insults and barbs were the order of the day.

Dumbledore held no sway over the commotion before him. Several times the man had tried to rein in the bickering lords but it seemed none wished to hear his pleas.

"You're a blight upon the land, Malfoy, a black stain unfit even to touch our boots," Justinan Longbottom howled, spitting into the middle of the chamber to emphasize his point.

Justinan possessed a short, stocky build with a small head atop his larger frame, his ears appearing oversized alongside his receding hairline. The man was the very picture of a Quidditch beater or muggle bouncer.

Dumbledore banged his gavel on the desk before him, his position just below that of the presiding Minister of Magic, a man by the name of Minchum. "Gentlemen, let us please refrain from such further behavior."

Dumbledore felt like he was scolding his unruly students once more… a sensation magnified all the more by the fact that all of them had been, at one time or another.

Lord Longbottom didn't respond, opting instead to continue his stare-down with Abraxas Malfoy. The leader of the hegemonist political bloc looked to be in his element. The Lord Malfoy wore only the finest silks for his robes, a deep silver and green reflecting his Hogwarts house. A cane topped with a serpent's head was propped next to his seat.

Abraxas simply sneered at his opposition, waiting for them to air their grievances so he could reclaim the floor. It wasn't like it would do the opposing lords any good, beyond being an exercise in catharsis.

"Chief Warlock, please remove Lord Longbottom for his behavior. This is a civil council, not a common public house. There is no place for such tainted aggression in our midst," Lord Nott requested, standing from his seat, a bilious request for the man directing the proceedings.

Justinan's face turned a deep puce at the veiled insult. It had long been rumored that the Longbottoms had married a muggle-born at some point in their early line, with the entire family tree branching from that union.

"Oh! Tainted, am I? Tell me, Nott, how's sharing a marriage bed with your first cousin? Is it as pure as the Patronus charm?"

Lord Nott snarled at the accusation. He and his cousin had been betrothed and married just after graduating from Hogwarts, but it was a loveless affair, with both parties committing numerous adulterous affairs.

"Now, now. I see no need to remove any esteemed gentleman from these chambers," Dumbledore argued, unwilling to remove any supporters of the goal he sought from this meeting — to hinder the pureblood movement in any way possible. "We shall carry on as we are, but in a more well-mannered fashion, if we would."

Abraxas Malfoy sat in his seat, his gloved hand restricting tightly on the neck of his cane in a bridled fury as if he was a constrictor himself, throttling another snake. 'Damn you, old man… we'll see a person removed yet, mark my words.' For several hours now, his colleagues had been pestering and prodding their opposition in a bid to throw a few out, removing their vote from the equation. It seemed Dumbledore had caught onto the disenfranchising scheme. Standing from his inherited seat, Abraxas banged his cane down onto the marbled floor. Sharp, loud explosions of sound from the cane's staking lifted off the ground, rising to the ceiling before they fell back down upon the ears of the assembled.

"Chief Warlock, a moment if you would — there seems to be a concern of ethics for this gathering which has not been addressed thus far."

Dumbledore peered down at the man, his eyes just over the spectacles resting on his crooked nose. "And what ethical concern might this be, Lord Malfoy?"

"My bill, the Act to authorize and regulate the arming of the Wizarding Militia and to modify the restrictions on wand ownership and usage within the United Kingdom," Abraxas recited the long and droning bureaucratic penmanship of the label. "Is meant for the protection of all our citizens… even those too young to represent themselves before us in a court. As the head of the board of trustees for Hogwarts, I have only just been informed of an attack within its halls… a student assaulted by an unknown assailant. This student is reported to be in critical condition, but there has been no motion to move them to St. Mungo's for any treatment."

Abraxas let his words hang in the pregnant air, and turned a skeptical eye to Dumbledore, before offering a curt nod of apology to Lord Wilkes.

John Wilkes, the father of the attacked student, could only flinch at the news, his head prostrated far lower than any of his surrounding peers.

"Chief Warlock, as headmaster of the school… is it not your duty to care for and render aid to any who require it within its long-hallowed halls?" Abraxas recalled the duties of Albus Dumbledore's secondary title at the moment.

Dumbledore's face betrayed no expression though his shoulders were tense and one hand below the desk firmly gripped his old knee tightly, at the blow. 'Well played,' he celebrated the man's masterclass serpentine maneuvering.

"You are right, Lord Malfoy. A student was attacked in the late hours of last evening, with only the family in question being informed. It was not discovered that she was indeed in a critical condition until this morning, after inspection by one of our professors," Dumbledore denied, the lie rolling off his lips as if rehearsed despite its rushed conception mere moments before — the act was second nature to the man.

"And has the student in question been sent off to St. Mungo's yet, Chief Warlock?" Abraxas interrogated the wizard in control of his plan's success.

"I informed our matron that they were to be immediately delivered to St. Mungo's upon my very own departure to this meeting," Dumbledore supplied, as if the viper on the other side wasn't coiled to strike at him.. In truth, there wasn't much he could do in this moment, with the trap sprung as it was. He walked quite unwittingly into it almost blissfully.

Abraxas turned now to look up at the Minister of Magic.

"Minister, as mediator de jure in the event of questions of such a nature, I call for the removal of the Chief Warlock from these chambers. Albus Dumbledore is unfit to chair this august body, both as a result of his personal involvement and biases regarding today's agenda, and the disturbing evidence of ethical misconduct. His failure to provide necessary medical treatment to the child of a member of these hallowed chambers should, I believe, be valid enough reason to dismiss the Chief Warlock from today's proceedings, especially in tandem with the concerns aired when I presented my bill to you earlier personally… at the very least."

All noise in the chamber died at Abraxas' words, the accusation hanging pregnant in the air, and had become yet more silent still at its conclusion, as the lords absorbed his words fully and waited in nervous anticipation for the next action..

Minchum's throat bobbed slightly, as if processing the request. His sunken eyes twitched from Abraxas to Dumbledore several times in the space of a moment. With a bang of his own gavel, the Minister of Magic decided the appeal. "Approved. Motion to rescind Chief Warlock, Albus Dumbledore, from his position for the remainder of this assembly, forwarded."

Dumbledore, looking a bit weary and tired, nodded professionally at Abraxas and the Minister of Magic before vacating his position and moving over to the empty rows where press and visitors would congregate when invited.

The room burst once more into an outroar, like the secondary explosion of a volcano, at the dismissal of their Chief Warlock.

"He set this up! Mark my words! That viper is getting Albus removed for his own slimy benefit," Justinan accused the silver-haired lord.

The Minister of Magic, Minchum, banged his own gavel down on the surface before him. "Order! I say order, you lot! Lord Longbottom, please refrain from such disgusting displays of vitriol — again."

Still the Minister was drowned out by the fussing and bickering of the Lords.

He was a thin man, almost resembling a tall Inferius.. The Minister was sickly and pale from the long hours of the job, rarely afforded the luxury to be able to leave his office — let alone the Ministry Building.

"Gentlemen! Order — for the last time — or I shall conceive some power to see you fit for removal, too. Now that the issue of the residing ethics has been settled. Lord Malfoy, please step forward and present the draft of your bill," the Minister called out. His Senior Undersecretary and personal assistant passed a bound document to the Lords around the room.

Charlus Potter and Arcturus Black both thumbed through the document they were handed. Each man's eyes rose to the other's across the room. A silent communication passed between the two men through the subtle art of Legilimency.

A hallway with a door to an unused office — a clock set to the time a few hours to come — a flash of each man holding their rings in the Black Study in silent contemplation.

The two men nodded at one another and turned their attention to the ringleader of the farce before them.

Lord Malfoy stood in the center of the pit, surrounded by the Wizengamot court.

"My Lords, I put forward a bill to this esteemed House that we may discourse upon its importance. We are under siege and at threat, my fellows, make no mistake! Witches and wizards cower for their lives while the Aurors remain woefully ineffective — even their wands, sanctioned for the removal of the incantations and enchantments that limit us, prove inefficient given their low funding and even lower membership. The bill before us would see every member of our society capable of taking up arms for themselves, to defend their livelihoods and families, and this most blessed of isles," Abraxas advocated to the room, his speech steady and commanding.

"So we shall debate! Who here believes that this bill should be struck down before us?" the Minister of Magic called out, his beady eyes sweeping across the room.

Several members of the Bones camp stood up, most notably Lord Bones himself. William Bones, known to many in the magical Britain as the 'The Old Lion', was a larger than life figure. In his youth, he had possessed the body of a mountain or small bull, his frame packed with muscle that had since largely softened into a layer of fat. The Bones patriarch was a man of action and had always been. His command over half of the Wizengamot had been firm and just for the last two decades since his post-war return to public life.

"Abraxas, you say this bill is to promote the safety of all witches and wizards under our jurisdiction — but what of the threat you claim we face?" Bones asked, looking around at his peers. "You would have our people shooting spell fire at shadows and faces in the dark, potentially harming not just their neighbors but themselves too!" Flecks of spittle flew from his salt and pepper beard at his rival.

"I do not downplay the threat that our country faces, Lord Bones. You must admit, though, that our Auror force is inadequate. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement is stretched so thin as it is. What if we are set upon by packs of werewolves, or the giant tribes of the north? There is more than one enemy at our gates," Lord Malfoy claimed.

A symphony of cheers and claps erupted in a chorus from the side opposing Lord Bones. Lord Nott nodded, smug with himself and sharing his win with Lord Parkinson, which the Lord Black, Arcturus, noticed; the lord of the Most Ancient and Noble House adopted a murderous look towards the lord of his vassal house.

Almost at once, Lord Jennings stood from his seat a few spaces away from Bones.

"There are enemies at the gate?" Lord Jennings let out a loud, boisterous laugh that turned into a sneer of self-righteous fury. "Let us not play fickle, Lord Malfoy. There are enemies in this very chamber! Let us fear-monger no further, lest we forget the reason for these laws in the first place. Was the violence of the Napoleonic Wizarding Wars or the Global Wizarding War spearheaded by Gellert Grindelwald not enough blood for your lot?"

Those seated amongst the Bones camp nodded in agreement, voicing their praise with clapping and shouts of encouragement of their own. There were even a few on the opposing side, like Arcturus, nodding their heads in silent agreement.

"You are right, Lord Jennings," Abraxas conceded. "However, how many sons and fathers would have returned from the Continent after the horrors of Grindelwald? Horrors not seen in Europe since the Nykhia's bloody inquisitional crusade of the in the 16th century? How many more dead do you need until you see that our society is in jeopardy?"

Lord Malfoy swept his hand to the crowd of Lords who watched, enthralled. Many in the aisles missed the man's double entendre, but those who knew Lord Malfoy well enough caught on.

"We pass this bill not to allow the Dark Arts to run rampant in our country, but to control their spread. To prevent the rise of another dark wizard or witch of an ilk with Gellert Grindelwald, Emeric the Evil, Gormlaith Gaunt, or the depraved Ekrizdis. How many souls have been lost, these last few years, to the dark plight within our country? How many witches and wizards have been laid to eternal rest due to the sin of our inactions? Let us not bury another countryman. Let our citizens be capable of possessing the means of their own salvation — a wand, free of restriction."

A roar of applause sounded from his supporters, and even a few in the Bones Camp were swayed by the man's words.

Abraxas held up a hand to silence the chamber. He held all the power and attention in the room. For a brief moment, Lord Malfoy felt greater even than the Dark Lord. 'So this is why he craves it so…' Abraxas thought, the feeling utterly euphoric. He had never been one to crave quite such a direct role in leadership, but the Malfoy patriarch had always enjoyed pulling strings behind the scenes, like his Lord.

Lord Bones glared down at Malfoy, his face set in a grimace as if he were watching a crime take place in real time. To his mind, Lord Malfoy was nothing but a political crook.

Charlus shared a worried look with an equally concerned Arcturus Black and Justinan Longbottom.

"He's gonna get what he fucking wants. Abraxas Malfoy, 'the Silver Whisperer', strikes once more in these governmental halls. His adder's venom disguised and sold to the masses as a sweet honey, an opium for the cowardly," Bones grunted over to Charlus.

The two men noticed how subdued Johnathan Wilkes was, and how he hadn't spoken out like usual. The man was a loyal friend to William Bones, but it seemed the man had opted to stay neutral alongside the Crouches.

The Minister called for silence from the rambunctious lords, the pounding of his gavel called their attention.

"Order in the chambers! Does anyone object to the proposal of an Act to authorize and regulate the arming of the Wizarding Militia and to modify the restrictions on wand ownership and usage within the United Kingdom 1977 — henceforth known as the Militia Empowerment and Wand Deregulation Act 1977?" Minchum asked.

Several hands raised up amongst the light-aligned Bones camp, while only one hand raised in the opposing side of the room. A rock buffeted by the ocean, Arcturus Black growled and sneered at any of his peers who might have had the audacity to question his stance.

Minchum's assistant tallied the votes and the question was raised to those in favor of the proposed Bill.

The 'Ayes' far outnumbered the Lords who objected to Malfoy's plot.

"Then the proposal proceeds; we shall hold a final vote of ratification on this matter in two weeks," the Minister proclaimed after a brief consultation with his assistant and Undersecretary, calling an end to the session with a final bang of his gavel.

The spectre of defeat sat in Lord Bones' for a moment, one which he saw in Dumbledore as it was quickly replaced by the fiery determination he was famous for. The Old Lion saw Malfoy for what he was — a pawn to a fish far bigger than himself. Bones was well aware of how politics worked — he knew that everyone in this room already possessed a second wand or had paid to have the restrictions lifted from their wands through less than legal means

He had seen his nation go to war before, and he dreaded the thought of seeing it upon his very shores. The only difference was that now no thin blue line could be drawn to prevent conflict from spreading to the streets. His green and pleasant land was already blackened with rot.

Meanwhile, Arcturus Black and Charlus Potter slipped out of the room and made their way to the office off to the side, which they had envisioned together in their brief moment of eye contact.

Charlus closed the door behind him, and Arcturus set to casting multiple privacy charms upon the entryway to prevent any unwanted ears from overhearing them.

"That conniving cunt!" Arcturus spat, gnashing and grinding his teeth as he paced to and fro in the room. However, the Lord Black could not shake the hypocrisy he rested upon. His own wand, and most of his family's, had their own restrictions lifted. The price had been steep, but Lord Black was willing to pay anything for his blood.

"Careful Arcturus, your inner good is showing," Charlus joked, attempting to make light of the situation the two lords had witnessed.

Neither were ignorant of the terrorist attacks perpetrated by a mysterious pure-blood faction in the last decade. The group had become bolder and bolder in recent years. People were disappearing without a trace like they never existed, there was increased aggression towards muggleborn and muggles. They were dark days, and darker days still loomed ominously, eclipsing the sun over the horizon.

"We'll be seeing a level of armament unheard of since Grindelwald captured France and was an apparition point away from our shores…" Charlus said.

Lord Black nodded. "You'll have my support. I'll see what I can drum up, and try to break away as many from Malfoy's camp as possible. You tell that old fucking cat he'll see no fight from me, for once," Arcturus reassured.

Charlus nodded in agreement, glad to see that both men were on the same side of peace and prosperity.

"And your ring? Is there any conflict with your choice, Arcturus?" Charlus asked, desperately wondering how things would work if the two lords found themselves opposed to their unknown partner. It could spell disaster.

Arcturus removed the chain from his neck and glared at the family jewelry. "It was acting up when I considered the benefits of Malfoy's proposal, but upon changing my thoughts, the ring settled as if it had never been disturbed," Lord Black responded. "And yours? What of the Potter ring's feelings towards your current cause?"

Charlus simply shook his head. "Nothing, it's been in stasis. It didn't act up when I thought about supporting Old Bones at all. I think whoever our mysterious successor is, it's safe to say they are no friend of the Malfoys," Potter said.

"Whoever the bastard is hates Abraxas, eh? I almost like them," Arcturus chuckled, placing the Black ring around his neck once more. Both men had been treading lightly in approaching any policy with the dangers the rings possessed.

They couldn't act against their fellow unknown lord, or vice versa, even if they wanted to. With the issue of their allegiance settled, both men sat down at a table and began to plot.

"We'll need to create some programs to break down their base. They're feeding off the Purebloods who feel slighted and disenfranchised. If we offer some compromises, perhaps we can degrade Malfoy's talking points," Charlus suggested.

Arcturus huffed indignantly. "If my daughter-in-law is anything to judge by, that lot won't be pleased unless we cart every muggle-born off in a boat to Azkaban."

"Regardless — you work your end, Arcturus, and I'll do mine. It's up to the old guard to protect the next generation, it seems," Charlus whispered, a far-off look in his eyes. "It'll be a war… our children and grandchildren will pay the price."

Charlus worried for his own heir, James. For Sirius, who he saw as another son as well. For the muggle-born, James had praised for so many years, whom Charlus felt like he already knew. Charlus feared for all those who wouldn't be able to protect themselves, placed in danger by a law heralded to be their salvation from the looming violence.

"It was already a war, Charlus. We're just late to the battle, that's all," Arcturus grunted, a bitter taste in his mouth. He never liked to work from the backfoot, preferring to outfox his opponents a few steps ahead.

The two men shook hands, a truce and bond of trust between two comrades who had spilled blood alongside each other, devoting their wills to support the other in conflict once more.

---

Soon it had spread like wildfire that a student had been attacked, accosted, and tortured within the halls of the school. Whispers of who and what were being tossed back and forth over subdued students during the waning moments of breakfast.

"Merlin, I wouldn't have believed it myself, if Peter hadn't confirmed it," Sirius said, fiddling with a silver flask and letting a few drops of amber liquid fall into his pumpkin juice before tossing back his goblet.

"Must you really drink that swill at the table?" Remus asked. The werewolf wrinkled his nose at the harsh smell of the firewhisky which hung around the Gryffindor Black.

"Mate, trust me — you'd be sipping this too if you heard the details. Jeanne is barely recognizable according to the rumor mill. Though, I don't think anyone has been in the Hospital Wing to see her. Poppy has that ward locked down tighter than Azkaban," Sirius said.

If one were to look into the eyes of any member at their table, they'd find no peace within them. . "Attacks in the school, though… do you think it could be, y'know, that lot?" James nudged his head over to the table underneath the green and silver banners of Slytherin.

"Wouldn't shock me. You know what some of those fuckers are capable of. The attack they did on Eammon Sturgis last year was a record for them till now," Marlene answered.

Lily, whose hand slightly shook in James' larger one, looked over at the Slytherins. Her eyes roamed over the occupants until they found their target of her childhood friend, Severus Snape.

Snape appeared as collected as he always did. The boy was as pale as usual from his long hours spent in the dungeons and potion rooms of the castle. His hair was its normal level of greasiness and his eyes lacked their usual shadowed disheveled appearance; Snape seemed to be sleeping better at night, Lily noted. However, the boy next to Snape caught her attention.

Sirius' younger brother, Regulus, in contrast seemed to have neglected his usual pureblood grooming. His eyes were red and irritated from lack of sleep and it almost seemed as if he was deeply troubled by something. Almost haunted like how Snape was after that fateful night outside of the Gryffindor Common Room in their fifth year.

"Sirius, have you seen your brother recently?" Lily asked.

Sirius raised an eyebrow at the redhead's question. "No, why would I care about that twit?"

Lily nudged him to look over at Regulus next to Snape.

"And? He has Snivellus for company, that's enough to make even the Black composure shake a little," Sirius disregarded the plight of his younger sibling and prioritized finishing his breakfast.

Meanwhile, James pondered the interaction, sharing a glance with Remus and Peter, the latter of whom simply shrugged while the former slightly cowered away.

James couldn't blame Peter for being afraid of the snakes. He had been the one to find Eammon last year, after all; the young mousy Gryffindor knew first hand what had befallen Wilkes last night.

However, owls soon descended upon the students carrying packages from home, mail, and the morning edition of the Daily prophet.

Many students sat in stunned silence as they read the bold letters printed upon the famous publication's front page.

---

The Daily Prophet
"Lord Malfoy proposes a new bill to combat rising tensions of violence gripping the community."

After a stunning move to see the removal of Chief Warlock, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore for allegations of negligence for the medical care of a student attacked within Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Lord Abraxas Malfoy put forward legislation which would see Magical Britain breaking away from long standing International Wizarding law, putting our nation at odds with the International Confederation of Warlocks for the first time since the early 1800s.

Lord Malfoy stood before the gathered lords of the Wizengamot in the evening of September 12th, where he argued for his legislation's importance with several notable members,garnering much support from the decisive factions and parties. Lord Malfoy's proposition under the proposed Militia Empowerment and Wand Deregulation Act 1977, would see the repeal of the rune enchantments and incantations which restrict the use of Unforgivable Curses and many other dark spells on the wands of wizards and witches.

Lord Malfoy was questioned by the Daily Prophet in an interview on the scene on his sudden stance for lifting the regulations that wandmakers are put under for our safety.

"We are not safe. The laws of our society are — hampering, I shall say. We are in a time of uncertainty and unprecedented violence. Every witch and wizard has a right to defend themselves, and in extreme cases this would require spells that wands are currently restricted from casting."

"I am fully committed to defending the magical kind from those who would seek to tear down what we've so preciously built over the last few centuries. We cannot be dictated by the moral perfectionist few when there is a threat just over the horizon. It is not up for an International Confederation, nor even our own Ministry, to decide if a witch or wizard has a right to protect themselves or their family," Lord Malfoy said as he left the Ministry building after the tense Wizengamot meeting.

Lord Malfoy's political bloc, consisting of notable families such as the Rosier, Nott, Sewlyn, Lestrange, Montague, and several of their vassal houses, voiced their support in backing the Malfoys in the initial proposal.

However, across the Wizengamot aisle, families such as Longbottom, Potter, Jennings, Abbot, and Bones are offering strong opposition to the upcoming vote.

There are a few notable houses such as Greengrass, Wilkes, and Crouch, which are currently on the fence, unwilling to throw their vote currently with either bloc in the ongoing debates.

The Prophet approached Lord Bones, the leader of the opposing bloc, for a statement.

"We are surrendering our safety in this bill! Yes, these are dangerous times with a terrorist who is only whispered about in small circles, but we must not let the wolf into our homes! Signing this bill would not only grant our people a way to protect themselves, but allow his sycophants to unleash a reign of terror upon our country. They already possess illegal wands capable of casting dark spells; this is merely an avenue to arm more of their lot more easily," Lord Bones accused of the proposed bill.

Lord Bones refrained from commenting when he was questioned on the dismissal of the long-term standing Chief Warlock nor on whether he was openly accusing Lord Malfoy of knowingly abetting and aiding the terrorists plaguing Wizarding Britain for several years now.

Illegal wands have flooded the market since the inception of wand regulation at the ICW Convention of Vienna in 1814. While the creation of such wands is often a closely guarded secret in the criminal underground, it is an unguarded secret that many witches and wizards of notable standing carry such wands as secondary measures upon their persons, as it is not illegal to possess two wands.

Wands produced before the year of 1814 were grandfathered in under the Antiques and Heirlooms Act 1815 (for further details, see p. 23) and as such exempted from compulsory surrender over to ICW and national Ministry officials at the time to have the enchantments and incantations placed upon them.

The Wizengamot splintered upon the introduction of the bill, with many debates ongoing until the upcoming vote in a fortnight, on the 25th of September.

by. Maugham Boot,
Reporter for the Daily Prophet

---

All across the Great Hall, students stared at the words jumping off the page at them.

"Holy fuck. That bastard wants to start an all-out war in the streets," Sirius whispered. Remus was reading the article over his shoulder.

James and Lily shared a copy between them, while everyone else sneaked peeks at the editions all around them.

There was an eerie quiet over the hall that was soon filled up by hushed whispers.

"Says here that Father is opposing it," James muttered.

Sirius shared a look with his bespectacled life-long friend. Neither had missed the line describing how the Wilkeses were now staying out of it - the implication was heavy, cloying, given the gossip swirling around Hogwarts like a layer of oil on water. It coated their throats harshly, the vile taste of conspiracy rising in its turn.

"Better look out, Jamie. If what happened to Jeanne means anything, then this lot means business, if that's how willing they are to strong arm their proposal through," Sirius said.

It wouldn't be a comforting or safe time for anyone whose family held a seat that opposed the Malfoys and their political block.

Sirius had spent many evenings in his grandfather Arcturus' study. The Black patriarch hammered into his future heir all that he would need to know to run the family. Arcturus often stated that it was up to him, the old man's trust in his firstborn son only extending so far as his ability to keep the seat warm for his own first born.

The young Black had actually taken to his lesson like a fish to water. He learned the true meaning of political acumen in the wider context and history of being a Black. Malfoy might as well have tipped them his hand and doubled-down in a game of cards with what the article revealed.

Someone on the inside was doing his dirty work of cowing and intimidating his political opponents. 'But who?' Sirius thought to himself, going over the names in his head. Lucius would have been his first choice, but the git had graduated in their early years at Hogwarts. Perhaps a member from a vassal house then?

James closed the paper, breaking Sirius from his investigative thoughts. The Head Boy, in his authority, claimed the attention of those around him. "That's enough of that. It's the Prophet, half of it is outright fibs anyway. There'll be a new story in a week, believe me. Come on you lot, we got Transfiguration next. We'd also better look for Harry, the poor git is probably lost in the castle," James said.

Everyone nodded and left their breakfast, all sense of hunger decimated by the news of the early morning, leaving behind only pangs of worry.

---

Earlier that morning

Harry, the git, was definitely lost, but for once it was at least not his fault. The lightning-scarred wizard stumbled and climbed over the towering pillars of junk that occupied the Room of Requirement.

He'd skipped over training in the early twilight hours of morning in order to fulfill the first part of the mission to destroy Voldemort — finding the Diadem Horcrux.

As far as his eyes could see, all Harry could make out were the arches of the large vaulted room looming over the assorted mountains of rubbish. His one saving grace in this quest was that the room was not on ablaze this time. His wand was held out before him, not unlike a sword, ready to combat whatever lay dormant in the troves of forgotten items.

It would begin today — the first strike against Voldemort and everything his unholy crusade stood for. The Diadem of Ravenclaw was the most accessible Horcrux. The rest would be far more difficult challenges to locate.

Harry soon found himself looking through the objects, curiosity taking over as he pulled from a pile a green and blue box, with the single name of Padhraic Éimhín etched into its surface with a calligraphic brand.

In his hand, Harry could feel the steady rhythm of a ticking mechanism reverberating from within the box, a singular beat calling out to the world. It was inducing a tunnel effect on Harry's senses. It sounded eerily like it was in tune with a heartbeat.

Tic…tic….tic...tic... clacked the box.

Pulling away from the consistent faint noise, Harry spun the small box in his hand. It was a small handheld momento box, barely big enough to fit a full photograph, if Harry had to guess. Its clasp was closed and unyielding, utterly refusing to reveal whatever was ticking within when Harry tried to open it.

Harry pointed his wand at the small object and tried a plethora of spells to reveal its secret, but no unlocking charm, revelio charm, or status charm showcased even a hint of an answer.

Placing the object into a stasis charm, Harry pocketed the box for later. It would have to wait, but it reminded him too much of the Locket to simply leave in the pile he had pulled it from.

After stashing the memento box, Harry moved on in his hunt. It wouldn't do to be distracted by the trinkets in the room. Yet, Harry couldn't help but think about all the treasures within that had been lost to the Fiendfyre of his timeline.

His skin bristled, feeling blistered at the thought of the evil fire whenever he thought back to that terrible day before his death march to Voldemort.

After several hours of searching, Harry finally traced his steps towards the Vanishing Cabinet, and the bust of the ugly warlock. Harry turned over the area around the warlock's bust but he found no head piece anywhere. There was no box hidden in the area containing the artifact of the Founder, either.

"It's not here… how cannot it not be here?" Harry panicked. He drew his wand, trying the tried-and-true-but-always-failed-method of "Accio Horcrux," but no diadem flew out to meet his outstretched hand.

'It's not in the room… at least not yet,' Harry thought. He and Dumbledore had assumed that Voldemort had deposited the Horcrux into the room when he had visited to apply for the position to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts. Had they been wrong?

According to his mental timeline, Harry knew that the diadem was one of the first to be retrieved but the last Horcrux to be made — after the diary, ring, locket, and cup. However, a different question came into the young wizard's mind.

If Voldemort himself hadn't stashed the piece of his soul within the Room of Requirement, then who had done it for him? There was a very small list of people Voldemort would have entrusted with his few ties to the mortal plane, most of whom were currently students in Hogwarts.

Lucius Malfoy was the only one not in attendance, from what Harry had noticed.

If the Diadem wasn't here then perhaps the other horcruxes were missing from their haunts. What else was different from what the timeline he knew? Despair precipitated like a chasm in Harry's core.

Crumbling to the floor with his back to the broken Vanishing Cabinet, Harry put his head into his hands. He was used to defeat. The bitterness of loss was still fresh to him. Yet, he had never felt as hopeless as he did now, even during the entirety of his Horcrux hunt with Hermione and Ron.

"So much for a first strike," Harry chortled out loud, taking a small comfort in his voice echoing off the structures of junk around the vast room.

Cutting his losses, Harry backtracked his way out of the Room of Requirement to arrive on time for his first class of the day. His spirit was low, but his mind ran with possibilities of where the Diadem was currently located.

---

Harry barely arrived in time for Transfiguration; the majority of the students had already taken their seats. The class was split between Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs. Harry found himself next to a girl with blonde hair sprinkled with chestnut.

"Amelia Bones. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Evans. I have to say, it's strange with the two of you running around," Amelia said, referring to the Gryffindor with whom he shared the surname.

Harry's eyes widened in momentary surprise at meeting the famous Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The last time Harry had seen the girl's older version had been during his hearing before the Wizengamot in his fifth-year. He hadn't known the woman very well, but he remembered that she had been an impressive enough witch to be killed by the Dark Lord personally. She was still no less imposing even in her youth.

Harry raised an eyebrow at the witch's remark. "We aren't actually related," Harry explained, hoping to dispel whatever rumor the castle was beginning to churn out.

Amelia studied Harry closely. He was right — there was little resemblance between the two except for the eyes. None could deny that Harry and Lily Evans shared the same deep green eye color.

"You could almost fool somebody, if you started to believe it yourself. Personally, most of us don't care how you're related to her, if you even are. It's not like either of you are purebloods."

"Frowned upon in some circles, then?" Harry feigned ignorance. He knew full well the stigma that many purebloods placed upon interacting, courting, or even having families with muggle-borns.

"Absolutely, unless magical adoption is on the table," Bones said, eyeing the boy with a small amount of caution. It wasn't known where the new boy's status rested. There were some who thought that Evans was a bastard of some sort, or just another run of the mill muggle-born like Lily Evans was.

'There it is again — magical adoption,' Harry thought. He hadn't been aware of such a thing ever being popular during his time. While the Wizarding World was often backwards progress-wise, extremely conservative, and downright xenophobic, surely there wasn't much stigma with magical adoption.

The pair's conversation came to an end as Minerva McGonagall swept into the room. The witch turned the board over to display an outline of a tree with several branches with the flick of her wand.

"Alright class, settle down. Today we will be discussing the basis of what you will all be doing in this class for your N.E.W.T.s," Professor McGonagall said, her thick Scottish brogue bleeding through.

The whole class's attention immediately fell on the professor after the word 'N.E.W.T.s' had spewed forth like a bad jinx.

"As I am sure you all know by now, we divide magic into several different branches. There are the obvious — charms, transfiguration, the divining arts, the mind arts — and several more limbs sprouting from the tree which we draw our magic from. However, we will of course be focusing on the branch of Transfiguration, which contains a whole tree of its own," the professor explained.

With another tap of her wand, the board's characteristics changed.

"We have the branches of Transformation and Switching, Un-transfiguration, Vanishment, Conjuration, and finally Trans-Species Transformation. All these make up the entirety of Transfiguration. Each one pertains to its own purpose but relies upon another branch to bear fruit when performed," McGonagall taught. "Can anyone please explain the purposes of each?"

Several students raised their hands, Harry included.

He had been semi-talented in Transfiguration, but he had also touched up on the subject from the Sayre Journal. The tome contained more on Transfiguration theory than actual spells, stressing the need to understand the concepts of the magic so that one would create their own avenue in the magical art instead of pursuing imitation.

Professor McGonagall nodded towards James Potter. "Mr. Potter, please enlighten us since this is the one subject you seem to be able to pay attention in," the Transfiguration called on the young wizard with a mock glare.

"Well uh —" James startled, scratching the back of his head as he tried to collect his thoughts in a rush while hiding the love note he had been writing for Lily. "Transformation is the altercation of the object physically, often resulting in changing the subject into something else entirely. Switching is just creating a new copy in a new location, making it look like teleportation instead of transfiguration," James answered. "Un-transfiguration is changing the object back to its original form after it was transfigured into something else; this is more difficult the more complex the subject becomes on a cellular base, whether it's organic or inorganic."

McGonagall raised an eyebrow at the Head Boy's answer, though she quickly lowered it in tandem with a twitch of her lip. She should have expected an answer of such depth from a student as outstanding as the young Potter.

"Vanishment is simply a higher degree of banishment spell. You're erasing its structure from existence," James answered simply once more, but didn't elaborate further on that particular branch.

"Very good, Mr. Potter. That'll be ten points for Gryffindor," Professor McGonagall awarded. She moved on and called on a Hufflepuff for an explanation of Conjuration.

"Conjuration is the opposite of Vanishment. Instead of destroying an object, you create one from scratch. But you aren't transfiguring an already existing subject — you're drawing forth something new with magic," the Hufflepuff answered.

"Mr. Evans, please state your explanation for Trans-Species Transfiguration, if you would?" Professor McGonagall called on Harry.

Harry took a moment to think, remembering what he had read in the Sayre Journal and determining how to best describe — or rather hide — what the old journal had explained of the branch.

"Trans-Species Transfiguration is the transformation from one species to another. It is an organic-based transformation, and easiest to perform upon animals. The more intelligent the life, the harder the transformation is to cast," Harry answered, keeping his answer simple.

McGonagall nodded, awarding Harry five points for his astute but rather well thought out answer. 'The boy seems gifted in the theory of the art at least,' she thought, wanting to have tested the new student who had transferred into the school.

"Now that we've discussed the various branches, I have some homework for you. Consider a branch of your choice and find a spell crucial to the development thereof. Write a foot and a half on its invention and how it can be considered emblematic of the art. As always, I expect quality," McGonagall informed sternly, glaring lightly down her nose at the mildly trepidatious class. "That means no easy pickings, and no spells invented within the last century."

A couple of groans resounded from various sections of the classroom, but none were loud enough to truly risk the professor's ire.

'Perhaps the journal could help me out here,' Harry contemplated. He wasn't looking forward to spending long hours in the Library for this project, and would happily find a shortcut in his most recent literature of choice. At the very least, he was quite certain that none of the contents therein was produced within the last two or three centuries, let alone one.

---

Later that evening

Harry stared down at the Daily Prophet article that he had missed in the morning, stunned into silence in front of the Gryffindor Common Room fireplace.

'So much for having the first strike,' he thought bitterly. However, the article explained how the restrictions on wand use had never survived until his own time.

It also meant there would be little need to conceal the gorgon wand for much longer if the bill became actual law. He would be able to wield spells at will, whether with the phoenix or gorgon wand — except for when it came time to duel Voldemort.

Harry could feel the phoenix wand in its holster, pressed against his body though it was more akin to a relic of a bygone era now than an actual tool. Perhaps the lifting restrictions would serve to make the gorgon wand his go-to. His daily training in the Room of Requirement had made a lot of Harry's spells considerably better with it.

It was, however, still so much for him. Voldemort was out there somewhere and currently active with his first body this time, more powerful even than his resurrected form of '94.

The political sphere of the country was fully splintered and fractured. Harry wouldn't hold his breath that the Ministry would actually be effective this time around. His experience with inept regimes firmly established that truth. He remembered the stories from the older Order Members, detailing how they knew the Ministry had been infiltrated but not fully taken over in the First War. He also knew just how easily it had fallen during the Second War.

Something would have to give soon, Harry thought. Sitting a year out in Hogwarts was not part of the — rather non-existent — plan, despite the benefits Harry knew it gave him.

As for plans, Harry was truly paddle-less up the creek this time. He had no Hermione. She had planned the whole Horcrux Hunt during their year on the run. Now more than ever, Harry missed the ingenious muggle-born he had the privilege to call friend.

The current plan du jour, as far as Harry was concerned, was to find the Horcruxes again and kill Voldemort. Two-steps — a nice, easy list to remember.

The words of the prophecy bounced around in his head yet again, 'Neither can live while the other survives,' rang like a bell. Once Voldemort heard the words, he would be gunning for Harry like a dementor.

To make matters worse, Harry didn't know what he would do about the current Death Eaters he knew of in school — Mulciber, Avery, Flint, Snape, the Lestranges, and the Blacks.

It was the Blacks that Harry was most confused by. He knew that Regulus would eventually become a turncoat against Voldemort, but he didn't know when the boy would join the nefarious group.

Bellatrix, however, was the larger of the two headaches. The young girl was absolutely nothing like the older and madder version he knew.

He would see her smile, which he found rather easy on the eyes, but then her deranged laughter would ring in his mind, and his resolve reinforced itself. Too much was lost to her. Dobby, Tonks, Sirius.. For every good quality he saw in the young witch contradicted the evil he knew lay within her.

Harry needed to find a way to watch over all those whom he knew would become Death Eaters, if they had not already been marked yet.

'Looks like I'll be going after the map after all,' Harry grimaced. Now he had to figure out a way into Filch's office.

Harry stared into the flames and started to scheme, paying no mind to the knife that twisted in his thoughts at the reminders of the evils done to him.

---

Bellatrix sat in a high, regally-framed chair, near a stained pane of glass that reflected the eerie light of the Black Lake. The corner where she had made her nook was cut off from the rest of the Common Room, with only those who turned a sharp corner able to see within.

Before the girl was a collection of runes she had begun for a project. Meanwhile, across from her and reclining on a deep velvet couch, Verona absently kept a piece of parchment suspended and burning in animation over her.

"It's just going to get worse. Wilkes was just the opener," Verona told Bellatrix.

The raven haired girl looked up at her brown haired companion. Verona was one of the few in the school brave enough to spend extended periods around her, and one of the few to leave her presence uncursed.

Bellatrix's curiosity was piqued. Eyes narrowed, she asked, "What are you talking about?"

"I'm saying Wilkes was attacked over what was in the Prophet today. Her father has openly opposed the Malfoys on a few things now, and it wouldn't surprise me one bit if he'd been thinking about publically siding with Lord Bones — if he hadn't already," Verona answered, laying out the political game at play. "You really think it's a coincidence this happened now?"

Bellatrix stopped and thought about it. The witch wouldn't feign surprise if Malfoy was relying on underhanded tactics to push his own agenda, but to attack the children of opposing lords while they were in Hogwarts? The act almost seemed desperate, unfathomable to her — to resort to becoming blood traitors wasn't an easy threshold to cross.

'What the bloody hell could be so important about Malfoy's legislation, then… and to whom?' Bellatrix wondered. A haunting whisper in the back of her mind needled that she already knew that answer better than she dared admit. Even the semblance of the whisper directed her to the hushed voices of some of her more outspoken housemates.

If Jeanne Wilkes had been targeted for her father's possible affiliations, then what shadowy misfortunes might befall someone securely within the Bones camp? Someone like Verona's own father, the Lord Jennings?

'They'll attack again… and they'll be sure to choose a higher target next time to deter anyone from stepping out of line,' Bellatrix thought, a flash of anxiety piercing through her.

"Have you been threatened?" she hissed, eyes darting all over Verona's form in search for even the slightest sign of anxiety or harm that might have passed her notice.

Verona shook her head.

"No – not yet… but I'm sure their group won't approach Daddy about his vote. He'd say no to them – my father isn't the kind of man to concede lightly," Verona said, trying to ease whatever may have been going through Bellatrix's head. She could sense an uneasy air about her friend.

As if Bellatrix hadn't heard a word of Verona's response, a growl rumbled low in the base of Bellatrix's throat. The young witch, territorial as she was, was working herself into a fury at the thought of a faceless threat accosting her best friend in the corridors of Hogwarts,

It wouldn't have been the first time the fae-faced witch had been harassed.

"You don't go anywhere alone — do you hear me, Ver? You promise me you won't be alone," Bellatrix stressed, her eyes burning into her friend's.

Nearly the whole school had heard what had befallen the Wilkes girl – few among them could imagine much worse a fate than the one she had suffered. Bellatrix may not have understood the whole reasoning for the terroristic acts, but she was no fool as to who might have perpetuated the attack. The methodology was precisely what she would expect of her darker housemates. It was brutal, inefficient, and dearly lacking in finesse. Wilkes was lucky to be alive given the extent to which her tormentors had lost control and overstepped even their own usually demented limits.

The laxity of the school had returned to devour it like an ouroboros. Bullying and dueling in the corridors was almost expected, and had become the norm, even tolerated by several of the staff — much to the joy of certain students. Punishments were seldom dished out even amongst the most repetitive offenders in Slytherin — or, far that matter, to the group of rambunctious Gryffindors her cousin Sirius was a part of.

"I promise, Bella. Besides, I'm not too worried. I have you to protect me," Verona said, reaching over and grasping Bellatrix's hand, squeezing it tight in the seclusion of their little cubby.

Bellatrix smiled at her friend, but her mind rushed with emotion. She found herself swallowed by the leviathan that was her memory, sinking into the belly of the beast and swimming through the day where their relationship had been forged. An oath wrapped itself around her like an inflatable jacket — an oath to defend a small girl whose house wanted nothing more than to chew her up and spit her out, an unrecognizable shell of her true self.

Flashback
January of 1971

Bellatrix's first year at Hogwarts was horrid. Someone of her status should have been wildly popular. Where were the housemates seeking her friendship and affection, bowing before the name of the House of Black? Where were the classmates desperate for her attention and respect, begging for the connections her family could provide? Most of all, how in Merlin's own House had she become a pariah?

She quickly discovered herself overlooked as a project partner in classes, relegated from study sessions despite her intellect, and thought of in wholly uncharitable ways by the majority of the castle's inhabitants. The few times she was the recipient of an invite to anything, it was invariably courtesy of those of significant pureblood standing like her own. Bellatrix, however, saw little to no benefit for herself in these.

They sought naught but her family name, of that she had no doubt; that particular fact would have been of no import had it not been for the fact that the selfsame name had alienated her so absolutely on the other side of the aisle. Where she had expected a ray of influence, its reputation had cast an abominably large shadow behind the petite first-year.

Never before had Bellatrix hated being a Black like she did now. Her family pride turned into a curse from the lips and poison on the tongue.

Bellatrix's only worth, even in the eyes of most of her family, was in the purity of the blood that coursed in her veins. None saw the gifted witch for who she was, but rather a prim and proper future bride, destined to be married off to some future lord and give her husband-to-be the heirs he desired. No one in life had ever asked her what she had wanted from it.

How the young Black scion wanted to be a cursebreaker. Bellatrix was capable of translating texts from various languages such as Latin, French, and Greek. She had begun tutelage under her grandfather, Arcturus, in the family magic, in which she was showing proficiency beyond any other Black her age. Not a soul had bothered to ask her what her favorite things were, or to find out how she enjoyed rainy days more than any other.

Bellatrix never knew the concept of isolation growing up in the Black household of Grimmauld Place. The London townhouse was not nearly as vast as many of the dwellings of other members of the Sacred-Twenty-Eight.

Bellatrix had spent much of her days either with her two younger sisters, annoying her cousin Sirius, spending time with her mother, or studying under her grandfather. The lonely girl thought fondly of her sisters, who had been unable to follow her to school due to their youth. She still received letters from them daily, for which she was eternally grateful.

The only person who knew her — but would vehemently deny the accusation — was her cousin Sirius, who had been sorted into Gryffindor. In truth, Bellatrix had been excited to leave home with her cousin, and was looking forward to spending time with him in Slytherin. Their relationship had soured somewhat from a childish vendetta that Sirius had held against her since time immemorial.

It was foolish, and petty too. Sirius would annoy her unceasingly, to the point that Bellatrix would suffer bouts of accidental magic, which invariably wound up hurting Sirius. From there, things had spiraled over the years.

And so it was that Bellatrix was alone in her own sorted house. That was, until one day someone had earned her interest — then, even her friendship in the months and years to follow.

Bellatrix was exploring the unfamiliar castle grounds when she entered the courtyard in front of the large Clocktower. Ever since her trip across the Black Lake, Bellatrix had been enthralled by the wonders within the stonework.

During her exploration, Bellatrix heard a sudden cry sound out through the winter air carried on the chill of the wind. Turning a corner to investigate the commotion for the cry, she saw several Slytherins of varying age surrounding a girl in her year - her roommate, in fact.

She watched on, wide-eyed, as four boys taunted and teased the young brunette with too much baby fat lining her face. Verona Jennings was a mousy girl several times smaller than even the first-years in the group antagonizing her.

"Who do you think you're fooling, you little twerp?" one of the older Slytherins jeered, pushing the young girl over. Her feet entangled, she spilled onto the pavement stones of the courtyard.

The tormented girl's bag ripped open and her school supplies scattered everywhere.

One of the younger Slytherins leaned down and picked up a book that had fallen from her bag - evidently, something about it had caught his attention. From where she stood, Bellatrix could just about make out the title on the cover — 'The Lives of Muggles'. It was familiar to her, although it took her a second to place its exact contents. It was a book on basic information any wizard or witch would need to know about the muggle world.

"You're fucking reading this?! Oi lads, I think we found ourselves a blood traitor!" he hissed with new-found venom.

Bellatrix was incensed at hearing the term leave the older Slytherin's mouth. She hated blood traitors, she had ever since her Grandfather had begun telling her his life's many fascinating stories and explained what it meant to be a Black. The family motto, 'Toujours Pur', resonated deeply in her heart.

"Merlin, perhaps she is a muggleborn like the rumors say! Probably wants to live like one too, with what she's carrying around," another joked, shifting through the young girl's scattered school supplies and personal effects with his foot.

Verona scrambled forward, reaching and scooping her arms out to collect her belongings, but she was hit with a blast of air from one of her bullies' wands.

With a shrill scream of fright, the diminutive girl flew back several feet, and her own wand fell to the ground as her grip on the wood faltered from the impact.

"Well, come on… answer us. Are you really a pureblood, or are you some — muggleborn — just acting the part? Adopted into a pureblood family — what a joke," one of the boys, Bellatrix recognized as Lucius Malfoy, leered at his downed target. "Even if you were adopted… you want to learn about muggles and their customs. Clearly you're nothing more than a filth-ridden mudblood anyway.""

Lucius Malfoy, the current Head-Boy, was tormenting a first-year student.

"Don't call me that!" Verona hissed back, picking herself up off the ground and snatching her wand up with one hand before one of her tormentors could retrieve the magical medium.

Immediately one of the younger Slytherins, Brutus Mulciber, drew his wand on Verona, but the girl was faster, much to Bellatrix's shock.

The young boy's ear promptly fell from his head as if there were no cartilage to support its weight, leaving a dark hole behind in the side of his head. Mulciber cried out in horror at seeing the appendage land before him.

This gave the other boys surrounding her time to draw their own wands though, and retaliated swiftly against Verona for her courage.

Bellatrix watched on as the young girl didn't back down from the uneven odds. She had been knocked over, humiliated, and still stood up for herself; even now with several wands pointed her way, the young witch didn't falter. This struck a chord within the Black princess. She had always admired strength, idolizing the figure that was her grandfather, Arcturus.

Briefly, her conscience warred. The teachings of her Aunt Walburga demanded she join the boys in tormenting her fellow first-year, but the voice of her grandfather urged her elsewise.

Bellatrix remembered the family creed from her grandfather's lessons. "We are purebloods — remember that girl. People will try to tell you what that means, but only you can decide for yourself… you've got the choice," the old man said as he bounced his first grandchild on his knee. "You can either choose to stand up for wizardkind, or stand aside and let those who seek to destroy us tear it down — Toujours Pur. That means we are pure and loyal to magic first and foremost."

Spurred to action, Bellatrix drew her own wand, its tip alight with a spell before she realized the incantation was leaving her lips.

Her roommate's tormentors were suddenly hit from behind, Bellatrix's spell sending them all falling forward except for Malfoy, who merely stumbled from the cast. The seventh-year turned around but was stung by the spell that Verona now sent at his exposed back. He grunted from the hit, but ignored the weak spell and girl.

"How dare you!" Lucius snarled, his wand poised to strike; Bellatrix readied herself for what would surely be an uphill duel. Her grandfather had taught her the importance of always keeping one's mind agile, another spell ready to go regardless of the situation.

Lucius, however, never got his spell off, his wand ripped from his hand by the Disarming Charm Verona had cast at his back, which he had left exposed in his arrogant ignorance. Bellatrix's eyes widened at seeing the girl stand up for herself, stealing her tormentors' wand from underneath his very nose in a way. Before any more spells could fly through the air, the group was immediately set upon by Professor McGonagall, a hurricane descending from a nearby stairway.

"Stop this at once! Wands down — all of you — this instant!" the professor ordered, her native accent bleeding through in her anger.

"Mulciber! Pick up your ear, you foolish boy, and go to Madam Pomfrey before I drag you there by the other one," McGonagall ordered the first-year Slytherin.

The Transfiguration professor glared down at everyone involved, her eyes softened over Verona though when she turned to her. The professor had seen what had been going on and had rushed over as soon as she could.

"That'll be twenty points from Slytherin from each of you," she said, looks of dismay and resentment in equal measure settling on everyone's faces, especially Verona's. "Yes, that means you too Ms. Jennings. I know you are a victim of this lot but casting upon one another is not the proper answer."

"Ms. Black! Please escort Ms. Jennings here back to your dormitory; I shall assign you a detention in due time. The rest of you lot, my office — now!" McGonagall called, ever the taskmaster.

The Slytherin boys glared at the two girls as they were marched off by the Transfiguration Professor.

Bellatrix and Verona began their trek back to the dungeons.

"Thank you, by the way — for the help out there," Verona said quietly. She had been terrified when the four boys had confronted her. She had tried to get away, but they had been relentless in their pursuits to antagonize her.

"Don't mention it," Bellatrix grumbled, frustrated over the huge loss in house points.

Verona's head fell at the girl's tone, though. It was the same kind of voice she had heard directed towards her ever since her arrival in Slytherin House. It was bad enough not being a pureblood in Wizarding Society, but to not be one in Slytherin was akin to pinning a luminescent target to one's back.

Being actually adopted into a pureblood family hadn't saved Verona from this fate.

Bellatrix glanced up and noticed the girl's downtrodden demeanor. 'Shit — she thinks I'm just like them,' Bellatrix thought quickly. After all, they had all grown up in the same social circles.

"I'm not angry at you. There's no need to be so mopey," the raven-haired girl rolled her eyes, trying her best to reassure the girl in her typical fashion, ever so emblematic of her family. Bellatrix was used to people turning their bellies up at her in submission, but seeing this girl who had just fearlessly stood up for herself suddenly submissive and blue didn't sit well with her.

"Be proud of yourself, anyway. Not many would have stood up against that lot, especially with someone like Malfoy. Hell – you even tried to hex the dimwits," Bellatrix snorted, finding the image of the mousey Jennings standing up to Lucius Malfoy hilarious.

"I'm not just a muggleborn…" Verona whispered in a harsh growl, not seeing any humor in what she had just gone through. Her anger had finally boiled over. Verona was tired of all the mistreatment. She was through with everyone just looking at her and immediately judging her by her origins.

Bellatrix turned fully to the girl now as they entered an empty hallway.

"And does it truly matter?" Bellatrix asked, her face in a questioning look at the frustrated girl before her.

Verona glared at Bellatrix.

"Because it will if you make it," Bellatrix said, unveiling behind the curtain of aloofness that she put up, a sincere kindness to her words.

Verona's hands balled into fists at her side. A tear escaped from eye, trailing down her cheek. The young girl shook her head vehemently. It didn't matter what she were enough supportive people in her life to drown out the degradation she was faced with. That didn't make the words sting any less though.

Bellatrix nodded to her, deciding to rebel against her Aunt once more, and offered her a smile. Walburga Black preached that girls like the one before her now were scum, beneath their notice; that a perfect lady of pure blood would never disgrace themselves by being in the same company as a muggle-born or anyone posing as a pureblood lady.

After seeing Verona Jennings stand up to Lucius Malfoy without balking, pulling her wand out despite being outnumbered — well, she earned Bellatrix's respect.

Regardless, Bellatrix never had wanted to be a perfect pureblood lady.

Bellatrix held her hand out to the girl. Verona watched the limb oddly for a moment before slowly raising her own and shaking the offered hand.

"I personally found the 'Lives of Muggles' interesting, but I've found you can learn more if you just read their novels. One of my favorites is 'Emma' by Jane Austen," Bellatrix revealed nonchalantly.

She had once snuck the book into Grimmauld Place as a child; Sirius had attempted to blackmail her over the book until Bellatrix had discovered his stash Muggle magazines inside his old shoes in the back of his closet. It had been an uneasy but unbroken truce forged in mutually assured destruction.

Verona stared nonplussed at the girl before her. She hadn't expected such advice, nor such a statement, from someone like Bellatrix Black — the girl was practically royalty to many purebloods!

"You don't care?" she asked, her voice trembling.

Bellatrix smirked. "Why should I? You're adopted aren't you?"

In truth, Bellatrix had never cared much for blood status after her grandfather had explained the family motto to her in his study.

The two girls shared a laugh and walked the rest of the way in silent companionship.

End of Flashback

"Remember how you promised to always protect me?" Verona asked, recalling the events alongside Bellatrix with a fond smile.

Bella nodded. She had nearly cursed Mulciber again after he returned from the Hospital Wing with his ear reattached. The Black princess had stood in front of the Common Room as a first year and proclaimed that Verona Jennings was under the protection of the Black Family.

This was a political move which scared off most of the troublemakers, but some didn't take the threat that Bellatrix was particularly serious. As the years went by, the girls' friendship grew, as did the magical prowess they honed on their housemates.

Bellatrix had even taught Verona how to duel, like her grandfather had done for her. The two often shared their passions and gossiped during their dueling bouts.

Jennings took Muggle Studies to learn about the world she had originally come from, and Bellatrix, in her rebellious ways, developed a curiosity for muggles and asked Verona all that she had learned after each class.

While Bellatrix believed muggles were primitive in many ways, she had to admit that their advancements in warfare though over the last century was spectacular — if not downright terrifying. She knew her grandfather held a certain respect and fear for muggle innovation after what he had lived through during the War on the continent.

"Come on, I can't do these runes anymore, and I want to go pick up some books from the library before curfew," Bellatrix said, offering her hand to help the adopted witch up.

Together, the pair left the Common Room in the same companionable silence they took comfort in on that trip through the halls during their first year.

---

Regulus watched his cousin and her friend leave their secluded corner in the Common Room and make their way towards the exit.

The piece of parchment sent to him by his mission handler was cold and heavy in his hand. It was a herculean struggle just to lift his eyes to read the names thereupon.

Two pairs of eyes watched him cautiously, looking for any visible crack in the young boy they were charged with helping. Josephius Avery and Brutus Mulciber were, fortunately, rather unversed in the art of deciphering the face of the youngest scion of the House of Black.

"So, who's the target, little Black?" Avery asked with a sneer.

Regulus steeled his nerves in front of the two boys, thinking of any possible way he could save the names on the list. He couldn't act on this. It was too much. Wasn't one enough to sway the vote?

How many more needed to be tortured in the name of the Dark Lord's visions? The young Slytherin's wand arm burned — not from the hallowed Dark Mark he was striving to earn, but rather the spell he had used to bring such misery so far.

If one wasn't devoted enough, the Cruciatus Curse could have dire effects on the caster as well. Regulus didn't want to harm anyone, but there was a sense of catharsis in the self-inflicted pain, not dissimilar to a flagellant's.

Why should he not be in physical pain? His victims were. With each cast from his wand that harmed a living thing, Regulus could feel his soul shearing.

Only two summers ago, he had cried when his brother had abused Kreacher before finally running away. He had begged and pleaded for him to stop, for all the cruelty to end — even for him to come back.

"We are to target two heiresses. One is here in Slytherin and the other in Hufflepuff," Regulus answered the older boy.

"A Slytherin? Wonder what got Lord Malfoy in a twist, if Lucius is asking us to target one of our own," Mulciber said.

"So, when are we going to strike out at them? I found a spell earlier that I've been itching to use. Wish I'd learned it before we cornered that Wilkes bitch," Avery laughed.

Regulus internally flinched, but there was nary a twitch of his features at the mention of his old friend. He had checked in on her earlier under the Invisibility Cloak he had been given for his mission, and even lifted the Maladied-Mind Curse before they shipped her off to St. Mungo's.

It was barely even a step towards atoning for his sins.

"Not tonight. We need to space out the attacks, or else the staff will get suspicious. We're being relied on to do this quietly, after all, but we can still put on a show for those who find them," Regulus said. He folded the parchment and hid it within his robes. "We'll monitor them for a while and establish schedules. Then we'll find a way to get them each alone. Neither will be easy targets for us - we may even need to recruit some of the others."

In truth, Regulus just didn't want to hurt anyone again that soon. 'One night,' he thought, 'Just one night of peace. Please don't let me see their faces,' he internally begged whatever higher power would beseech him.

He already had names tied to his conscience and soul. He wanted to be free of more for as long as possible.

The two names on the paper were branded into his mind. He saw the scrawl even as he closed his eyes to sigh and think of any alternatives.

Amelia Bones & Verona Jennings

His hand shook at the thought of attacking the friend of his cousin - her only real friend, at that. But those were his orders — orders he couldn't ignore for the sake of his family. His mother's foolish ambitions had placed the Black family in a perilous position, if Regulus were to fail in his mission.

The Black Family was the most powerful family in Britain, but that would not stop the Dark Lord from extinguishing their family tree down to its very roots. Regulus had heard rumors of the fates that befell those who displeased him.

"For Family. Blood is more important than anything," Regulus whispered, more to himself. He tried to find his resolve for the upcoming days.

'I'm sorry Bella… please forgive me, cousin,' he mourned. The young man cursed the dueling sides of the duty and loyalty he held for his family as he fell into the arms of Morpheus.

---

The Sayre Journal

Chapter 43 – The Tree of Transfiguration

In the ſchools of magick, we are taught to conceive of Tranſfiguration as a whole tree unto itſelf, albeit but a ſingle bough of magickal arts. This tree doth poſſeſs many offſhoots and branches, ſo manifold that a witch might delve into its profundities for ſo long that a ſingle mortal ſpan would ne'er ſuffice.

If Tranſfiguration be a tree, then its roots are thoſe of Tranſformation and Switching. At the moſt novice level, these twain produce mere parlour tricks, mayhap to amuſe a Lord or a fool. Yet, at its moſt advanced, 'tis the catalyst for transforming an entire battlefield againſt thy foes.

This was the ſecret to many of my more nefarious transformations: I could transform whole armies by focusing on one ſoldier and replicating the ſpell acroſs dozens of men, applying the principles of Switching in new ways related to proliferation. Un-tranſfiguration forms the trunk of the tree, rising from the roots. Moſt profeſſors or practitioners will tell thee it merely reverts the ſubject to their natural form, a ſimple counterſpell for thoſe who think narrowly of magick.

But it is far more than a mere reverſal. What is the natural ſtate of a man? His body ere he was turned into a worm by a witch? His ſkeleton beneath the ſkin? Or the duſt and clay whence his cells aroſe?

A puissant witch can un-tranſfigure the very building blocks of life and death itſelf. It doth require but a creative mind to wield.

Further up the tree lies Vaniſhment. At firſt glance, this branch ſeems ſimple: making a phyſical ſubject diſappear into the ether. 'Tis a ſtep up from Un-tranſfiguration and the firſt ſtep towards tranſcending phyſical form. With puissant magick, one can begin to expel ſubjects that are not ſtrictly phyſical. This branch houses many ſpells, ſuch as the memory charm. What is a memory charm but a tranſfiguration of the brain and memory centers? To perform one is to tranſfigure memories into ſomething elſe or even vaniſh them altogether if puissant enough.

When I was young and had juſt departed Hogwarts, I learnt how to vaniſh the very memories and core functions that form a person's identity; I wiped their ſlates clean, leaving them empty husks, devoid of perſonality—living corpses enſlaved to my will.

Then thou comest to the branch of Conjuration. If one can vanish the building blocks of life, then a powerful witch or wizard can reverſe the proceſs, calling forth life, or a ſemblance thereof. While no ſpell can truly reſurrect the dead indefinitely, except for Priori Incantatem or a few unspeakable rituals, Conjuration is a dead-end branch. Learn its baſics, but expect no further advancements; it is for minds greater than mine to extend its potential.

Finally, Tranſ-ſpecies Tranſformation forms the upper canopy of the tree. This is the moſt significant piece of the puzzle, concealing many of my ſpells to prevent replication or effective caſting. Changing a ſubject from one ſpecies to another is a trivial exerciſe taught in all magickal ſchools. However, I elevated this branch to new heights. Witches and wizards are taught to change humans into animals—child's play compared to what I unlocked.

Once, I transformed a gypsy woman praying for the decimation of her captors into a magickal creature known only in Muggle legends. Thoſe well-verſed in this branch can explore unlimited possibilities, limited only by creativity. However, the magick of creatures tranſfigured is not created in the act itſelf; a tranſfigured Baſilisk will not poſſeſs its famous venom or killing ſtare.

Tranſfiguration is the doorway to many powers the magickal world hath deemed immoral and unnatural, branding them with the ſeal of the Dark Arts.

---

A/N: Like always, let me know if there are any errors or if something needs clarification & we'll get to editing them out. I really struggled with making a believable backstory for Bella & Verona in this chapter. There just aren't many ways to write a convincing Bella that quickly in 100k or less words.