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Chapter 42: Hatred

The echo of his footsteps was the only sound in the empty corridor whose white walls and metallic doors brought back such painful memories. Fleeing like a teenaged fool the last time he had been here was the easiest of them. Harder had been seeing his grandfather wheezing and spasming in his curtained bed, and hardest of all had been gathering around a quiet ward with many of his closest friends.

The corridor ended just up ahead. Identical halls branched off to left and right. Had the room he sought not been one he had visited in recent times, there would have been no hope of finding it.

When the Lord Governor had occupied the private ward, his bed had been closed off in order to hide the grotesque wounds inflicted by Riddle's Fiendfyre. This time there was nothing gruesome to be seen, and so the view was unobstructed.

This way was almost worse. The black-haired boy who looked so much like him could have been asleep. Harry focused on the rise and fall of his father's chest rather than on his restful stillness. Dead men always looked at ease, and the sight in front of him was too redolent of their eerie peace for comfort.

Sirius raised his head from beside his best friend's bed. "I was wondering when I might see you here."

Harry shot a scathing glare out the open window. "I'd have come sooner if I could."

"I've heard it's mayhem out there," Sirius said without looking up from James.

"Some places more so than others." Harry stepped farther into the room. "I'm guessing there's been no change here?"

Sirius shook his head. "There won't be until the Mandrake Draught comes in."

"Are there any updates on when that might be?"

Sirius's grip tightened around his best friend's hand. "Not with everything being the way it is. They had to be ordered from abroad because of how big a nightmare safely shipping anything is right now."

Harry felt a grim shadow cross his face. "I can't say I'm surprised."

Sirius looked up from James for the first time. "Is it true what everyone's been whispering? Are people really rebelling?"

"Not rebelling." Recalling the previous day's discussion with Dumbledore forced Harry to sigh. "Not for the most part, anyway."

Sirius watched him with those steel grey eyes. "Not for the most part?"

"The Order thinks Catalonia might be in rebellion because of an unexplained accident a few nights back, but everywhere else has just been making noise. A bunch of muggles in Paris destroyed a statue of Joan of Arc, so a few hundred magicals all got together and tried trashing the Eiffel Tower. You know, that sort of thing."

"Bloody hell," Sirius muttered underneath his breath. "What a fucking mess this all is."

Harry knew the stab of guilt was coming, yet it shredded through his defences and struck true. Would any of this have happened had he claimed the overseer's office was empty and that all the documents had been burned? "That's sort of why I'm here."

"And here I thought it was for my rugged good looks." The boast fell flatter than its speaker's hollow voice.

"The only reason I haven't come sooner is because of how busy the Order's had me," Harry said, banishing his regretful contemplations. What was done was done. Forcing his way into Riddle's ranks had been the most practical approach. Caution would just have to be a focal point for him going forward.

Sirius looked from Harry to the rain-flecked sky outside. "They have you dealing with all that, then?"

"So far it's mostly been in the British Isles, but I'm being sent abroad and don't know how long I'll be gone."

Sirius grunted. "Where to?"

"I'm not sure yet." Dumbledore had too much on his plate to remain in the know when it came to every unit's movements, so he had only confirmed Harry would be working alongside an elite squad of venators as an imperial ambassador.

Sirius was studying his face. "It's not to go after him, is it?"

"No." The word was sharp and short, bit off the way a fallen branch might snap underfoot. "The Order thinks Riddle's fled Britain and is hoping I might stumble onto him if I jump around a bit."

Sirius grunted a second time. "I'd say it seems like a snowball's chance in hell, but I guess it's an all right plan considering."

"Do you have any better ideas? I'd really love to hear one if you do."

"There's a reason I said it's an all right plan even though it seems like rolling dice and hoping for all sixes," Sirius said bitterly.

"Trust me, I know." The Elder Wand warmed Harry's forearm and filled him with impatience. "I'm about as hopeful as you are, but I'd rather be doing something than just sitting on my arse while the bastard plots and waits for some sort of opening."

"Is that what you think he's doing?" Sirius asked. "You don't reckon he's just given villainy up as a bad job and decided to live out his life in hiding?"

"Not Riddle."

"You'll kill him, won't you?" Sirius looked less like the boy he was than the wild convict who had tried to murder Peter Pettigrew inside the Shrieking Shack.

"Yes." How many lives had Riddle tainted? "When I find him, he's as good as dead."

"Good." Sirius stood and clasped Harry's hand. "Be careful, you hear?"

Harry matched the broad boy's grip. "I will." There was no more room for careless errors, so he would have to be.

Moving through the British Ministry of Magic without attracting unwanted eyes was a new experience for Harry. Rare glances were directed his way, but these bore the idle curiosity of important people spotting a well-dressed youth whose acquaintance they had not yet made. The change left him feeling stalked and as though an ambush would be sprung at any moment.

Some of that anxiety evaporated when he stepped into the lift. It was empty except for himself and a woman who had entered on his heels. "Which floor?" he asked without looking over his shoulder.

"Level three, please," the woman answered in melodic tones.

Harry pressed the number two before queuing his companion's request and turning to look at her. She was slender in the way elders often are, though there were only faint traces of grey in her blonde hair. Most striking was how abnormally tall she was, standing at least half a head above him. Blue robes accentuated her bright eyes…

The lift dinged and rattled to a stop. "Level one, Chancellor and support staff."

A shockwave coursed through his body. The woman's eyes were almost identical to Dumbledore's.

No one else entered the lift, so its ascent resumed.

Ariana. It had to be — between her unusual height, palpable serenity, and the striking similarities between her and the High Emperor.

"Are you all right?" She even crinkled her face in the same way her brother did when voicing her concern.

"Yes, sorry," Harry replied. "I have a bit of business I've been dreading, and so I drifted off."

A faint smile played across Ariana's lips. "A wise man has told me it does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live." Her smile wavered. "Of course, dreaming worked out well enough for him."

There was a soft ding as the lift came to a smooth halt. "Level two, Department of Imperial Affairs."

"I'll keep that in mind." Harry stole a quick glance at the number three he had already pressed for her and saw it corresponded with the Department of Domestic Affairs. "Have a good day."

The Department of Imperial Affairs must have spent a fortune on its workspace. Not far from where he stood was a pair of flagpoles reaching twenty feet into the air. Canvas just barely brushed the ceiling as two Union Jacks flapped faintly despite the lack of breeze. Between them was the wide entrance of what must have been the British offices.

The room beyond the flags was richly furnished and larger than an airport concourse. Luxurious armchairs set out in rows between dark wood walls provided seating for what must have been close upon a thousand people. They were facing forward, toward the artificial window set into the building's outer wall. Past the chairs were two long counters made out of mahogany. One was ladened down with countless delicacies whose scents lent the area a compelling pull, while the other reminded him of Gringotts. High and stately, granting the line of well-dressed women manning it a vantage point from which they could look down on any who approached.

A man pushed off the wall and blocked Harry's path toward the higher of the two counters. Despite the auror robes he wore, there was no badge on the stranger's chest. "You'll have to take a seat." The man nodded to the queues of people waiting for an opening and the half-full rows of chairs. "The office is a bit busy at the moment."

Harry looked into the young man's face. It was hard and lean as a mountain lion, yet as pompous as a preening cat. "I'm here for a scheduled appointment." Where had they met before?

"Listen, friend. I might look like someone who's new around these parts, but do you really think I would be trusted to manage security if I could be tricked up that easily?" Harry hated self-important arses like this boy pretending manhood while being used for inane labour. "If you had an appointment, the secretary for whoever you were meeting would be calling out your name. Since I don't see that happening, you'll just have to sit and wait like all the others."

"Dawlish, is it?" Harry drawled in his best impression of a pretentious noble losing patience. It was the way the man puffed up, just like how he had during his failed arrest of Dumbldore, that gave Dawlish away. "Listen, friend. I know I might look like I'm new around these parts, but I assure you I'm telling the truth."

Dawlish's face hardened. "Are you mocking me?"

"I'm giving you a chance to make this easy before I have to cause a scene."

"Is that a threat?" Dawlish's right arm tensed as his hand came up to rest against his hip. "That sure sounds like a—" Harry produced the metallic disk that doubled as both portkey and accreditation, then flipped it so its embossed face was angled toward Dawlish, who froze with his wand drawn when confronted with the Order's mark. "I'm s-sorry, sir." Few were trusted with such status symbols. "I d-didn't—"

"Didn't think? That's obvious." Harry eyed the upraised wand. "I'm in a good mood, but I'd put that away before I change my mind." Dawlish stuffed his wand into the pocket of his robes. "Good. Now, I was sent here to meet with the department head. Where do I go—"

Dawlish had already taken a step toward the high counter and gestured for him to follow. "I'll make sure you get in right away, sir. Right away." There was no small bit of grumbling from those who were shouldered aside. "This man's here to see the department head," Dawlish told a brown-haired secretary dressed in rich green robes that matched her eyes. "It's urgent business." Harry recognized his cue and slipped the disk out of his cloak for a second time, briefly flashing it at the receptionist.

The young woman's composure was unwavering. "I will inform Mister Malfoy of the situation and return for you." The rich green carpet ended at the counters, so her heeled shoes clicked as she walked off through a side door set near the artificial window's rightmost edge.

Had she said Mister Malfoy?

Dawlish wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his right hand. "Is th-there anything else I can do for you, sir?"

"There is one thing, actually," Harry said. Dawlish looked relieved at the possibility of making up for his pigheadedness. "Avoid lies about managing security or whatever nonsense comes to mind until you're a proper auror. It's obvious to anyone with two eyes and a lick of background knowledge you're just a trainee when you don't even have the badge yet."

Harry's mood improved considerably after watching the red-faced youth rush off through the crowd, and soon the secretary returned and gestured for him to come with her. Beyond the door was a wide hallway lined with tapestries of blooming flowers and exotic birds, and with portraits of blond-haired men flaunting prominence. One showed an old man with silvered hair hefting a gavel above a wooden podium, whereas another was of a man who looked remarkably like Draco shaking hands with Grindelwald.

"Mister Malfoy will see you now," the secretary said with a gesture toward the ornate door up ahead.

Slytherin colours dominated the large office, between its green carpet, wall hangings, and the silver upholstery wherever was appropriate. "Ah. Mister Kalloway. Good. I've been waiting for you. Please, come take a seat."

"Thank you, sir." Harry maintained a firm grip on his knee-jerk reactions as he lowered himself into a high-backed chair across from Malfoy. Months ago he would have bit his words and condemned this man. Now he was less sure. Narcissa's circumstances had been a harsh reminder that things here were not always as they had been in his past life, and he had not seen this man among Riddle's ranks that night in Paris.

"I'm afraid I can't doddle long," Malfoy informed him. "I have a meeting in ten minutes with a Portuguese ambassador."

"That's all right. I was just told to come here and receive instructions."

"Not from me, I'm afraid." Malfoy opened a drawer and smoothly snatched whatever he was looking for. "I was to find a suitable team for you to aid in their next operation, and I have done so. Instructions are the responsibility of the squad's High Martial."

"Fair enough. What can you tell me?"

Malfoy held up a sword-shaped cloak pin. "This is a specialized portkey that will automatically resummon to whomever claims it."

Blood magic…

"The pin will have to be keyed to the High Martial's, and I'd prefer if my desk stayed clean. For now it will take you to Austria, where your squadron is preparing for deployment."

Grindelwald's base of operations would be nearby. Somehow Harry doubted it was a coincidence. "All right. Anything else I need to know?"

Malfoy drummed long, pale fingers on the polished surface of his desk. "Between the two of us, I have always found the High Martial of this particular squadron to be disagreeable, but he insisted upon having you."

Harry felt the prickling of wariness. "Who is he?"

"Alastor Moody. You know of him?" Malfoy asked, his keen eyes fixed on Harry's face.

"You could say that." It was no wonder Malfoy found Moody disagreeable. If this man was anything like Lucius or Draco, then their personalities would be as compatible as hot oil and cold water.

"Good," Malfoy said with thinly veiled distaste. "Then I won't waste words explaining oddities you're already aware of." The blond looked up at the clock, then slid the pin across his desk. "It's best if you are on your way." Harry scooped up the cloak pin and Malfoy raised a hand in farewell. "Virtute ac liberalitate."

A man was waiting for Harry when his feet struck a hard floor and stumbled three steps forward. The room was large and plain. No decorations adorned the walls, all made out of smooth grey stone. The floor and ceiling were the same and left him feeling claustrophobic, so he looked away from them and focused on his welcome party.

Harry took in the brown eyes, pale skin, and short goatee framing thin lips. Recognition prickled just out of reach. What was it about today and faces he could not quite place? "Kalloway, right? My name is Augustus Rookwood. I'm second-in-command for High Martial Moody."

Augustus Rookwood, the unspeakable who had turned traitor in the war against Voldemort, whose voice Harry had heard in a half-forgotten dream years past. It had been him who had led the raid upon the muggle weapons compound. "Harry Kalloway, yes"

Rookwood offered his hand alongside a charming smile. "We're glad to have you aboard. I'm told you and Alastor have history?"

"I wouldn't go that far. We helped each other out of a tight pinch once, but that was it." How could he warn Moody he had a traitor in his ranks?

"You must have made quite the impression then, because he insisted on having you the moment your services were shopped around." Did Rookwood recognize him from the raid they had partaken in? Was that the reason for his sly look?

"It was a bad night," Harry said. "Hopefully this time goes better."

"I'm sure things will go smoothly," the traitor said with a reassuring smile. "Our unit is among the best. It's why Alastor has the sway to handpick who he works with."

"What exactly are we doing?" Harry asked, dismissing his concerns. They would only distract him from the job at hand and there was nothing he could do for now.

"Lifting something of a siege in Bucharest," Rookwood told him. "Another squadron was deployed there recently. They're in bad shape. Some of the local elites have stirred up unrest and the venators have been forced to fall back."

Harry's face twitched as the guilt reared up inside him. Things were really getting grim if a second squadron was at risk of being overrun. "All right. When do we leave?"

"I'll take you to meet the others. You'll get your pin synced up with Alastor's, then we should be ready." The hallway was as grey and bare as the room they had stepped out of. "In the meantime, we should probably cover some ground rules."

"I was wondering about that." Dreading would have been more accurate. "What restrictions are we working with?" It was a necessary evil of operating on official business.

"Officially? No unforgivable curses and nothing with the sole intent of inflicting unnecessary damage."

Harry cocked his head. "That second part feels pretty open to interpretation."

"It's funny how that works," Rookwood responded with a thin smile.

"You went out of your way to mention how those were the official restrictions," Harry pointed out. "Why?"

"Functionally, we are to avoid causing any scene or scandal that might shame the empire. If we can avoid doing that, we're all right." Rookwood must have glimpsed a portion of his inner feelings because a gleam sparked in those brown eyes. "You forget we spend years preparing for this. Three years to become an auror if you meet the prerequisites at all, three years of mandatory service, then five years of training to become a venator. I'd like to think that after all that work, we've earned a bit of trust."

Harry remembered, with a soft pang, Lily telling him about the legendary training required to become a venator and realized how much trust Dumbledore was placing in him. "So I should just try not to be a sadistic twat or cause any global wars, and I should be all right?"

It's a different world, he reminded himself. Men daring to shame the Order of Merlin was probably unheard of. Lax in Harry's world, perhaps, but he was sure the standard had been tried and tested here.

"That's close enough to how we do things," Rookwood told him, turning right down a side hall lit by floating spheres. "Just ask Alastor if you're too tied up about something or another." The traitor slid aside an iron bar and stepped into the room beyond. "Our new colleague has been kind enough to join us."

Eleven men were waiting for them inside this larger room. Maps and diagrams covered in roughly scrawled notations were plastered along almost every inch of wallspace. The room's centre was open except for a ring of high-backed chairs, but around its perimeter were sectioned off areas dedicated to each venator.

The High Martial turned at the sound of Rookwood's voice and focused both eyes on Harry. They were dark blue and their gaze was like a surgeon's scalpel. "I was half-sure I'd been following a false trail and that some nitwit would turn up in your place."

"It's nice to see you again too, High Martial," Harry said with a slight smile.

Moody snorted. "If I trust a man to watch my back, then he can damn sure do away with all that fancy dancy bollocks the noble prisses like to flaunt about. Moody will do just fine." A middle-aged man with broad shoulders and silvering hair ducked his head and muttered something about odd ways of showing trust. "What was that, Morrison?"

"Nothing," the man replied in an American accent. "Just clearing my throat was all."

"I'll keep that in mind," Harry said with a slight smile.

"Good." Moody held out a hand. "Hand over that pin of yours so we can get started."

"What's the exact plan?" Harry asked as he passed it over. "I've been told what we're doing, but not how we're doing it."

Moody pressed the sword-shaped pin against the one just left of his chest. There was a faint shimmer and he returned it. "We haven't got much out of the squad hold up in Bucharest, so it's a bit of a shit shoot. We're going to a high vantage point and then we'll take stock of things."

The answer was unsurprising. Moody was prone to scrapping or rewriting plans once the action started. "That sounds good to me."

"I'm so glad you approve." Moody thrust a thumb toward his pin. "A drop of blood on that. Be quick about it." Harry hid his distaste the best he could as he sliced into his thumb and let a bead of blood drop onto his pin, then resealed the wound. "Good lad." Moody produced his wand and waved it, switching Harry's emerald cloak for a red one that was trimmed in gold. "Kingsley," the High Martial barked in his gruff voice. "Get over here."

Harry's heart froze as a dark skinned man stepped up to his side. "Yes, sir?"

Moody gave no reprimand at the formal address, though he did scowl. "Stick with Kalloway. The boy's a devil with a wand, but probably greener than fake grass."

"Don't take it personally," the bald man told a still stunned Harry in a deep whisper. "Moody's always a bit rough around the edges."

"Thanks." It was the only word he had. All his mental energy was devoted toward not staring at Kingsley. The strong face showed more and was less care-worn, and there were perhaps fewer lines around his eyes. Otherwise it was like being back on the front lines preparing for a battle against Voldemort.

"Ready?" An ascenting murmur answered Moody's growled question. "All right. Let's get this nonsense over with."

Harry felt his pin heat up, and then the room snapped past his eyes and a hundred shapeless shadows were swirling all around him.

Wind snatched at the venators' red cloaks and streamed their golden tassels out behind them when their feet touched down on a flat rooftop. Arching domes and sharp spires made up much of the surrounding skyline. The scent of smoke was in the air and the sound of countless shouts drifted up from the road laid out far below them.

"There." Moody pointed a gnarled finger at a stately building with large windows and high columns interspersed along its marble walls. "Krum's shut up in there."

Harry let the brief surprise associated with that name wash over him. A faint shimmer enclosed the property and cobbled walls flanked its iron gateway. Behind those walls were several hundred metres of lush grass extending up toward the front steps. "What sorts of protections are in place?" he asked. Only two guards stood outside the central buildings. It had to be a trap of some kind.

"Whatever they are, they won't be enough." Kingsley pointed to the mob forcing its way through the city. "There has to be three thousand of them."

Emotions roiled in him as Harry watched the mob advance. "This is no simple riot." The force was easily five times larger than the one he had dispersed in Paris. "That many people don't just happen onto each other."

"We reckon that's what caught Krum off guard," Moody said, "expecting all kinds of chaos and then finding out everything's organized all neat and tidy."

"I assume Krum is the other squad's High Martial?"

"Aye," Moody confirmed.

"Where are his venators?" Harry asked. "Do we know?"

"We know very little." It was Rookwood who answered.

"I'd guess Krum's men are skulking about down there," one of their number spoke up in an Eastern European accent Harry couldn't place. "Never did like proper fighting, Krum. Too straightforward for him."

"The grouch has got a good head on him," Moody said. "That's always the way to go, if you can manage."

Kingsley's gold earring bobbed as he turned his head from side to side. "We'll have to take a page out of his book."

"Aye," Moody agreed. "There's no fighting that many men, even if half of them are a bunch of useless swaggercocks."

"It's better this way," Harry said, remembering too many pitched battles fought through narrow streets. Those were the worst days. Most often they ended with stained concrete and the city's gutters running red with blood. "That much violence would only fuel their fight against the order."

"We won't have to fight," Rookwood said. "Not this first time, at least."

"Go on," Moody grunted.

The traitor was standing on the rooftop's edge and staring straight down into the milling crowd. "They're arrogant and untrained. They'll break if we can strike fear into them."

"How would you suggest we do that?" The American, Morrison, piped in. "Our cloaks work well enough on groups a tenth the size of this one, but I doubt they're bad enough at math not to realize the staggering advantage they have over us."

"It's not about numbers." Thirteen heads turned to appraise Harry. "It's not disadvantage that most men fear, it's the unknown."

"The boy's right," Moody agreed. "There's a reason new recruits piss themselves when drawing battle lines or at the apparition points. Funny thing is you rarely see those lads wet their breeches when the fighting starts."

"But the fighting's already started," Morrison pointed out. "They've had all sorts of time to get riled up."

Harry flexed his fingers. "Then we'll just have to make them forget."

"How?" the Eastern European asked.

"We'll have to show them something that they've never seen before." It had been a favourite strategy of Voldemort's, showing men feats of magic they could not understand and capitalizing on their reactions.

Moody looked him over. "Have you got something up your sleeve?"

"You could say that." It was thinking of Voldemort that had birthed the mad idea. "It will drain me, though."

"How much?"

Harry grimaced. "A lot."

"How sure are you it will work?" Morrison asked. "There won't be much margin for error with so many in that mob."

"It'll work." Men always reacted the same way when faced with an enemy they had no idea how to fight.

"Pitch," Moody ordered in a whip-like voice.

"I'll go down and draw the mob's attention. Then when they stop and stare, you lot hit them hard."

"You want to go down there alone?" Kingsley inched a step closer, as if prepared to stop him. "That's madness, Kalloway. They'll kill you."

"Kingsley's right, lad," Moody told him. "You've got the right idea, making them all doubt themselves then striking while the iron's hot. Most of their sorry lot would run off like a bunch of squirrel's being chased by some fierce mutt, but you'd never get the time you need."

"I don't need much time, and something tells me that crowd will pause when one man drops down in front of them." Sensing arguments building on his companion's tongues, Harry went on. "It's like you lot have said, they're arrogant and undisciplined. They won't be able to believe the gall of me, and they're also trying to win people over to their side. This force might take the city, but they won't hold it and they know that. They have to appear like the right choice for anyone who's on the fence. Mowing down a single enemy in cold blood wouldn't accomplish that."

"You're putting an awful lot of faith in your assumptions and that mob's common sense," Moody warned him.

"Not really. Even if I'm wrong about the second part, they'll pause. It's human nature. Casting at an enemy the second they pop out is a trained habit, and these men aren't trained. A few seconds is all the time I need."

"We have to decide now," Kingsley warned them. "Time is running out."

"I don't like it, Alastor," Morrison objected. "I can't put dead men back together."

"I trust him." It was a balding, middle-aged Frenchman who spoke up in lightly accented English. "I saw him fight in Paris during La Bataille des Masques. I have seen him do impossible things already. If Bouclier d'Or says he can do it, then I believe him." Harry smothered a flash of irritation. Men and their stupid pedestals.

"Alastor." Kingsley had begun fidgeting.

Moody breathed in, then out. "Kingsley, cover Kalloway from up high. If shit hits the fan, draw attention to yourself and then disapparate before they can converge. Morrison, be ready to get the boy out if things go south." The American grimaced. "Augustus, cover any retreat if one is needed. Ramses, Rory, ready anti-apparition wards. The rest of you, pick a vantage point and get ready to hit the bastards hard and fast. Everyone got that?" Ascending murmurs gave a solemn answer. "Go!"

Harry drew the Elder Wand and conjured an emerald mask over his face in one smooth motion, then stepped forward through an empty void and out onto the cobbled street. One of the domed roofs rose up on his right and an administrative building with one wall damaged from a recent conflict loomed large on his left.

The frontlines's synchronised steps faltered. Harry did not wait to see those behind them slow. There was no time for that. His plan demanded too much of him.

Harry clawed up the worst of his recent memories — his grandfather whimpering in the ruins of a manor house, the Dark Mark shining bright against a star-strewn sky.

The rage he had felt that night howled back into being, a feral beast let loose at last. The Elder Wand burned like wrought iron hot out of the forge. The air around him crackled.

More.

Next came that night in Paris — Andromeda bowing to her husband's whims, Bellatrix's mad laughter, Narcissa at her tormenter's mercy, and the knowledge he had failed again.

The fury whirled inside him, a wildfire blazing out of control. The Death Stick seared feeling from his right arm. Smoke curled up off the surrounding cobbles and shouts of alarm rang through the mob before him.

More…

Inside his mind's eye was a tapestry of woven silver, Lily pressing the edge of a dagger into her own throat, and Tom Riddle's gleaming smile.

The anger boiled down into undiluted hatred, pure fire hot enough to burn the fibres of his heart. The Wand of Destiny sunk sharp teeth into its master's soul as it was thrust forward.

An entire section of road wrenched itself up out of the earth. Half a mile of cobblestones contorted, writhing into the shape of a serpent whose crowned head loomed above the city skyline.

Harry watched three thousand rioters running for the hills as a hand caught hold of his bicep and the darkness swallowed him.

"Hatred is a fire that burns down the one who carries it."

— Alexandre Dumas

A special thank you to my high-tier patron, Cup, for her generous and unwavering support.

PS: The next chapter will be out in one week. Remember that chapters can be read early on Discord, YouTube, and P*T*E*N! All those links are on my profile, and if any give you trouble, use my website's homepage. That site can be found via a generic Google search of my pen name.