The one and only time Mulligan raised a concern while Jeremy explained his plan was to point out that Malachi could break inside people's minds and read them. But Jeremy knew that already.

But he was no longer in the devastated London, it was no longer December, and he was no longer with Eren and Mulligan. He lay awake now on the 72nd floor of Columbia Center, in May, and he was all alone. His every breath caused a searing, sharp pain in his side. Smoke was all around him, and bodies. No, not just bodies: body parts. He pushed himself to his feet, gasping at the pain that seemed to erupt all over his body, and his head reeled. He put a hand to his forehead and felt wet blood there, but the worst pain was in his side. It was slick with blood, and he winced as he slowly reached inside his trench coat. He hissed as he pulled out a long shard of metal that had punched through the coat and into his side. He dropped the bloody shard to the floor. Still, he was alive, which was more than could be said for the others.

The others. Oh God. What was that?

The blast had ripped through the place, and smoke and dust rose from piles of rubble. The walls were blackened in part, and the wall he was slammed against was set ablaze. Many of the bloody bodies of his former comrades, strewn around him, were also on fire, and the stink of burning flesh and fat, coupled with the sight of these people who were alive and well just moments ago, all of it was too much to bear. He broke into tears, his entire body shuddering as he sobbed, and every shudder was accompanied by a spike of fresh agony from the wound. He would pause just to breathe in, and every time he did the stench made him gag, made him retch, until he lost control and his stomach was let loose.

He remained there for a long time, alternating between crying over their bodies and vomiting. Even as he did so a part of him was telling him that he had to stop, but he could not. Why couldn't he stop? It was enough to make him scream, scream his lungs out and give full vent to his despair, despair which gave way to screams of shame, shame that he was standing so far away when it happened. It would've been better if they had all been wiped out in one fell swoop. He was guilty, guilty of still being alive. Why should he live, when his betters had died?

No, not died. He remembered dimly, even as he screamed out his guilt. They did not simply drop dead, but were killed, killed by one of their own, one of their own who had been taken in, possessed and turned against his fellows by some fell curse, some trap laid there by the one they were sent to bring to justice. The one who sought to kill them all through trickery rather than confronting them head on. But he had made a mistake. He only managed to wound Jeremy, and Jeremy would make him pay for it. The blood oozing from the wound in his side demanded justice. Guilt now turned to anger. To roars of red thirst.

Malachi Greymist.

He had been screaming. He screamed no more. The seemingly endless reservoir of his rage was cut off when he recalled that name. A million colliding thoughts were ignited behind his eyes, and then they were all gone in an instant. There was only black, fathomless hatred now. There was only the pain from the wound in his side. And a purpose.

Again he heard screaming, but not his own. His wand lay discarded beside him. He picked it up, rose and staggered away from the carnage, towards the part of the hallway they had passed already. That was where the screams were coming from, he was certain. Not to mention that he saw a statue in the distance that was definitely not there when they had passed by earlier.

It was a marble statue of an angel, androgynous, winged, clad in robes. That was where the resemblance to angels ended, for then he reached its head and saw its mouth wide open, a mouth filled with rows upon rows of needle–like teeth. It stood in a peculiar pose as if it was ready to pounce on its unfortunate victim. Wand in hand, Jeremy rounded the corner and saw a bespectacled, vaguely Asian looking man, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall. „Keep staring at it!" he warned, acknowledging Jeremy's presence but not looking at him. All his attention was focused on the statue.

It was a monstrous thing, certainly, but Jeremy wouldn't have gone so far as to call it creepy. Not until he looked back at the statue as instructed and saw that it was now staring at him with a perfectly normal face. He thought he saw curiosity etched in its features.

The statue's attention having shifted to Jeremy, the bespectacled man took his chance to get the hell out of there. Jeremy held his wand out, hissing at the jolt of pain from his side, and slowly started backing away from the thing. It remained locked in place until Jeremy briefly ran his hand across his forehead, to wipe away the stream of blood which was running down his forehead and threatened to make its way inside his right eye. It had moved a step closer to him, he was sure. So he took a step away from it.

A story was beginning to fall into place, an explanation for the chaos they had encountered on every floor of the building, the signs of struggle. Greymist was said to be experimenting with his blood here, killing non–wizards and then immersing them in a giant pool of the stuff, hoping to transform them, empower them through this blood magic ritual. Buchanan said that of all the people to undergo this process, only one had managed to survive and become a hybrid, a pseudowizard. This statue was probably that survivor. But it had gone wild, rampaging through the tower and slaughtering whoever was inside. Was that why Greymist was here? Was he, too, hiding from the monster he had created? Or did he come back to try and tame it? And why did some of the walls appear not merely demolished but outright melted, as if by acid? Was that one of the powers this pseudo–wizard had? Either way, Jeremy was not about to let it demonstrate the full range of its abilities.

„Don't move, that's an order," he said, and immediately chided himself for it. The statue did not move; in fact, it seemed unable to move so long as one was staring at it, unblinking.

And then, as if on cue, he just had to make the situation worse for himself. He blinked.

It was smiling at him now. It had moved towards him in those hundred milliseconds it took for him to blink, two steps for his one. He matched it with two steps back and then took one more. „Hey! I'm warning you, I will blast you into smithereens if you move one more time while I'm blinking, I swear to God," he shouted as calmly and confidently as he could. He would not make the same mistake again. He would not turn his back. He would not look away. He would not blink.

The statue charged him anyway.

It charged him with a hideous screech like nails on a chalkboard. It charged him and for a brief moment he was too stunned to speak. He thought the rules were established, he thought it could not move while it was being looked at. But really it had been toying with him, just as it had been toying with the man before him. His mind had gone blank in that instant and it wasn't until he could see it baring its needle–like teeth at him that some impulse from deep within his subconsciousness animated him, forced him to act, to shout some spell, any spell at all.

The sudden motion of his arm as he was casting a spell elicited yet more pain from the bloody wound, yet somehow he managed to pull it off. „Stupefy!"

It was thrown back through the hallway, its screech cut short. Stone turned into shadow and the pseudo–wizard flew trailing a plume of darkness behind it like a comet. When it cleared up he was looking not at a statue but at a girl, a girl his age, breathing heavily, trying to hide the pain of impact as she lay there on the floor.

She was probably a beauty. He didn't know, he didn't find Stephen King's Carrie beautiful. The stench of blood hit his nostrils but it hardly affected him now. She was drenched in it, head to toe. She wore the same gown she had been wearing in her angel form and nothing else, and silk that might've been a pure white once now clung to her skin. She looked up at him with big ocean–blue eyes, the only part of her that was not covered in blood, and moved a strand of matted hair from her face once she stood up.

„You look lost," she remarked casually.

He was. He was trying hard to recall his training. What was the regulation to cover this? He wondered, fully aware there wasn't one. But he could not afford to let this creature know that. „On the contrary," he said. „I just need to climb one more floor."

„And what makes you think I'll let you get there?" she inquired politely.

His advantage was his wand. Her advantage was her speed, and the wound in his side. If she decided to lunge at him right now, he would probably not be able to put up his wand quickly enough to blast her away a second time. He could try something to shift the situation in his favor, but it was risky.

„Look me in the eyes," he commanded, and she did. „What do you see?"

She hummed. „Nothing that scares me, hun. Sorry! Maybe weariness?"

While her attention was elsewhere, he was slowly angling the wand in his right hand, aiming it squarely at her abdomen. The stench of iron was stronger now than ever, but he paid it no mind. „You're right," he conceded. „I am weary. Weary of this building. Weary of this damn city and this battle. Don't add to my weariness, or..." his voice dropped to a whisper now. „I will kill you."

She giggled. „Trust me, hun, there are worse things than death. I should know, I've died before."

Usually the threat of magic was enough to make anyone who thought to take him on reconsider their options. But now he looked into her eyes and saw that she truly believed it, she truly thought she had died and returned. Death was not something she feared, whether by blade or gun or spell. But that was okay, he had been bluffing anyway. He had no plans to execute anyone in cold blood. Unless the Excruciator provoked him, but there was only one way to see what would happen. Besides, who was he to say that what she believed was false? What if he killed her now and she just stood back up?

He huffed a little. „Alright. I am going to turn now and go up to the observatory. And if you try to follow me then I will inflict upon you something worse than death. Sound good? Alright then, see ya around." He did not wait on her answer, just turned around and walked down the hallway as normally as he could manage, ignoring the pain in his side and walking on, past the bodies of his Auror comrades, past the puddles of vomit he had left there.

It took her a while to react, but react she did. In blind animalistic fury she screeched and charged him on all fours, but not across the floor. She was clinging upside down to the ceiling in defiance of gravity and jumped down at him as he whirled and brought up his wand.

He told her he would inflict upon her something worse than death. Unlike the threat of death, that was no bluff, and he had a curse ready just for this situation. The only problem being it was an unforgivable curse.

„Imperio!"

It hit her midair and for a millisecond he fancied he glimpsed the bloodlust in her eyes disappear right as she hit the floor. She fell on her face and lay there motionless, her breathing the only indication that she was still alive. Jeremy's own breath caught in his throat and he hissed, trying to suppress the pain that the sudden motion brought on.

„Get up," he commanded once he brought his breath under control, fully aware that his superiors would have his head off for this. Unless the Excruciator got to him first. But maybe the self–proclaimed dark lord would be more receptive to surrendering himself and ordering his forces to stand down if Jeremy threatened his one and only successful experiment?

That was to be the girl's role, then. She stood up and smiled at him politely. „How can I help you?" she asked.

There would be no grand confrontation with the so–called dark lord, no epic final fight to the death. For as they entered Jeremy set his sight on a vast dark expanse where the girl walking ahead of him with his wand at her back was dancing, dancing on the strings of some giant puppeteer –

He shook his head, an the vision was gone. No. That wasn't what was really happening. But he understood well enough what the message was. The so–called dark lord was here, and he did not appreciate what had happened to his experiment, his crowning achievement.

Don't worry, a disembodied, sourceless voice spoke from within his mind. I won't tell them. Just let her go.

The observation deck of Columbia Center was in a ruinous state. Shattered glass, overturned chairs, a sharp smell of alcohol hung in the air, emanating from the vast bar which was now conspicuously bereft of all the drinks that were normally served here. In times past this was a thriving bar for the visitors, a place to hang out and see the city of Seattle from another anymore. Holes in the walls told of some battle fought here, though when and between whom Jeremy had no idea.

Wind drifted in from the right, caressing his face, moving gently the bloody silken gown his hostage was wearing, still under the Imperius curse. Step by agonizing step Jeremy began making his way to the shattered windows as if mesmerized by the sight, now and then casting a glance aside to confirm that what he was seeing was not indeed just a fleeting vision. From this height, without electricity, Seattle was a mirror image of the starry sky above, with fires varying in size and brightness burning isolated all over the city. His city. The city of his childhood. This was where he had grown up, this was where he would ride his bike when he was just a little boy, this was where he would come from Ilvermorny every summer to visit his mom and dad. It was hard to believe this was happening in Seattle. His home, going up in flames.

Silence reigned on the observation deck. They walked on the soft dark green carpet which muffled their movements, but stopped just short of the windows when Jeremy took a step and it unexpectedly echoed, as if they were in the midst of some cavernous cathedral.

„Greymist! This cheap sorcery does not upset me. Come out and face justice! Here is one Auror your curse did not get!"

The silence was broken by a barely audible, drawn out moan, as if from a spirit gasping for air. Jeremy squinted, but he could only see so far into the darkness.

At last his host appeared. The darkness delivered unto them Malachi Greymist, dressed in white clothes which were covered in a layer of ash. At first Jeremy could hardly tell it was a male, due to his long hair and soft features. It was his gait that gave him away as well as the stubble around his mouth, the faintest glimpse of a goatee. He had seen images of him, but it could not be emphasized just how much the self–proclaimed dark lord did not look like one. Certainly it was the prevailing factor in why so many of his followers joined with him. Even now he did not look or seem evil; in another life, with his air of benevolence and wisdom, he would have made an excellent Annatar in some adaptation of Tolkien's Silmarillion.

Even so, Jeremy had to be thankful that he had openly declared himself. Had he been a little more patient, the Aurors would have been powerless to stop him, assuming of course that they realized he had to be stopped, and if Greymist had been a little more patient, by the time his true nature was revealed it would have been too late. Here was a young man who could've – and would've – elevated himself to a position of absolute authority, and by then the very system Jeremy swore to upheld would've served only to defend Greymist's power.

There was something else, too – something Jeremy did not expect. Greymist was wounded. His clothes were frayed and singed by fire at the edges, and he seemed feverish. He wore nothing beneath his white trenchcoat save for a mass of bandages wrapped around his powerful torso in an attempt to stop the bleeding from something, some wound he had sustained in combat. Malachi believed in leading from the front.

Jeremy pointed his wand at him. „Show me your hands. Show me your hands and don't move!"

Greymist did as he was told. „Interesting wand you've got there," he said, his words nearly a whisper. It was indeed an interesting wand, fashioned from white aspen tree and adorned with black eye–like markings where once there were smaller branches. Its handle was straight, but the rest of it gently spiralled towards the tip.

The wound in Jeremy's side was too insistent on making itself known through pain. In a way this was a good thing. Jeremy felt he might've gotten himself charmed by Greymist, if not for that constant reminder of his mission. „Shut up! You're under arrest."

Greymist widened his eyes ever so slightly and inclined his head toward him. „Under arrest? By whom? The Auror who just cast an unforgivable curse on someone?"

„Someone who attacked me first."

„I understand. I just hope your superiors will also understand."

Jeremy had no response, because he knew they would not. He would likely be booted off the force after this. The girl, silent until this point, looked at the Excruciator and made a strange noise, somewhere between a giggle and a pained whimper. Greymist did not seem particularly affected by the sight of his creation under the Imperius curse. But inwardly, mind to mind, Jeremy was buffeted by hurricane winds of anger radiating off of the man.

„I will surrender myself," he said, „If only you let her go."

„What guarantee do I have you won't sic her on me the moment she is free from my control?"

„My word. Now let her go."

Jeremy looked at his hostage, then at Greymist, then back at the girl. Finally he relented and chanted a countercurse. She stumbled and stepped away from him, clutching her jaw. She had been smiling the entire time, and now that she was allowed to feel the pain of her muscles forced into a grin, she glared at the Auror with barely contained fury. Frankly, Jeremy almost felt like telling Greymist to let her give him a few good slaps. He felt like his very soul had been sullied. By this place, by this building, by the things he'd seen, the things he'd done, and the feeling of being filthy only increased in the presence of the oh–so–noble and pure looking Greymist, who in another show of his nobility, actually kept his word.

„Abby," he said, spreading his arms out for a hug. She stared at Jeremy only a few more moments before relenting and running into his emrace, a long and hard one, during which he whispered something in her ear, to which she giggled. When they separated, Greymist's white trench coat and his white combat pants were smeared not just with ash, but also with blood.

He relinquished his wand, which was unlike any wand Jeremy had seen up until that point. The sky, utterly black up until that moment, brightened slightly, as if the sun was about to rise. What time was it, anyway?

„What's your name, Auror?" Greymist asked as he was led down, down through the ruined forms of Jeremy's comrades, down through the demolished interior of the tower, down to an intersection filled with horrors.

„Jeremy..." he looked down, not wanting to see it all again. He could hear it well enough, the buzzing of the flies. He could smell it well enough. „Jeremy Taylor."

Greymist hummed. „Interesting. Jeremy Taylor, Malachi Greymist. A dactyl and a spondee..."

„What?"

„Nothing. You know," he changed the subject, „everyone always believes that final justice will come from the sky. I don't want to sound like I'm gloating, but I am at least glad that I could have hindered you in that regard."

He was referring, of course, to their inability to fly right to the 73rd floor, being forced by his wards to make the long trek upstairs, where the trap laid for them nearly wiped them all out. „We were not the final justice," Jeremy countered.

„You don't know how right you are."

It was agreed upon that when they captured him, the taskforce was to fire off ten flares from their wands and wait for the arrival of the commissioner. Jeremy fired off his one, and it shone above the city like a red star, visible for miles in every direction. When they came to take Greymist into custody, all Jeremy could tell them was that 'something happened.'