A/N: & Here it is! Part 2 to what has been going on outside of Hogwarts! Picking up right where we left off with the night of the Wizengamot vote.

AU Changes: Canon-character changes. OC Characters. Wizarding World.

Graphic Warning: violence and gore.

The Tragedy of Harry Potter

By. Momento Virtuoso
Edited by: BoredBarrister & Mymindisverycomplicated

Chapter 14

The Dark Mark

Lord Voldemort sat at the head of a table within Malfoy Manor, opting to claim the house and seat of the man embodying the recent failings and shortcomings of those in his charge. The home's black walls and bannisters were touched with goblin silver fencing in a display of family wealth. It was styled somewhere between Tudor and high-renaissance architecture, an amalgamation of pretention from across the ages. The Main Hall, with its domed shards of stained glass filtering moonlight into the room, illuminated the goblin silver further.

'Using such a precious metal for senseless peacocking,' Voldemort thought in an envy as green as the Killing Curse. Such wealth had never been his—even his rich mudblood father hadn't possessed such riches. Even now, in his great power, he wished to hoard such things. His family name was older after all, more prestigious. It should be him living in a home like this, rather than the fool that served him.

Yet, Abraxas Malfoy had served his purpose well before, in a most devoted fervor. It remained to be seen if he would perform to his benefit once again in time. Even Malfoy's delivery of his new army hadn't washed the sour taste out of Voldemort's mouth at the deliverance of his news. The Wizengamot lord suffered underneath his wand even in victory for his failure. 'I will have to punish his pawns later for their insolence as well,' Voldemort seethed.

Josephius Avery's and Brutus Mucliber's unwarranted attack on Sirius Black had landed him in a place he didn't wish to be. To have made enemies with the House of Black was an unfortunate outcome. One which he would have to absolve by Walburga's youngest ascending as a lord—another puppet in the Wizengamot for him to steer and another purse to latch to his robes. If the boy, too, proved useless, then it would fall to Lucius with his new bride.

A piece of Voldemort prickled at being labeled an enemy of magic by the current Lord of the House of Black. Could the man not see that he alone was protecting them from the plague upon their doorstep? The rabble which would claw its way in and destroy them all given the chance? The wizarding world did not need to build bridges nor to offer understanding to its muggle counterpart, no. What the times called for was pest control.

'In due time. The Blacks will get their due for their insolence and disobedience,' Voldemort thought, imagining what cruel example he would set of them.

Stretching down the long table of the main hall, there were several figures numbering in the dozens. Each one was marked and branded, a testament to their loyalty after showcasing their resolve and worthiness for the cause they championed.

"My friends, we are here tonight to celebrate the success of our comrades in arms, but first we shall commend Abraxas," Voldemort said, nodding his head towards the owner of the manor, the flinched under Voldemort's praise, his face littered with bruises and scars. "His work was the focal point of many efforts around this table. Cheer my brothers and sister, for you have all laid the works for our army."

Several figures around the table clapped, cheered, and congratulated the Wizengamot Lord for handing them the political victory while others congratulated themselves, taking their Lord's opportunity for self-indulgence.

"Other efforts include young Antonin Dolohov's handling of the Barclay twins. Most commendable, my ally. You have honored the blood of your ancestors with such Tsarist methods. We must also not forget the incredibly dangerous task of removing Lord Auchter and his heir before they could supply funding to the Ministerial efforts for Auror reform. My lord Nott, you have once again proven your caliber and the merits upon which your family name rests," Voldemort commended each of his followers personally, followed by another cheer erupting from the table.

"However, we also cannot forget those who have also sacrificed themselves to our cause—Wilkes, my dear loyal friend. It is with a heavy heart that I read of your niece's condition." Voldemort inclined his head towards the man in question, Olster Wilkes was the second-son of the prestigious family. A son who he sought to one day elevate higher than his birth allowed. Olster dipped his head in respect.

"I thank you, my lord. However, it was not a sacrifice of mine but rather my older brother's foolishness to not fall at your feet in respect as I have done."

Voldemort's ears thirsted at the lauds laid to him but the feeling evaporated as more men clapped at Olster's words, commending the man just like they had Abraxas and the others only a moment before. Tiring of seeing another's praise, Voldemort silenced the room with a wave of his wand. Nearly every pair of eyes warily observed the white piece of wood; Abraxas turned his away entirely.

"Now, my colleagues— We must not be complacent in our victories. An observation of ourselves must be performed, so that what we have achieved is not lost… but rather that we sow a greater reward henceforth. We have opened a gate but we must still take our first steps towards the garden—in which lies paradise—ripe for the taking with our righteous cause," Voldemort preached. An ashen taste settled on the Dark Lord's tongue. Even after all these years, the rehearsed and studied scriptures of his early childhood still bled into his phrases. He could vividly recall attending the weekly chapel with the other children of the orphanage, where they sat in quiet rows beneath the cold, watchful eyes of saints looking down upon him. Those days he had spent working under the local vicar on loan like a slave from the institution which reared him. The memories scorched his mind and inflamed his veins.

Several of the faces around the table nodded in agreement. There were many Lords from the Wizengamot and elsewhere in attendance.

Rostov Dolohov, his heir Antonin, and Igor Karakoff from the distant Slavic lands, sat among the British Lords—though the gathering was dominated by familiar names: Avery, Crabbe, Goyle, Lestrange, Nott, Macnair and Mulciber, Rosier, Selwyn, and Yaxley, to name only a few. Many of the elder Lords sat flanked by their heirs, though those whose heirs were currently in attendance at Hogwarts were notably absent.

Voldemort's eyes, glowing with a fierce crimson fire, shifted to Rostov. "Lord Dolohov, my friend," his tone was soft and sibilant, a strange mixture of affection and accusation. "What news of your nephews and their task? Have you received word of their landfall in Ireland? They should have met little resistance if they chose a proper landing ground."

Rostov tensed, shifting uncomfortably in his seat as he tapped his hand on the table. "Uh— no, my lord. There has been no word from either of the boys. Last reports stated that they were making the crossing—our tracking charms put them somewhere in the middle of the Irish Sea before faltering. Whatever occurred—they're lost to the depths or the Irish, most likely," Rostov reported, his voice devoid of emotion as he spoke of his lost kin.

Voldemort swallowed his seething at the failure, restraining himself from lashing out at the man with a venomous tongue. "How—unfortunate. My sympathies for your nephews, Lord Dolohov. While they were honoured amongst us with their assignment, I'm sure your family will understand if I allocate it elsewhere now. A bloodline like yours is a precious thing, not one to be lost chasing the ghosts of my family ties."

Rostov nodded his consent, unwilling to say anything against his Lord's judgement.

Voldemort turned his action down the table, towards a thin man with a pointed beard. "Gibbon. Has this been reported to the The Department of International Magical Cooperation?" For weeks he had been sprinkling his crimes with that of Irish origins, using Gaelic curses, and even going as far as to plant evidence.

"No–no, my lord. We've tried to reach the Irish Ministry several times now but every owl has disappeared. They aren't even accepting anything through the Floo either. There has been no official claim to such an act or denials of performing our own," Gibbon answered dutifully.

Voldemort nodded, pondering for a moment the fates of his men. 'What folly, I'll need an expert for what I seek, pray the Irish do not become a problem.'

"Abraxas," Voldemort hissed in displeasure, causing the man to flinch next. "You voiced concerns about Minister Minchum's value. He was more than willing to take our galleons this, time but poses a problem for the future." Voldemort's gaze turned harsh on Abraxas, sending several images to the man through Legilimency. "Your son will handle this—with caution, and with care too. It is about time Lucius proves his value too."

"Yes, my lord," Abraxas swore, bowing his head solemnly.

"Oh, also Abraxas, you and Samthro Selwyn… you each possess ties and assets to the illegal wand trade. Ensure our followers and acolytes are armed properly with the remaining illegal wands we have in reserve— if we are low on number, levy more from the goblin cartels. The rest shall receive new wands from the first production of the unrestricted supply," Voldemort ordered.
The two men looked at one another before nodding.

"Macnair, you shall take those who are already capable and strike. Choose a place of importance that is small. Lord Bones will have petitioned or even levied fully for the Auror Department to be under full watch in the cities and districts. Let us not disappoint the Old Lion, shall we?"

Macnair nodded too.

Voldemort looked around, sweeping his eyes over anyone else who could be of use at the moment but he spotted none who were idle. Much of his inner circle who were undertaking missions possessed a second wand, or had their enchantments lifted off the creations they purchased from Ollivander. They had been unable to carry out large-scale attacks, commit any crime that couldn't be denied or covered up thoroughly. However, such was no longer the requirement.

"The rest of you shall await orders. Steady your hearts and wands, my friends. For you are but cobblers paving the way—the magic and traditions which have been rejected… let it be your cornerstone. Our time of striking from the shadows is done. We are stepping forth, my brethren, into a new age. An age of magic, unrestricted and unrepentant," Voldemort heralded. Standing from the table, the Dark Lord departed the room, ending the gathering abruptly and moving to occupy Abraxas's personal study.

In the lord of the manor's study, Voldemort stared coldly into the fireplace, his own thoughts dancing alongside the flames against the blackened stone. After so many years of steadily working towards his ascension, his patience was thinning. There were still so many pieces missing from his grand plan, some more concerning than others.

Thwarted by bureaucracy in a system which saw his exclusion when a station above them should have been his birthright. Delayed in the expansion of his personal finances and a fount of knowledge by the ineptitude of his followers. The former stung his ego the most. He had taken steps to capitalize on the latter, carefully placing spies within the Ministry, and even infiltrating the halls of Hogwarts with his younger crop of acolytes.

Yet despite his troubles, there were still mysteries on the board, mysteries which deeply concerned Voldemort.

His followers' disappearances were only one new mystery to add to his ever-growing list. Voldemort's mind wandered over a second muddling one, the vigilante of the Time Room. Augustus had found no evidence of who destroyed the work space or killed his colleague. It was infuriating to Voldemort that the mystery persisted.

'Was it Dumbledore and his fledgling group? Or someone else entirely—a mistake, perhaps?' Voldemort pondered furiously. His fingers wrapped tightly around the arm of the chair he sat in. He had heard rumblings of his former headmaster's secret society of sorts, how it was morphing into something to resist the efforts of the Pureblood Movement — to resist him indirectly. Thankfully, the old pacifist was content with thwarting the movement at large and not taking more aggressive steps to route out his stranglehold on the zeitgeist of the country and ideology.

The Dark Lord placed his hand near the flame, his pale skin illuminated by the ambient light. The heat was a comforting kiss but also a scorching tongue of flame against his flesh. He had hated the feeling of it ever since his adolescence at Wool's. He could still hear the stern voice of the minister who had volunteered his time at the facility from his childhood, "You'll burn Riddle! On the brimstones and hellfire!"

Voldemort tsked in parseltongue, staring into the flames his young self would have believed to be his damnation. 'I can control the Hellfires now. I have achieved the goal you, my persecutors, sought all while you rot in the ground—smote and eaten by worms,' Voldemort thought of the minister who raised him in Woole's, recalling the passages of his youth ingrained into him before he had made room for all the magical knowledge he sought.

He was destined to rule. All he had to do now was reach out and claim what was his.

"Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you," Voldemort whispered the mind-seared words quietly to himself.

With a chilling hiss in parseltongue, serpents birthed from the flames spawned from the imbued magic of the bloodline gift.

'I asked… and was denied. I looked… and was turned away. Now I knock, and I shall accept neither.'.

A young wizard sat over a wand that was being hovered over his desk, a stasis charm over the magical medium. Ayman Singh was slowly placing runes upon the wand before him, his own magical tool slowly tracing out the shapes which would create restricting magic on the piece.

The wand had been purchased from some second-hand shop in Edinburgh, where it had been sold in bulk to a client who retrieved the crate of wands from a goblin banker who had brokered the exchange. The client had then brought the precious cargo to this warehouse, where more goblins removed the runes from stacks and stacks of wands.

Some would be repackaged with no restrictions, to be given back to the goblins who would place them within the vaults of customers seeking the power of a liberated wand after receiving payment. However, other wands like the one before Singh would have only a few enchantments removed from the wood.

It was a method which the underground industry of magical arms dealing had mastered over the last century. They would flood the stock of clean wands with sullied merchandise to bring back customers, raise the value of their good stock, and even carry out some off-hand assassination attempts on notable magicians who enjoyed dueling more than they should.

It was only boosted by the fact that the Goblin Cartels had secured the vast majority of unregulated wands produced by the ICW and Grindelwald during the war. They had single-handedly cornered the market within a decade through their wizard brokers.

Ayman had only graduated from Hogwarts a few years ago, having excelled in Magical Runes and even earning a N.E.W.T in the subject. The newly graduated wizard had wanted to be an enchanter—someone who created magical artifacts for homes and everyday uses, but life had other plans for the young man.

Ayman could not find employment for his rune-crafting abilities, so instead he sought a job at the Ministry of Magic where he worked tirelessly as a drone for two years before being laid off. Unable to pursue more monotonous work and seeking to use his beloved skillset, the young man had joined a goblin bank hoping to be a curse-breaker of sorts.

Ayman Singh discovered too late that he had truly been hired to perform his current task. Like many others in his position, the goblins offered him steady employment, but they had also enslaved him in this underground warehouse.

He couldn't remember the last time he had seen sunlight.

Singh and his co-workers were not allowed to leave, in fear that they would divulge the location of the clandestine business to authorities. Witches and wizards of half-blood, Muggle-born, and Squib descent all worked in the wand trafficking monopoly. They all had nowhere else to go, unable to pursue careers with advancements if they held no Letters of Recognition from a pureblood sponsor.

Ayman's desk was only one of forty or so lined up along the floor. Each with a person dutifully removing select runes from the newly purveyed wands.

Between their desks, goblin overseers walked, inspecting their work. The small-statured taskmasters nodded their wide foreheads appreciatively at the productive members of their line and snarled their pointed fangs at workers who were more than lacking.

Sweat dripped from Ayman's brow as he painstakingly removed a rune from the wand which would prevent the casting of one Unforgivable curse and several advanced nerve damaging spells.

So focused on his work, Ayman didn't notice the attention of his miniature employers turn towards the entrance of their facility.

A loud bang disturbed the multitude of workers, each unintentionally flinching, as if expecting blows from their goblin floor managers. The goblins themselves looked towards the booming sound with more agitation and confusion as it bounced off the walls in an echo.

The goblins sneered at the sound, each one drawing small silver knives while the guards they had stationed off to the sides hefted their polearms and axes. Tens of beady eyes stared forward as the banging increased against the framed entrance.

One woman, an older squib, cried out as a goblin next to her passed her by, coming too close to her face with his large single-headed ax.

Ayman simply sat still at his workstation, his grip tightening and loosening on his wand. The wizard's mind jumped from speculation to conspiracy for what could be knocking on the door.

'Is it over? Has someone finally come to end this nightmare?' Ayman thought, not wanting to voice the words out loud near his employers. He had forgotten how long ago it was when he had been strong armed and drafted into this profession.

Singh eyed the goblins slowly approaching the door warily. Perhaps he should use his magic now to strike them in the back, he could welcome his saviors with their fallen forms. Surely, the Ministry had finally come for them all, wanting to put an end to the wand trafficking that had plagued the country for the last century or so.

On the next loud bang, the door flew off its hinges, sailing into the room. It erupted a cry of shock and fear from those closest to the projectile as it crashed soundly into one desk, crushing a friend of Ayman's beneath its weight

People wearing dark flowing robes with intricate metal masks flooded the room, soon they were followed by men and women who looked like they had been homeless or used to living rough. They wore no uniform, starkly differentiating them from the first wave of intruders.

Spellfire erupted into the air, filling the cramped workspace with smoke and heat.

Ayman dove to the ground as one spell soared towards him, nearly taking his head off before it crashed into the far wall and began eating away at the metalwork.

Goblins bared their fangs and charged at the dark robed wizards, some scoring slashes and stabs against the wand wielders, but the intruders turned their magic on the goblins, killing a score of them quickly.

Their masters' small bodies crashed and burned. Some hit the desks with sickening smacks, while others were immolated where they stood. The smell of burning flesh filled the air and weaved its way up Ayman's nose.

The young rune-crafter coughed and choked, crawling along the ground. After the goblins were killed, some of his coworkers cheered. Ayman wanted to do the same, but only a guttural cry of shock escaped his throat as he saw the masked wizards and witches turn their wands on them now.

Ayman watched a bright green light lash out from one wand and strike the old squib who had been kind to him. As the old lady fell to the ground, panic set in for everyone.

A teenager who had been a prodigy and recruited into the shady business had his throat slashed by a cutting curse. A woman, who had been a prostitute on the streets, was levitated before her hair set on fire. An old man begged for mercy before one of the dark cloaked murderers kicked him to the floor and hit him with the unmistakable green light of the Unforgivable.

"Grab the wands! If they ain't marked, then take them!" A voice ordered out from behind a silver mask. The wizard's cowl had fallen back, exposing platinum blonde hair to Ayman, but he could spot no other features.

Some of the man's cronies broke off to carry out his orders, snatching wands from on top workstations and making their way to the crates where they organized the finished products before the goblins distributed them.

Ayman yelped in fright as another body of a coworker fell on top of him. Their lifeblood seeped into his clothes, staining his body. The sound erupting from the startled rune-crafter attracted the attention of one of the dark wizards.

"Ple -please d-don't kill me—I didn't see any of you—I'm n-not supposed to even be here!" Ayman begged, slowly crawling away before he found his feet underneath him. He sprinted for the far wall, attempting to put as much distance between him and the death eater.

Turning around, Ayman flung up a shield charm just in time to catch a blood boiling curse from torching him. The Death Eater growled at the miss and cast another spell just as quickly, "Avada Kedavra!"

Ayman's eyes widened in fright as his pupils were illuminated by the bright luminescence of the dark spell. Tripping over himself, Ayman fell to the ground, but it did not save the unfortunate wizard from the touch of the malicious magic.

Ayman Singh collapsed fully to the ground, like a toy left abandoned by a child, never to be picked up again, his eyes wide and blank in death.

All around, the Death Eaters finished off the last stranglers. The witches and wizards put up little fight to their invasion, while the goblins and their enforcers lay dead alongside them.

Abraxas Malfoy looked around, counting the men he had brought on the raid. Several of the vicious magical creatures scored devastating blows on the ramble he and Selwyn had rounded up for the raid to boost their numbers.

One poor witch was limp over a desk with her throat slit by a knife while a few others lay impaled upon small pikes or butchered with axes lay strewn across the room.

'Pitiful excuses for our kind,' Abraxas thought in disgust. The branded Death Eater moved towards his brother in cause, Samthro Selwyn.

Samthro turned an unfinished wand over in his hand inspecting the runes.

"What's the tally?" Abraxas asked his long-time friend. Samthro counted in his head for a moment.

"We lost nine. Eight fodder and one sister in arms," the Lord Selwyn stated, beckoning with his head over to where one of their own had fallen, Lord Nott's niece. Samantha Nott was nearly bisected down the middle, she had been the most fanatic for the raid and burst in the room first. Her haste had seen her surrounded by goblins and butchered for her carelessness.

"Our lord will not be pleased with that certain statistic," Abraxas said, already wondering what punishment awaited upon their successful return.

Selwyn nodded in agreement. "We've secured nearly a hundred usable wands though—hopefully that is worth the loss of life."

Abraxas shook his head at the thought. Was that the worth of their noble blood? A hundred wands that would soon be useless once legitimate manufacturers took the bulk of the business. While the Lord Malfoy saw the brilliance of his liege's design, he didn't agree with the current cost. Not if it was certainly to be one of their own.

"Shrink down the spoils and let's return to the Manor. We need to supply some of the parties before they depart for their targets," Abraxas said.

Samthro nodded, and with a wave of his hand the sound of disapparation rang out in the room till it was empty of the living. Abraxas was alone for only a moment before he stepped outside of the warehouse, pointing his wand up to the air. "Morsmordre!" a jet of light calling forth a skull from the clouds as a serpent uncoiled itself, hissing and snapping at the world below it. Satisfied in his work, Abraxas disapparated away from the scene of his latest crime.

Only the dead were left behind with their silence and the Mark bearing down over them.

Darkness was just beginning to set over the city of Newcastle-upon-Tyne. Pockets of light flickered to life as residents switched on their electricals in tune with the bleeding of sunset.

The main thoroughfares and streets were lively even at this hour, but slowly began to thin as more and more shoppers headed to their homes for the evening. Arms filled with groceries and other purchases. It was just another evening to all those wandering the paved streets and sidewalks.

For Antiochus Prewett, a senior Auror of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, it was anything but. The aged wizard sat on a bench in the market square alongside his deputy, Kingsley Shacklebolt. The shadows of street lamps overcast their persons as they stood guard over the muggle district center.

"Fuck Lord Bones and damn Crouch for even listening to him. I'm missing my wife's cooking because of their paranoia. It was meatloaf tonight, the boys' and Molly's favorite when they were with us," Antiochus grumbled, not disagreeing with the two men in the slightest on the shift of winds as of late. He didn't want to be the one selected for guard duty.

After the Wizengamot session that morning, Lord Bones had practically stormed into the Auror Department and requested an uptick in patrols starting immediately, with focus being on muggle centers and Diagon Alley. The Lord was worried that, with the repeal of wand regulations, pandemonium would ensue post-haste. However, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and by extension the Auror Department, were already stretched thin by several demands. They lacked the manpower and the budget to cover all the places Lord Bones requested.

Usually, the Aurors operated in teams of four to five, but most had to make due with only one extra wand alongside them. Antiochus had practically pulled the newly minted Auror, Shacklebolt, his former protégé from his desk, deciding that the man was the most talented recruit on hand and one he could trust to not kill him in a crossfire.

Kingsley Shacklebolt registered to join the Auror Department at the age of twenty-five, passing his trials and exams with flying colors and earning his badge in less than two years. The bald black Briton was an exceptional wizard, having worn out a traveling cloak and testing his wand in educational pursuits across the world after graduating from Hogwarts. Kingsley had spent days which grew into weeks in the Levant studying old magic from the region until finally, he paid the mysterious wizarding school of Uagadou a visit in the western territories of Uganda. It had been in the shadow of the Mountains of Moon that Kingsley learned to cast his patronus, among a host of other abilities which he used to swiftly ascend the ranks of the Auror Department.

"Sir, what exactly are we even looking out for?" Kingsley asked, his dark almond eyes watchful over the muggles they were surrounded by. "You didn't really take any time to explain before whisking us off."

"That right there is the million-galleon question, Kings. Could be anything according to Lord Bones. Bartemius Crouch at least thinks so too. So, keep your eyes peeled for vagrants, wand-happy wizards, or even those blood supremacist terrorists that got them in such a twist. Unfortunately, the last lot look just like everyone else. Let's just pray the Irish don't decide to add themselves to that grouping. So, if we see trouble, we're to stop it—simple enough?" Antiochus grunted, shifting his gaze to Kingsley for just a moment.

"Sir, is it true? That this is some kind of war?" Kingsley questioned his mentor.

Antiochus flashed the man a serious look.

"Who's to say? That's the current word, but you can never be sure about these kinds of things—purebloods often don't have the stones to go through with large-scale threats. That's why you only got a handful of names in history who are really worth remembering for their fanaticism. Malfoy and his hegemonist lot—they're all a big bark with no bite. Give it a week, Kings and all this tension between Malfoy and Bones will simmer down," Antiochus remarked.

Kingsley thought of the man's words and hoped they were true.

A shriek and wheezing sound like a firework taking off broke the silence of the evening. A loud eruption sparked to life a moment later, shaking the windows of storefronts and even the bench the two Aurors sat upon, despite it being mounted into the stone.

Shouts of fright began to ring out all around them as the last remnants of shoppers and closing store owners ran for cover and off the street.

The two men launched themselves to their feet, revealing wands already in hand as they flicked back their sleeves, each of their hands clenching and unclenching in anticipation.

As the senior Auror, Antiochus Prewett took charge, taking the first step forward towards the chaos floating up to their ears.

"At the ready, Kings. I'll take point, but be ready to go back-to-back if need be," Antiochus swooped his wand before him in standard protocol, charms that would prevent muggles from reentering the area and to avoid the site spewing forth. "Wits sharp, Kings. We'll be back in time for Mrs. Prewett's meatloaf before you can even apparate," Antiochus reassured his partner.

The Aurors moved across the square, seeing several stalls overturned and on fire. Standing amongst the ruins were five men laughing boisterously amongst themselves, jeering at fleeing muggles. Every man was armed with a wand in one hand and a bottle of firewhisky in the other. Each man cheered and goaded the others as they cast spells into the air, at more storefronts, and at any unlucky muggle their poor aim was lucky enough to strike.

Antiochus opted not to ask them kindly to cease, instead leveling his wand at the group. A chain shot from the wand's tip, attempting to wrap itself around the entire group of delinquents, but only one was slow enough to be caught by the snare. Antiochus's spell wrapped around the drunken captive from his ankles up to his mouth, restricting the man's ability to cast spells entirely.

Seeing their comrade captured, the other four wizards immediately dispersed in a loose circle quickly surrounding Antiochus and Kingsley. In anger at the two Aurors, they each began to let loose a torrent of spells.

"Back-to-back!" Antiochus shouted urgently, moving to cover Kingsley's blind spot as the other Auror did for his own.

Antiochus deftly dodged one spell before transfiguring a single brick from the ground into an entire wall to soak up the spell fire. He imbued the wall with a 'Duro' charm to last longer against their aggressors.

Kingsley, on his side of the battle, opted to stand behind a shield charm, cast with a wave of his hand, maintaining the spell with his outstretched hand. Kingsley returned spellfire with his other hand, as he cast with precision and timing, lowering and raising his charm between volleys.

The bald Auror's eyes widened as he saw a spell careen towards him which shouldn't have been able to be cast. Kingsley immediately dropped his shield, opting to blast a spell of his own at the wizard.

"'Antioch! They're unregulated! One just tried to mindwipe me! Take care!" Kingsley shouted, hoping he was heard over the pandemonium around them.

Prewett looked over at his protégé and smirked. "Nice show King! Let's keep it up and bring 'em in ourselves! Reinforcements should be on the way—we can put a bow on them for whoever comes to pick this lot up, eh?" Antiochus yelled back.

Antiochus's eyes widened however as cursed fire made its way onto the field. A torrent of flame in the shape of a leaping big cat lunged for their position.

"Split! Cover!" Antiochus barked. He quickly put distance between himself and the cursed fire, slinging spells at its caster as he ran for a storefront and jumped through a broken window, taking cover in the shop. Somewhere along the way he must have struck true, as the leaping cat disappeared, leaving the field of battle covered in smoke, obscuring everyone from the other.

Kingsley, taking the older man's advice, dove behind a muggle car and sat in front of the tire near the boot of the vehicle. Kingsley tried to control his breathing as he sharpened his ears and eyes to the smoke swirling around. He thought he could hear where Antiochus was panting inside one of the buildings, even over the blood now pumping through his ears.

All across the Monument square, only the sound of crackling flames breathed out, deafening to all but Kingsley. Each group watched on, eerily waiting for the next spell. The smog was illuminated by the burning glow of shops and stands down the streets around them, shifting the shadows wildly as they danced all over the sandstone blocks of walls and paved stones. Each flicker of movement sent each wizard just ever so slightly more over the edge.

"Oi, untie me, fuckers! Help me!" the voice of the bound vandal sounded out in the smog, slashing through the blanket of silence. "Marcus! Isthmus! Someone—help me!"

Neither side made a move towards the man, knowing exactly what trap would spring if they did so. The man's comrades listened as he struggled and groaned against the rest of bindings out in the open. They had opted to leave him in the open instead of dragging the man to cover with them. They were dead weight in the fight if they could be immediately captured.

Antiochus poked his head from a corner of a window, his wand stretched out before him. His eyes watched the place of the struggling man, waiting for anyone to step forward to recover him.

'Cruel bastards—aren't even going to try to save 'em,' the Auror thought. Antiochus tried to calculate the best way forward since they were outnumbered and out-gunned with at least one unregulated wand on the field. He wanted to shout out to Kingsley, but doing so would immediately give away his position.

Kingsley stuck his head around the corner of his hiding space too. His eyes pricked the slightest movement before them, perceiving the shadow of a man moving slowly in the smog, dodging in between the sparsely scattered cars, and the debris of shop-fronts and sandstone ruins of the square.

Seizing the moment, Kingsley silently shot a Baubillous towards the creeping wizard. The spell illuminated the smog around the man, making him an easy shot now for the two Aurors. Kingsley had unfortunately given up his position in the bid to reveal the one wizard for Antiochus.

He cursed to himself as spellfire rained down from the other three wizards. The car he was behind creaked and groaned as the offensive magic bounced off its metal casing, ricocheting all over the square. Some spells seared straight through the vehicle and grazed Kingsley, burning the thread of his robes.

Quickly stunning the man that Kingsley had revealed for him, Antiochus saw his partner's immediate danger from his own space. With a wave of his wand, the Auror brought the very sidewalk and street itself to life between Kingsley and their foes, animating the sundered slabs of sandstone and street tiles. Many jumped and intercepted spells while those closer to the wizards created fissures in the ground, attempting to swallow Antiochus's opponents whole.

In a bid to avoid the traitorous and hungry ground, the three remaining wizards all disapparated and reappeared once more surrounding Kingsley.

One turned to Antiochus's hiding place, launching a roaring fireball into the face of the Auror who swiftly disapparated to avoid the inferno.

With their covers compromised, both Antiochus and Kingsley began to duel anew. Kingsley faced off with two while Antiochus handled one to himself.

Antiochus squinted at his opponent, their figure hard to see with the dark robes that swirled around their person. Finally close up to the person, Antiochus realized he couldn't see their face due to a mask concealing it. It was made of silver and reflected the ambient light of the spells flying through the air and the fires burning all over the ground.

"How the fuck can you even see in that blasted thing—can you even?" Antiochus japed, his sense of humor flying off the handle in his stress. However, Antiochus's demeanor was suddenly broken. The Auror cursed as a hex from the robed man bounced off the ground and slammed into him, sending him flying into the side of a building. Antiochus groaned in pain as several of his bones broke from the force.

Being an Auror, a knowledge of rudimentary first aid was a must. With a quick wave of his wand, Antiochus fused the snapped and shattered bones back together. However, it was only a patch job that wouldn't serve him long-term.

'I'll be disabled for life if a healer doesn't fix that soon,' Antiochus thought in grief and relief.

Medical field magic was never a valid long-term option, with most of it having to be redone later to prevent permanent injuries. Nonetheless, the man was back into a fighting shape of sorts and that was what his partner needed.

The dark robed figure stepped towards him once more, intent on resuming their duel.

However, across the clearing, Kingsley was holding his own against the two other wizards. Kingsley flicked his wand outward, but no spell came from its wood. Using the action as a misdirect, the well-traveled Auror crafted the spell wandlessly with his free hand. His opponent, believing they had avoided the spell, instead found themselves trapped in a body-bind jinx.
With another out of the fight, Kingsley's and Antiochus's odds were beginning to shift favorably.

The elder Auror, dueling his robed opponent to a standstill, caught Kingsley's methods out of the corner of his eye. The skill of his protégé brought a smile to his face. Shacklebolt was a much-needed godsend to the Department and a revitalization. Soon, the dark-skinned wizard would be running the show and ordering Alastor Moody around if the old man wasn't vigilant enough. A laugh popped from Antiochus's lips at the thought of someone like Kingsley ordering the paranoid wizard around.

A split second later, the laugh died on his face as his features were painted emerald by a curse from his flank. The spell coursed across the street from a distance, the incantation greeting the old Auror's ears in a delay just as the curse kissed his skin.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Kingsley, locked in his duels, watched helplessly from his peripheral vision as the Killing Curse struck Antiochus in the side. The older Auror's body fell to the ground, dead before it touched the cold stones. Kingsley didn't dare close his eyes in anguish.

With one Auror down, all the still-capable wizards bore their wands now on the exposed and vulnerable Kingsley.

Kingsley sensed their intent. They would surround him and hit him from a blind spot like they had done Antiochus. He could no longer defend, nor could he wait for reinforcements. He needed to act and act quickly. Kingsley only took a fraction of the second he needed to say goodbye to his friend and partner.

"Airqud bisalam ya sadiqi aleaziz," Kingsley muttered the Arabic blessing of eternal peace reverently under his breath. There was no time to mourn his mentor anymore; his sharpened ears picked up the sound of his opponents finishing their encirclement of him.

'I'll bring them in for you, Antiochus,' Kingsley breathed deeply, steeling his nerves for the escalation he was preparing.

Seeking to hamper his multiple opponents, Kingsley recited a spell from his days of study in North Africa. "Aiqtiham Al-Raml!" A sandstorm blasted out, howling from Kingsley's wand. He spun in place to disperse the coarse grains across the battlefield.

The sand buffered the entire square. Its grains were hot and scorching as if conjured from the Sahara Desert itself. The storm grazed any exposed flesh of the wizards raw like sandpaper as the cloud enveloped them from all around.

Inside his creation, Kingsley's limbs began to shorten till his hands morphed into paws, hair growing all over his body, his bald head especially, and whiskers sprouting from his face. In place of the Auror now stood a spotted lynx. The wild cat bounded off, using the dust to conceal itself, moving silently over the rubble across the battlefield. It maneuvered through the wizards as they searched in vain for the Auror, pointing their wands everywhere with light sprouting from their tips. Some shot spells at random through the storm, risking friend and foe.

Behind the wizards and on the outskirts of his magical storm, Kingsley transformed back to his human state, wand at the ready. Swinging his wand in a circle over his head, ending the motion with a slash, a chain-bola launched from the wood of Kingsley's wand. With the transfiguration halfway to its target, Kingsley disapparated to a new position, unwilling to let his opponents control the pace of the conflict any longer. He reappeared elsewhere, launching another spell before stepping backwards into the grains of his environmental incantation.

Kingsley began to disapparate and apparate erratically around the battlefield, risking an almighty splinching in order to disorientate his foes. Appearing behind one man, Kingsley slammed his hand down upon his shoulder. The vagrant's body stiffened, arms gluing to his side as he froze in place.

Over and over, Kingsley repeated the process with the wizards, only able to strike out to the place he had been prior. One by one, he took them all down in turn.

Kingsley apparated to the side of one, stunning him at point blank with a cry of "Stupefy!" The red light illuminated the man's features, sending him flying backwards from the spell's power.

Finally, the only wizard left was the one who had dueled Antiochus to the stand-still. The mask and dark robes hid their features still.

Kingsley heard the cry of the Killing Curse behind the man's mask as the viridescent spell screamed towards him. Side-stepping the lethal curse, Kingsley shot a disarming charm but the robed figure teleported out of the way in a crack of apparation.

Before Kingsley knew where the man had appeared, another spell was being shouted across the square outside of his magical storm.

"Morsmordre!"

A green light sailed skywards, emitting a darkness below the stars as it birthed a new cloud. Kingsley stared up in shock. A small tremor of fear shook his spine as a skull formed over his head, opening its jaws as a snake slid from between its teeth. The snake hovered over Newcastle, snarling and hissing down upon the populace like a vengeful deity.

Kingsley snapped his head to the side as he heard another crack of apparation. This time, it wasn't to get around his spells but instead to flee the scene entirely. The Auror couldn't spot the last wizard anywhere.

Sighing to himself, Kingsley ended his sandstorm, gathered the other four men, and bound them together to await the authorities.

Kingsley couldn't help but shift his gaze towards the fallen body of his fellow Auror. With slow and unsteady steps, Kingsley approached Antiochus until he was kneeling beside his departed friend, brushing his hand over the man's open but sightless eyes with reverence.

Antiochus appeared as if he was just sleeping now, a faint hint of his dying laughter still adorning the corners of his lips.

"I'm sorry, I'm—so sorry, my friend," Kingsley whispered, choking up the tears that slid down his face as he mourned the honorable man, Antiochus Prewett.

Kingsley could only look up at the dark monstrosity hanging over the city, and a sense of despair filled him further.

Barty Crouch Senior, the Head for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, watched as his Aurors worked about the warehouse, covering bodies with white burial cloths and moving them from all around the room. The bodies were piled high, some were stacked on top of others, cruel as if to shape them into something after their death. To what purpose, Crouch could not tell. No one was spared from the crew of workers nor any of the goblins overseeing the operation. The goblins themselves had been subjected to some horrors; their wizard counterparts had been spared, and Crouch had the Aurors remove them first.

Crouch was dressed in a simple black robe three-piece suit with a bowler hat on his head. A thick but trimmed mustache rested just over the man's lip, his mouth showcasing the severe frown he wore for the occasion.

The warehouse was bathed in a green glow emanating from the sky; a large snake slithered out of a skull. The sight overall sent Crouch's mood into a melancholy and somber state. He had never stumbled upon a macabre scene such as this.

Blood stains painted the walls and spilled over onto all the furniture and equipment across the room. The victims here hadn't just been cut down, but butchered wholeheartedly like cattle in a slaughterhouse. The ground was filled with puddles of blood, the scarlet liquid gravitating into pools seemingly deep enough to drown in. Several bodies were missing limbs, lost somewhere in all the confusion. Crouch couldn't help wondering in horror if the Killing Curse hadn't been cruel enough for whoever had led this raid. Only a few victims of the horrid spell were littered amongst the piles of corpses. Most bore signs of damage from agony-inducing blood curses, cruel cutting curses, violent blasting spells, and many other unspeakable things. Every wall and face bore a tale of reckless destruction.

'Whatever occurred here quickly turned nasty. This wasn't subtle or clean—it was prejudiced. This was a slaughter,' Crouch thought, his stomach rolling. The mustache on his face twitched as he grimaced from the overwhelming smell of iron in the air. He could even taste the metal on his tongue.

An alert had gone out about an incident in Grimsby just outside of Lincolnshire. A muggle foreman had reported the massacre after unexpectedly coming across the aftermath. The anti-muggle wards and other magical defensives had been stripped down during the attack, with nothing put in place to hide the crime.

The foreman had reported it to muggle police first, but Crouch was already on the scene by the time they had arrived. Every policeman had turned away wide-eyed and bleary; a side-effect of oblivation. Immediately, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement took over with Crouch's leadership. It was imperative that this situation remained a wizard-affair only, or else he would be the laughing stock of the whole Ministry of Magic. Viewed as a leader unable to properly manage his department.

Crouch stood by, observing the clean-up of the scene still when Alastor Moody, one of his senior Aurors and most decorated members of his task-force, approached him. The paranoid wizard had already seen his fair share of the shadow-conflict just now rising to the surface. It was a proverb amongst the Aurors that a Moody possessed twice the combat skills of any other to wear the badge.

There wasn't much which crossed Barty Crouch's desk without some kind of ledger bearing the name of Alastor Moody. Luckily for the Head of Magical Law Enforcement, the talented wizard had just begun training a new batch of recruits which would be sorely needed.

"Sir, we're done counting. Over sixty-five bodies are in here, including the gob-shites overseeing the wizardkind they had indentured. The only thing we didn't find was a wand— no wands but our own in this whole forsaken place," Moody growled. His two sapphire blue eyes focused in and out on the sight around them. As if trying to take in every detail but ignore the horror of it as well.

Barty Crouch turned towards the trusted and skilled Auror. "Not one? Not a single bloody one?!" The Department Head asked in disbelief, fearing the implications of so many restriction-free wands suddenly flooding the streets.

They were supposed to be unregulated slowly, with citizens approaching the Ministry for such ventures. Wandmakers weren't allowed to stock their shops with unregulated wands for months due to the potential fallout in business of burning so many unsold and regulated wands.

Moody nodded. "This operation was cleaned out. We know they produced the final products here. They had wizards removing and adding runes from the ambient magic we were able to pick up. Whoever did this— they came here not to steal anything but the product," the grizzled Auror paused for a moment. "It explains things, sir. All those coordinated attacks that happened all over tonight—each took place after this one, according to the timestamps on the reports." The man was referring to the string of attacks which had occurred in Newcastle and several other cities all over the country seemingly at once.

"So, this is what William was warning us about. Armament for terrorists' actions such as this," Crouch reasoned. "For once, I wish it was the Irish… that is an enemy we at least know. Fifty-years we've been in—blah, what's the muggle term, Alastor?" Crouch asked, snapping his fingers.

"Cold War, sir," Moody responded dutifully.

"Yes! That's the term. Fifty-years we've been in a Cold War with the Micks because of the ceasefire. Perhaps it's just a band of them who've somehow made it onto the island… they needed deregulated wands—other supplies for their backing of the muggle unrest in their north before we found this production line. Yes, that may be it?" Crouch asked, turning to Moody for confirmation, but the Auror shook his head.

The Department Head's stomach flipped on itself, deflating from trying to convince himself that it was any other factor which led tonight except for terrorists emboldened by the Wizengamot's vote—his own father's vote. Several times, the Crouch heir had rallied against his lord-father's intentions of supporting Malfoy's legislation. The battlefield stretched across the other man's desk and during the family dining table. Barty Crouch saw some of the wit behind his father's ambitions, but he couldn't stand the thought of willingly arming their enemies.

Now he was the man paying the price for his father's ineptitude. How many of his Aurors had died tonight alone? How many more wizarding families or muggles would be laid at his feet by the time he returned to the Ministry? Already he had to have several of his Aurors restrict journalists from getting too close, but the damage was done. They had their stories.

Moody continued "No, sir. I don't think it was that new Provisional lot in the muggle north or the Irish Ministry backing them. Doesn't have the smell of them; if it was them, they would've sent us a letter with a Leprechaun coin to rub it in. We're none the wiser to who exactly did this, sir. The only good thing that came out of this is now we can directly accuse the Goblin Trading Cartels or the Banking Clans of being involved in this illegal trade. Who knew banking was such an expensive business?" Moody smirked.

Crouch's frown deepened at his Auror. He couldn't help but think of the implications of such an action. To bring legal action against the Banking Clans and the Cartel after such a devastating blow to their operations would have been paramount to a declaration of war from Wizardkind. He was within his right to do so, for operating such a business such as wand unrestricting was against the law until yesterday in Britain—but it was still against the ICW's own international treaties. Such a thing, though, would only serve to ignite a goblin rebellion on top of whatever conflict was rising from the bogs to grab at their ankles.

'Was this part of a plan? To create friction between wizard-kind and the goblins to spark a two-front war? Or even relight conflict between us and the Irish to levels not seen in decades?' Crouch thought, trying to break down the agenda of the crime before him. Stirring animosity between wizards and goblins was never something that ended bloodless.

"No, Alastor. We leave the goblins out of this. They were victims here too. No need to go banging down their door for the crimes of yesterday. We'll have to go after the Cartels and Clans on a later date, for a new or another reason. I know you've been itching to get them for ages now, Alastor. But your cold cases and investigative work will have to wait. We cannot antagonize such a coalition, not now. Not with our own frontlines in such disarray and the Irish probably watching this whole affair keenly," Crouch gestured to the room around him, speaking like a war general planning out the campaigns of his conflict.

Moody grumbled to himself, never one to let go of a catch after he'd secured a line. The man was like every Moody who graced the badge before him, each a renowned Auror in their own rights, but impulsive in their cores to go out and imprison every bad guy they came across as they saw fit, almost reminiscent of the cowboy protagonists of the 'Wild West' shows that populated the Yankee muggle televisions.

"As you say, sir," Moody relented, and walked away to oversee—or, more likely, harass—the evidence collectors.

Barty Crouch pulled his gloves out of his coat pocket, slipping the black leather upon his hand once more. Looking around at the scene again, the Department Head's eyes landed upon the young dead face of a wizard of Indian descent, clearly only out of Hogwarts for a few years. The boy's eyes stared up at him lifelessly, killed by the Unforgivable Killing Curse.

Crouch shook his head at the shame of the young dying like such. With a pop, the Department Head disapparated away from the warehouse and back to the Ministry. He was off on an important mission, intent on doing everything he could to keep the majority of the event from hitting the Prophet's morning announcement as well.

A/N: There it is! PT. 2 complete. I'm thinking of poking my head out of the school every now and then to catch us up on the characters outside but mostly to write Voldemort and his cronies ongoings.

Recently, I've found the real world history of Ireland in the last century to be potentially rich for the magical world. So the general idea is that the Irish-Wars of Independence never really ended on the magical side if that wasn't clear. They've only signed a ceasefire after the Irish Ministry broke away completely. The Irish have their own representative in the ICW after all so they are a completely independent-sovereign state on the magical side. This will be a concept expanded out quite thoroughly across multiple chapters where I'm hoping to do the history and culture justice.

Like always, if you spot any grammatical errors please let me know and we'll get to editing them out.
Readers, as always, thank you.

Translations:
"Airqud bisalam ya sadiqi aleaziz" - A mourning phrase in Arabic like "Be at Peace".