It was over seven hundred years old, and since its construction, the sun had never graced its stones.

   Some had called it a curse, created by the renegade witches and wizards fleeing England, incensed by their lack of recognition in the Magna Carta, a curse to hide them from the eyes of their ‘treacherous’ brethren and all Muggles. Some thought the curse was an after-effect of one of the nightmarish attempts by dozens of dark witches and wizards to take the fortress, a spell gone terribly wrong.
   Others thought it was because of the Dementors that swarmed around the dilapidated and misshapen keep like flies around rotten meat. Whether or not the creatures had been created inside the fortress was only speculation – they certainly seemed to gravitate towards it, and the souls trapped inside.

   Still others – others that few believed - thought it was something far more malignant altogether. They thought that somewhere – within the curtain walls of cells rebuilt time and time again, or within the twisted outcroppings of rock that were scattered about the darkened courtyard and filled with the worst of prisoners, or hidden in the depths of labyrinthine tunnels and sewers below, or even nestled inside the unnaturally tall smooth Spire that soared over the fortress like a hangman’s gibbet on a hill – there was a gate to realms below. A gate to the blackest depths of Hell itself.

   Nathaniel Charon, former Hit Wizard and Warden of Azkaban, knew the truth – or thought he did. It wasn’t any curse, or the Dementors, or a mythical demonic gate. No, it was far simpler.

   Every world needs a place where the sun or moon doesn’t shine, he thought, staring across the fortress from his tiny balcony at the top of the spire, and this is ours.

   It was a bleak view indeed. Dark, roiling clouds filled the sky like a smothering blanket, and even two hundred meters above the ground, the air felt cold and oppressively heavy. Far below his feet was the fortress – the craggy wall, the wretched jutting shelves of rock erupting from the central courtyard where the worst of the prisoners were kept, and the ancient courtyard where renegades executed hundreds with two simple words and a gesture of their wands.

   His eyes moved beyond the walls of the fortress, and fixed upon the mountain. It was less of a true mountain, to be sure, for when the wizards tore the bedrock from the sea floor free to build Azkaban, the plate had cracked and puckered in response, forming a jagged ridge approaching the eastern wall.

   Charon closed his pale blue eyes and clenched his right hand – his right arm lost long ago and replaced with a life-like metallic limb in an experimental operation – as he tightened his shoulders, bringing his cloak closer around him. He was a tall man, lined with wiry muscle, his face thin with a greying goatee, and his cloak didn’t fit particularly well about his broad shoulders. The full cold of winter was upon them, and the sun had gone down hours ago as far as he could tell, but the Spire always glowed just bright enough to see beyond.

  A particularly harsh gust of wind pulled at his cloak, so he pulled it tighter around himself as he stepped inside. Even in the circular room, it wasn’t very warm. The pitiful fire in the grate had already guttered out, and one look at his tattered blankets on his bed told him he wasn’t going to find any warmth there.

  Drawing his wand, Charon lit the lamps along the walls and approached the center of the room, his steps stiff and erratic as he approached it.

  He had an idea what it was – the Unspeakables had given him their theories. Coiling from the floor to the top of the high ceiling, it looked like nothing more than a muscle fibre made of sizzling, solidified magic itself. Created with the Spire three hundred years after Azkaban was first built, it was an enigma that men had killed for – and that he was using to warm his hands.

   Charon couldn’t help but shake his head at the sheer ludicrousness of it all. He didn’t lust for any forbidden power here – he was just doing his job... until...

  He knew it was coming, and that was why he didn’t mind looking at the mountain to the east – at least he wouldn’t have to look at what was outside the fortress to the west.

   “I don’t want to look at a graveyard,” he whispered to himself.

   “A shame, then, because you’ll soon be joining them.”

   The curse streaked past the side of his head, but Charon didn’t even stir. In fact, he sighed.

   “A warning shot, Voldemort? Are you that confident?”

   Out of the shadows surrounding the west balcony he appeared, just like Charon had been told that he eventually would. Tall, in unadorned black robes. Bald, red-slits for eyes, a snake-like face – and a strangely pensive expression.

   “There is no need for confidence when one has certainty,” Voldemort replied without emotion, raising his wand. “Confidence implies that there is an unknown that must be faced.”

   “And you already know all about me,” Charon finished with a bitter chuckle, turning to face Voldemort with a cold smile on his face. “So why did you hold your strike?”

   “Because questions need to be answered, Nathaniel,” Voldemort replied softly, beginning to circle, his wand fixed on Charon. The Hit Wizard had already started moving, circling across the opposite side of the room from Voldemort. “I already know your history – a decorated Hit Wizard for forty years –”

   “One could say that without your killing of my entire family,” Charon interrupted, “I would have no notable history.”

   “A history you earned by attempting to thwart my plans, and by killing my Death Eaters,” Voldemort said calmly. “How many, Nathaniel?”

   Charon allowed himself a cold smile that showed teeth. “Eight. It would have been nine, but Mulciber surrendered.”

   “You were competent. I would salute that, but –”

   “I did my job – I killed the murdering thugs that you sent after good people – and I didn’t take any sick pleasure in putting those dogs down.”

   “There is no good, or evil,” Voldemort said smoothly. “There is only power, and those too weak to seek it. But that doesn’t matter now... you taught at Hogwarts for one year, a job I once desired.”

   “Dumbledore would never have let you teach,” Charon whispered with a hot rush of fierce pleasure. “He knew the truth – like I do.”

   “You continued to serve until you resigned from the Ministry in August, in protest of the formation of the Hogwarts Analysis & Investigation Team,” Voldemort continued as if he hadn’t heard Charon, circling and twisting the wand slightly in his hand. “And then you chose to take the Warden position here – and here we are.”

   “So you had a question?” Charon growled.

   “You’ve come to a place many would consider the worst in the world,” Voldemort said softly, “and I want to know why.”

   “The job had to be done,” Charon replied, just as calmly. He shrugged. “Besides, where else was I to go? No family, no job, no friends still alive, not much of a home... what else was I to do?”

   For the first time, a thin, mirthless smile crossed Voldemort’s face. “That answers my question.”

   “You ask a question, I reply with one,” Charon said suddenly, his eyes lighting up.

   “Oh?”

   “Why are you here? The Spire, again, like every other dark wizard who has attacked this place in the past five hundred years?” Charon’s voice was filled with scorn. “World dominance from the helm of Azkaban? And here the profile I had implied that you were more original.”

   “That’s three questions,” Voldemort said, his thin grin becoming slightly wider, “but this time you are wrong, Nathaniel – you see, the Spire is of limited use to me. After all, if it is like a wand... wands must be able to move, Nathaniel. The Spire cannot move unless I rip Azkaban from its foundations, and considering the energy required to make such a move – well, it wouldn’t make much sense, you see. A poor ‘superweapon’ indeed.”

   “Then we have nothing more to discuss,” Charon said, throttling back his urge to swallow hard – he wasn’t afraid. It was his time.

   He inclined his head in a short bow, and despite himself, he felt an instant of gratification to see Voldemort do the same.

   Thirty seconds later, the room was in ruins, the balcony was gone, and Nathaniel Charon was dead.

   

*          *          *

   “Come, Nagini.”

   The massive snake slid next to Voldemort, hungrily staring at the corpse smouldering in the corner of the room.

   “Not today, Nagini – today you are meant for something more. Counterclockwise around the fibre, as we prepared.”

   The snake obliged, moving carefully across the stone, winding herself in a wide circle around the fibre of magic. Then, with ferocity, Nagini bit down on her tail, her venomous fangs sinking into her own flesh, and Voldemort smiled.

   It was perfect.

   With a wave of his wand, the room was blanketed in colours. Sweeping arcs of magic reinforcing the room, a layer of powerful enchantments covering every inch of his skin, and a circle of poisonous black light filling Nagini. He could see the fibre thrashing madly inside the circle, but he had given a piece of himself to the snake – and the magic bound within it was perfectly formed, ready for his wand.

   He lowered his wand and touched the edge of that circle. Immediately, the snake rose into the air, a floating ouroboros – a perfect fusion of geometry, mortality, and divinity.

   Voldemort respected the first, had no respect for the second... but the last intrigued him greatly. But that would be a matter for a few months – after all, the plan was going splendidly.

   He tapped Nagini, now sheathed in pure blackness, and nudged her. The snake began to rotate counterclockwise around the seething magical fibre – growing even more vibrant and volatile with each rotation. It bespoke magic untamed and primal, never once cast from the shaft of a wand – until now. Bound by a soul fragment and dozens of constraining enchantments placed upon the snake, it formed the perfect circle he needed – for now.

   Voldemort spared a glance out the window. The fortress was silent – but not for long. He murmured a few words and cast the spells to steady himself and preserve his eyes – for while he was careful and his calculations were sound, he was quite certain no other wizard had gotten this far before.

   A jet of quicksilver erupted from his wand and sheathed Nagini from head to tail, and Voldemort nodded with satisfaction – she would be preserved, and the circle would remain effective.

   It was time.

   “MORSMORDRE!”

*          *          *

   The spell split the sky, and guard commander and Auror Rick Moreson nearly lost his balance as Azkaban shook.

   It was a green comet, erupting from the tip of the spire, streaking into the air like a Muggle rocket. The concussive force blasted the clouds back, and moonlight fell upon Azkaban for the first time in centuries. The crescent moon hung high in the sky, appearing afraid of the blast surging from the Spire.

   Then the comet exploded in mid-air.

  Moreson shielded his eyes as he peered upwards. New clouds erupted into the sky – clouds brightly lit by poisonous green lightning that could kill anything it touched. Each cloud was swollen with rain and hail, and proceeded to erupt over the fortress – except the rain was not water, but emerald-burning tongues of liquid, and the hail was blacked and wreathed in fire.

   “Run, damn it!” Moreson roared. “Get under cover, RUN!”

   The Aurors and Hit Wizards standing watch scrambled for cover from their positions on the walls and security posts as the fortress was bombarded – but not everyone made it. Moreson could only scream helplessly as he saw his men exploding into green flames or crushed beneath hailstones a foot across – none of them realizing that the casting had shattered the massive Anti-Apparition Jinx that had hung over the fortress for decades, renewed by Dumbledore himself after Grindelwald had attacked Azkaban over fifty years earlier.

   The moon hung petrified over the gargantuan Dark Mark exploding across the sky, but strangely, through the one of the eye sockets of the cloudy skull, it could still be seen.

   Just as it had been planned.

   The second spell was not like the first. There was no explosion or shattering of clouds, just a massive vertical cone of cold white light, erupting from the top of the Spire and cutting through the Dark Mark. The cone grew massive as it soared higher and higher – until just over a second later, when it touched the moon.

   The beam had been meticulously timed, calculated, and angled by one of the greatest geniuses of the magical world – timed just long enough for the moon to appear full to those in Azkaban far below.

   And even though Fenrir Greyback’s pack of werewolves landing on the southern edge of the island couldn’t see the moon through the cone of light, the reflection was still there – and it was enough.

   Almost as one they moaned, collapsed to their knees on the rocks – and transformed before the unbelieving eyes of the Aurors and Hit Wizards on the walls above them. Even through the thunder of the storm, they could hear the howling below them as the light disappeared from the top of the Spire – it had done its job.

   A few began to cry softly as they gazed out from their cover, a few others began to recite half-remembered prayers to a god they never believed in – Hell had come to the damned fortress, and the horde of slavering demons was at the gates.

   Moreson screamed orders from the wall, shouting for his men to take positions and defend, but only a few dared to run – while the deluge of flame and hail was beginning to slow, nobody wanted to take the risk. Even the pack of werewolves moved cautiously towards the wall, with a hesitation that belied human intelligence.

   The few Aurors and Hit Wizards who did manage to take positions wasted no time. A flurry of curses erupted from their wands, and the werewolves below scattered as they advanced towards the wall. A few fell dead – nobody was taking any chances.

   But Moreson continued shouting between launching Patronus after Patronus into the air, calling for reinforcements to his superiors at the Ministry, but drawing up a happy memory against the rain of fire and werewolf howls was difficult, and most of the magic failed to coalesce into a corporeal shape. But he refused to give up – he couldn’t.

   At least until he chanced a glance to the north – and saw a flight of broom-riding black-cloaked figures descending from the sky, wearing masks and casting horrific curses as they descended. Without the brooms, they could have been mistaken for Dementors – none of which, the commander noticed with astonishment, had attacked.

   To Moreson, a veteran of the First War, Dementors would have been preferable to Death Eaters.

   The rain of fire and hail had nearly stopped, but green fires that seemed to consume stone had sprung up across the fortress – and the downpour had forced the Hit Wizards and Aurors dangerously out of position, with the werewolves and Death Eaters outflanking them.

   But despite all of it, Moreson was undaunted. He was a veteran, and he had worked at Azkaban for almost a decade. He had faced Dementors and Death Eaters, and while he was apprehensive, he didn’t dare show any fear. He owed his men that much.

   “Take positions!” he shouted, his wand pressed to the tip of his throat to amplify his voice. “Defend the walls – don’t let those rat-bastards get inside! Aerial division, get in the air and make sure those Death Eaters don’t overrun – ”

   He couldn’t continue – a stray curse peppered him with rock and dust. Ignoring the pain of a half-dozen cuts across his arm, he kept shouting. “Make those bastards pay! Bring them down, bring them down-”

   He continued to shout – he felt his vocal cords strain – but no sound emerged from his mouth. In fact, he couldn’t hear a damn thing – not the howl of the winds or the howl of werewolves. It was as if the world had gone silent for a few seconds...

   He felt a touch on his shoulder. He looked quickly to see Parker, a new Hit Wizard recently assigned to Azkaban – and who was pointing at the Spire with a trembling, clammy hand.

   Moreson felt bile rise in his gut – something was wrong, something had gone terribly wrong, where were their reinforcements –

   It sounded like nothing less than a flock of a thousand angry birds surging into the sky.

   Suddenly, he could hear again. He squinted towards the tower – it looked like it was raining something around the tower, spraying over the entire fortress...

   “Sir, what is...”

   But then he realized that droplets didn’t look that dark against the softly glowing Spire. Or were that large. Or looked like nothing more than quills of a porcupine being shed.

   “My god.”

   “Sir!”

   Moreson nearly didn’t have the heart to tell Parker. It was a nightmare, it had to be – it was his worst nightmare, come to life. The one thing that he hadn’t drilled his men on, because he never thought it would happen.

   “They have their wands,” he whispered numbly, barely able to hear his own voice above the howls.

   “Sir?”

   He swallowed hard. “Parker, Azkaban has been breached. The prisoners have been freed. We can’t let them flee.”

   Whatever meagre blood was in Parker’s face was gone. “Sir... we can’t stand against all of them.”

   “We’re the advance guard, Parker,” Moreson said, his eyes flinty as he gripped the young man’s shoulder. “We can’t let these bastards leave.”

  “What... w-what is the plan, sir?”

   Moreson fixed the small group of Hit Wizards and Aurors around him with a steely glare. There were about twenty-five of them, and he knew that he maybe had a hundred men left alive around the fortress – and some were not combatants.

   There were over five hundred convicts in Azkaban – and they all had wands now.

   “Those of you who wish to stay, guard the wall for as long as you can against the wolves. The rest... make your peace with whatever you hold dear.” He reached into his boot and pulled a second wand free, holding it loosely in his left hand. Most wizards weren’t ambidextrous, but right now, he’d take any advantage he could.

   “We kill everything in our path.”

*          *          *

   Voldemort carefully stepped away from the raging column of energy in the center of the room, a small smile on his pale face as he surveyed his handiwork.

   The spell had worked. In a masterstroke, he had forcibly expelled every wand inside the spire and sent them homing to their owners – that is, every wand with an owner in Azkaban. It had been a devilishly tricky spell to design, but he had completed it. Better yet, the protections around Nagini had held – the snake and the valuable magic inside it were intact.

   “Now the next stage,” he said to himself, beginning to raise his wand.

   “I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.”

   He wasn’t alone.

   Voldemort did not need to turn – not yet. The complex mesh of enchantments he had spent a day crafting around himself allowed him to see the man without turning. The man was big, dark-skinned, and wore the robes of an Auror.

   He recognized him instantly.

   “So you’ve come to interrupt my work,” Voldemort said softly, not yet turning. The man was an interruption, but one he had expected – and could afford to handle. “A bold move, but you know you have no chance against Lord Voldemort.”

   “I’ll take my chances,” the Auror growled, his voice barely audible above a whisper. His voice was not deeply calming anymore, but filled with the dangerous edge that was only produced by sheer fury.

   Voldemort was amused – the Auror had a spine, and a lot of nerve to dare approaching him near the pinnacle of his power.

   He turned this time, facing his new opponent and fixing him with a carefully constructed expression of disdain. “Not even Dumbledore dared to attack me – what gives you that authority?”

   Kingsley Shackklebolt raised his wand, his face contorted with righteous wrath. “My position, as an Auror of the Wizengamot, and the law behind it. And by that authority, Lord Voldemort, YOU ARE UNDER ARREST!”

*          *          *

   The walls of Azkaban were notorious for only having one main entrance – the massive, iron gate on the southern wall. The reasons were simple – nobody would approach Azkaban from the frigid open seas of the north, and the massive ridge to the east coming up nearly to the keep’s wall made an entrance useless.

   That left the west – but there was a very simple reason why nobody approached Azkaban from the west.

   The graveyard.

   The rocky ground surrounding the island had always been too rough for anything but shallow graves, and the constant flooding kept the forsaken spit of land soaked and grimy. The stench of half-rotted corpses filled the air – the Dementors never bothered to bury the bodies very deeply, and the tombstones (which only lasted a few months against the waves and the storm) were barely nubs, providing little shelter for attackers against the forbidding wall of the fortress.

   It was the perfect place for the strike team to hide.

   Tonks pulled her scarf tighter against her face – she had sprayed it heavily with perfume to attempt to cover up the stench, but it wasn’t doing much and shielded her face from the rain as she ducked to where Wilson, Larshall, and Sanders were crouching in a tiny culvert against the wall. She made sure that her gaze did not linger on Wilson – she couldn’t let anything slip that she knew his little secret...

   “Right, let’s go over this one last time before running into hell,” Larshall said tersely. “We can’t go over the wall without alerting everyone that we’re here, so we go under it.”

   “That’s your plan?” Wilson asked incredulously, pausing from pulling his wand free. “Reed, these walls go a few dozen feet underground too, there’s no way in hell we’re tunnelling through!”

   Tonks, however, immediately got the idea. “The sewers.”

   “Right. There are two drains along this wall. They’re locked from the inside – easy enough to blow through with the right spell –”

    “And then we get lost in the Azkaban sewer system, which was designed to be a maze!” Wilson exclaimed. “Damn it, Reed, this is –”

   “If you’d let me finish, I wasn’t suggesting we stay down there!” Larshall retorted. “Once we’re in the pipes, we get just far enough to blow our way into the outer cells – the ones built into the walls. Most of the prisoners we need are in there. Once we find them, we give them the Portkeys and move on. Once we get everyone, we rendezvous in the execution courtyard and charge the Spire – odds are, we’re going to have to fight for it.”

   “And the prisoners that aren’t on our lists?” Tonks said in a low voice.

   Larshall let out a slow breath. “Hostiles we take down. Non-hostiles... well, they aren’t the Ministry’s problem. If they’ve got a Death Eater tattoo, kill them – we can’t afford mercy here.”

   Tonks nodded and forced herself not to look at Wilson. Now when I’m forced to kill you, I can just say I was following orders. But despite that, she knew she had to say something. “That’s pretty callous, Larshall –”

   “Tonks, I don’t like this either, but I don’t have a choice here,” Larshall said tensely, running a hand over his scalp nervously. “Without Shacklebolt here, we’re undermanned, but hopefully he’ll have the Spire taken for us by the time we get there, so we can plant the explosive and get the hell out. Understand?”

   They all nodded. They all knew their missions – and they all knew there were long odds against all of them getting out alive. Not that I’m helping that statistic, Tonks thought, but still...

   “We go in teams of two?” Wilson asked curtly.

   “You and Tonks take the far drain, Sanders and I will take the near one,” Larshall said, pulling his own scarf around his face – the sewers were going to smell even worse that the graveyard had. “Good luck, you two – I’d be nice for both of you to get out alive.”

*          *          *

   They reached the first rusting grate with little trouble, and Sanders blew it apart with a single Reductor Curse. He snorted under his breath.

   “It shouldn’t be this easy to break into Azkaban.”

   “I only know about these drains because Scrimgeour told me – apparently they’re heavily classified. Besides, nobody wants to break into this godforsaken place – and if they did, they wouldn’t want to go through the hell of these sewers.” Larshall leaned towards the open grating and immediately felt a rush of cold clamminess even through his thick robes and cloak. “And, as I expected, it’s flooded with Dementors. Son of a bitch.”

   “They had to go somewhere –”

   “Then you produce the Patronus, because I’m not sure I can make one by any stretch right now!” Larshall snapped.

   “Go into Azkaban without being able to produce a Patronus?” Sanders scoffed, but a glare from Larshall made him sigh and send a flash of something silvery zooming down the grate. “That should take care of the ones in our way.”

   “One more thing before we dive headfirst into this,” Larshall said, moving close to Sanders and slowly drawing his wand, “something that I didn’t want to say with the Aurors around – we’ve got another prisoner to get.”

   Sanders tried and failed miserably at looking innocent. “I don’t know what you’re –”

   “Damn it, Sanders, we don’t have fucking time for you to be stupid! We need to get Kemester out!”

   “Umbridge had a damn good reason for putting him in here –”

   “So you openly admit you’re taking orders from her over your own damn office –”

   “She pays a hell of a lot better than the Department ever did!” Sanders snarled, pushing Larshall back. He kept his wand lowered, but Larshall was wary. “And she offered me something Bones never did –”

   “And Umbridge isn’t here,” Larshall growled, stepping closer, his eyes burning with disgust. “She’d never be here – but Bones would, if she had a choice that wouldn’t destroy her career. She’d fight.”

  “Kemester belongs in prison, he’s a lunatic –”

   “And he’s a Hit Wizard and my partner, and if that bond doesn’t count for something, we’ve got nothing left,” Larshall finished, shoving Sanders aside as he carefully stepped onto the ladder into the grate. “I’ve got orders to get him out – orders from our Department, not a woman who is doing her very best to make everyone else’s life hell for her benefit.”

   “Assuming he’s still alive when we find him,” Sanders spat.

   Larshall gave a bitter smile as he started descending. “Oh, he’s alive. Men like him don’t go down without a fight.”

*          *          *

   The rattling was what woke Kemester first.

   It sounded like someone was banging on thin wooden doors with a dozen stickers, the cracking and tapping echoing bizarrely down the stone hall toward his cell. He slowly slid upwards from his stiff mattress and peered through the dark...

   “It’s not as cold,” he whispered, slowly rising to his feet – ducking down a second later as a painfully placed stalactite hit him just above the eye. Rubbing his forehead, he squinted out through the bars. “Where are the Dementors...”

   “Gone, I think,” the voice across the hall called out, the rasp almost sing-song and sending a small chill down Kemester’s spine. “Think Christmas might have come early...”

   The rattle was growing louder. Kemester carefully stepped closer to the bars, striking one of the tiny matches for even the slightest bit of light...

   Something slid through the bottom of the bars, and nudged his foot. Instinctively, he looked down –

   It was his wand.

   His mind screamed that it was impossible, that he was somehow dreaming, but when he bent and picked it up, there was no denying the feeling of warmth rushing into his fingers, no denying the smooth familiar grain of the wood...

   His hand was stiff, but the motions came back to him instinctively.

   “Reducto! REDUCTO!”

   The first curse bent the bars – the second broke them. He could hear the harsh squeal of snapping hinges, of creaking metal. The rush of excitement was inevitable, and he kicked the cell door with all of the adrenaline he could muster...

   It hit the stone floor with a crash, and he was through.

   He was free.

   “And here I thought I’d be the first one out.”

   His gaze snapped to the man now emerging from the cell opposite his, pulling tattered robes around his shoulders to fit through the perfectly square hole that had been sliced through the bars with his still-glowing wand

   The man ran a hand through his long hair and shoved it away from his face, revealing a thin beard and mustache around a square chin and even mouth. Azkaban had sunk lines into his face and hunched his stature, but Kemester could see the remains of powerful shoulders and a muscled chest through the ruined robes.

   But there was something about the man’s face that drew Kemester’s eyes. It wasn’t the man’s glinting stare, but something about his face... it was swarthy, to be sure, but there was something else about it that seemed vaguely familiar...

   The man straightened and immediately pointed his glowing wand at Kemester. “Sweet Merlin’s testicles, you’re an ugly man.”

   “Forgive me, the healers didn’t consider me a priority,” Kemester snapped, pointing his own wand at the other man. “Tony, right?”

   “It’s good enough.”

   “Give me one good reason not to kill you right now.”

   “Two people are better than one, and do you really think whatever monsters have set upon this godforsaken rock will distinguish between any of us?” Tony replied with a shrug. “We get out, we never have to see each other again, and we go about our lives. Plus, you need a guide to get out of here – I have a rough idea where we are, and I might be able to get us out.”

   The corridor around them trembled slightly, and Kemester’s eyes narrowed.

   “Better make your decision soon, I’m not waiting around forever,” Tony said calmly, pulling up his wand and lightly twirling it around his finger.

   “We’d need to get to the Spire first,” Kemester said through clenched teeth, thinking fast.

   “That’s suicidal, so no.”

   “Azkaban records are stored there – I need to find answers about who put me here, and why. I need the truth.”

   Tony paused, and looked like he was considering Kemester’s words. A strange expression had crossed his face at the word ‘truth’, and Kemester suddenly remembered Peeves’ cryptic words...

  ... And once you get settled in, make sure to ask for a friend of mine – you'll know him when you see him. Terrific guy, great conversationalist, amazing with the truth...

   Tony finally gave a shrug just as the hallway shook again, peppering them both with dust. “Might as well. You have no problem killing, Hit Wizard?”

   “Do you?”

   The first trace of a smile crossed Tony’s face, and a strange light grew in his eyes. “You see, I’m a practical man, Kemester. If it gets in my way, it won’t need to worry about anything. Like breathing.”

*          *          *

   He got his first glimpses of the fortress when he reached the very top of the eastern ridge, and he had nearly fallen backwards with shock and barely-contained fear.

   And he was going in there. He, Harry Potter, was about to storm Azkaban.

   “Are you ready?”

   Harry wasn’t ready. He didn’t feel the slightest thing close to ready. When the Spire had exploded with magical power, he had nearly made the decision to get on the old modified Silver Arrow in his hands and fly straight back to Hogsmeade.

   But he had come this far – and if there was a chance he could find the truth, something that led to answers, he wasn’t going to pass that up.

   He nodded slowly to Sirius, his second simulacrum’s long dark hair falling limply over his face. While he had crept out of Hogwarts through the Honeydukes tunnel in his original body, he and Tonks had privately agreed that it was likely best to go into Azkaban in a more ‘disposable’ form. And although neither of them wanted to admit it or even speak of it aloud, the strangely overloaded spells that he could cast in his second simulacrum would likely be very useful inside the battleground of the fortress.

   Sirius shook his hair back and stared at Azkaban, lit with raging fires, lightning, and the ominously glowing Spire, a haunted look on his face. “I don’t want to be here, Harry. I can still remember...”

   “I know,” Harry whispered, his voice hardly audible against the sounds of the storm and fighting far below. “Are you ready?”

  Sirius took a deep breath – and then spat out across the abyss below them, a confident look on his face. “If I’m coming back here, I’m going to leave one hell of a mess! Got your happy memory?”

    Despite the nightmarish setting and muffled screams below, Harry nevertheless smiled as he remembered the warmth of Tonks in his arms, the fluttering in his stomach as they kissed, the wild feeling of being inside her...

  “Oh yeah,” he whispered. “I’ve got it.”

   “Then let’s raise some holy hell!” Sirius roared, pumping his fist in the air as he descended to his outcropping. There, newly polished and gleaming in the light of the fires and moon, was Sirius’ motorbike. It was massive – Sirius mentioned that it was a ‘Triumph X-75 Hurricane’, whatever that meant – and was studded with spikes and thin strips of blackened metal covering the vulnerable engine.

   Complete with the leather motorcycle jacket, the long hair, and the outstretched wand, Sirius looked everything like the cover of the loudest, angriest rock album that a wizard never made. He gunned the engine of the bike, and gave Harry a thumbs-up.

   It was time.

   Harry took a deep breath and stepped to the very edge, pulling his hood over his head. He acutely could feel the edges of the enchanted plating that he was wearing around his forearms, chest, and thighs – plating that Cassane had told him had once been his mother’s.

   It felt strange, not quite right, for him to be wearing his mother’s plate guards, but right now, he’d take any protection he could get. Gripping his father’s Silver Arrow tightly, he stared out, scanning the fortress for the broken tower of rock that Sirius had told him would house Claudius Kemester.

   My mum’s ‘armor’, my dad’s broom... it’s almost like I’m taking up their fight, their mantle... whatever that was...

   He squinted, and suddenly he could see it through the smoke.

   “I got it!”

   Sirius nodded, and with a single whoop, he hammered on the gas. Without warning, the motorbike leapt forward – right off of the precipice.

   Harry began counting down from five as he tightened his grip on his wand and broom. Five... four... three...

   And then he noticed. A matte black sky, only a fading moon and dim flashes of lightning illuminating it. Fires of every colour illuminating the breached fortress. And screams splitting the air, some the animal howls of werewolves, but most human. The majority were human.

   He had seen this before.

   The feeling of déjà vu hit him like a sledgehammer, but he refused to acknowledge it. The mission was too important, he knew he couldn’t afford to wait, afford to reconsider where this might take him –

   Two.... one... NOW!

   And with a short exhale, Harry leapt off of the precipice.

   The smoky air rushed through his hair and up his nose, tearing at his hood and stinging his eyes, but he didn’t look away. It was almost like a suicidal Wronski Feint, but with the added flair of fire, flying curses, and Death Eaters...

   He curled his legs in, and wrenching his broom downwards, he forced the bottoms of his feet to touch it...

   The effect was instantaneous. The enchantments on the broom wrenched his feet into position and he let the rest of his body follow suit. He let go with his left hand – only to snag the black tethering hook erupting from the broom’s shaft in his fingers. Then, with all his might, Harry pulled.

  His perspective shifted sickeningly, and he felt his gut churn as the broom was yanked horizontal – and not a moment too soon. Pulling out of the dive and holding onto the tether rope for dear life, Harry let the enchantment work its magic, and he stood.

   It had been one of his father’s most insane ideas. James Potter knew that he was a great flyer, and that it was a massive advantage in combat, but most of the best protective enchantments only worked if one touched the enchanted object as little as possible to avoid disturbing the magic. It also didn’t help that holding onto a broom limited one’s ability to cast more complicated spells with larger wand movements, and James wanted to fix that.

   So he improvised.

   What came out was a heavily modified and enchanted Silver Arrow, with a retractable tether cord and two flattened sections for one’s feet. Enchanted with every enhancing spell and protective charm that his fiancée could find and with a built-in full Shield Charm for the ‘rider’, James had created something all together new and completely unique – not to mention barely legal.

   But the best modification was a spell that Cassane said Dumbledore crafted himself: an ‘inertial compensation charm’. With it, the rider could choose to ignore, bleed away, or even harness the forces tearing at him as he performed any number of daredevil tricks, even allowing him to roll the broom and continue to fly and fight without gravity ripping him free.

   Harry felt the broom thrum with magic beneath his feet, and even with the aid of the numerous balance charms and tether rope, he quickly adjusted his balance. He had spent the entire afternoon (the morning had been occupied with more ‘recreational’ activities) practicing with the device, and while slower than the Firebolt, it was the most incredible broom Harry had ever flown. It felt more like a Muggle skateboard Dudley had once owned – except it could fly.

   Crouching slightly, he couldn’t hold back a vicious smile. Sirius was right – it was time to raise some holy hell.

   Carefully angling his wand, he dove into the fray.

*          *          *

   Parker was the fourth man to die.

   The werewolves had broken through the gate, and had stampeded into the courtyard. It had nearly been the death of them until a quick-thinking Hit Wizard had split the unstable ground between them and the horde with a Fissuring Curse. It didn’t save Clark and Bendile from the werewolves leaping across the new chasm and tearing out their throats – before the monsters could be disembowelled by a flurry of curses.

   But Moreson knew they couldn’t stop moving – the Death Eaters above them could strafe the group, cutting them to ribbons. He screamed for the guards to keep moving, but it was too late – Worson had taken a Blasting Curse that had blown his scalp into pieces. Moreson had replied in kind with a lash of flame that had nearly split the Death Eater’s broom in half, but it wasn’t enough – not nearly enough.

   “Light fires along the path!” he roared, cursing another Death Eater clean out of the air as he began moving across the splintering terrain. “Hem them in so we can take more of them – look out!”

   He dove for cover as one of his best Aurors, a strapping brute of a man named Rocel, sent a wave of pure force from his wand, blasting away a half-dozen werewolves that that had been charging the flank. Even from his distance, Moreson could hear bones breaking like wet branches.

   “That’s six –”

   “Seven –”

   “And about a thousand more to go!” Moreson roared. “KEEP MOVING!”

   They broke into a run, fire and lightning spewing from their wands as they charged across the courtyard of Azkaban. A few other Aurors joined their pack – along a few prisoners attempting to strike from within. Those men were cut down without a second word.

   “Towards the south-western pinnacle!” Moreson screamed, pointing wildly with his wand as his heart hammered. With an incoherent roar, the guards charged, the werewolves crossing the fissure in hot pursuit –

   The first volley of curses nearly cut the entire company down. If it hadn’t been from Parker’s hasty and shockingly powerful Shield Charm, the wave of spells from the south-western pinnacle – one of the three hewn spires of rock where the worst criminals and Death Eaters were kept – the entire group could have been dead.

   “Cover the rear!” Moreson hollered, as he scrambled for any sort of cover against the spells. But the courtyard was mostly open and free of debris – giving them no cover.

   But Parker was full of surprises. Clenching his teeth and completely ignoring the spray of blood from a nosebleed he had given himself with the last spell, he pointed his wand at the ground and yanked.

   The ground cracked, shook beneath their feet, and Moreson could only watch and parry a line of spells with amazement as Parker pulled a shelf of rock a few meters across and a meter high free of the ground, yanking it upwards, giving them some cover at least from the hailstorm of magic –

   The next curse took off Parker’s head.

   Moreson could only watch in astonishment and rage as the young man’s body fell, blood exploding from the stump as it crumpled. The man had performed tremendous magic, saving their lives, and now this?

   Dodging three Killing Curses with reckless abandon, he leapt over the cover to confront the killer –

   It was a single man, his hair wild and untamed, fanning a pockmarked face with a horrid smile. A single Death Eater, but one of the worst.

   Augustus Rookwood. Former Unspeakable of the Department of Mysteries.

   The traitor.

   Moreson didn’t hesitate. “AVADA KEDAVRA!”

   The Death Eater nimbly dodged and bared his teeth. “You’ll have to do better than that, Moreson!”

   Moreson wiped a smear of Parker’s warm blood off his face. “That’s why brought friends – KILL HIM!”

   The guards roared their assent, leaping over the cover, wands spraying fire and force with abandon. It wasn’t just a charge – a few Hit Wizards took cover, and began precisely picking off werewolves attacking their rear with silvery jets of magic.

   Rookwood only smiled. “I did too,” he proclaimed, raising his wand high. “GO!”

   They erupted from the south-western spire like maggots out of meat. Thin, barely alive, their eyes all hungry as they leapt from the windows, landing disturbingly lightly on the stone. All were baring wands.

   Moreson’s face hardened as he took aim – nothing like picking off the cancerous rot –

   And then the howl split the air.

   It was like that of a wolf, but so much worse. Deeper, more bestial, sounding less like a dog and more like a demon. It came from the creature at the top of the wall – no, not the top, it was leaping –

   The hastily fired Killing Curses missed, and the gigantic werewolf seized the nearest Hit Wizard – and bit down, his mouth stretching obscenely wide. More bones crunched, and the headless corpse of the Hit Wizard was tossed aside like an empty can.

   Its muzzle was slick with blood, running in rivulets down its chest – and it was holding a wand in its grotesquely twisted hands.

    Fenrir Greyback had entered Azkaban.

   “Fresh... meat. Cook them, Augustus.”

   “My pleasure.”

*          *          *

   “But how am I supposed to –”

   “Just take the Portkey and go!” Tonks exclaimed, pushing the small rock into the disbelieving man’s hand and shoving him away, leaving him to evaporate into nothingness as he was yanked out of Azkaban.

   “Tonks, duck!”

   She dove behind the shattered remains of the cell door, and the curses streaked past. Wilson fired a trio of spells Tonks didn’t recognize, turning the prisoners who had been pursuing them into wet mist.

   “Think that’s all of them chasing us?” he shouted as Tonks carefully stepped into the hall.

   Tonks didn’t answer – taking cover behind a boulder, she picked off the straggler of the group, nailing him with a Bludgeoning Curse to the neck before he could raise his wand.

   “Now that’s all of them,” she said, breathing heavily and wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead.

   Their trip in the sewer had lasted all of ten minutes – Tonks’ Patronus had easily been able to fend off the Dementors as Wilson tunnelled up into the thick walls of the fortress – where most of the lower-security prisoners had been kept in well-constructed cells.

   In other words, most of their targets.

   They had managed to free four of them and spirit them out before being spotted by the first killers. From there, it had been a running battle.

   Most of their targets had already been killed, but there were a few that had hidden, cowering in their cells hoping to be rescued – likely the safest option, even if they had their wands back. Predatory mobs were roaming the halls, killing and looting everything in their path, and it had only been blind luck that had kept Tonks and Wilson from avoiding the worst of them as they freed the prisoners.

   “Now we make for the Spire,” Wilson exhaled, cautiously looking around before stepping out of cover.

   “Not yet, we’ve got one more person on my list,” Tonks replied, lowering her wand as she clumsily moved over the wrecked stonework towards the stairs.

   “Wait a second, I don’t have the name –”

   “Maybe Larshall forgot to write it on your list, I don’t know,” Tonks snapped, moving quickly down the stairs and snapping off a quick Stunning Spell to the first person she saw, nailing him in the face and dropping him like a sack of potatoes. “All I know is that we’ve got to get him out of here.”

   Wilson blew out a long breath, but stepped in behind Tonks. “Fine, where is this guy?”

   “Far north wall, second sublevel.”

   “We actually got a prisoner in an underground cell?” Wilson asked incredulously. “Those are medium-security –”

   “And apparently somebody wants him out!” Tonks snarled. “Look, we can’t stand around and argue, let’s move!”

   “All right, all right!” Wilson replied heatedly, running along behind Tonks as they ran down the stairs that lead towards the sublevels. They could both hear the screams ahead of them and the gleeful howls of bloodthirsty lunatics wreaking havoc.

   Tonks braced her jaw, and her hair shortened and turned a matte navy shade. Wilson only gave a tight little smile, as if he was anticipating the charge.

   Bloodthirsty... more proof if I didn’t already know that you’re a Death Eater... and once I get Sturgis out of here, nobody will even notice when I kill you myself.

*          *          *

   The battle was horrifyingly one-sided, and both combatants knew it.

   But much to Voldemort’s annoyance, Kingsley Shacklebolt wasn’t about to give up without a fight.

   His first dozen curses, Voldemort deflected effortlessly, his motions graceful and relaxed as he followed his shielding charms with a simple conjuration –an inch-thick, magic-proof cylinder of glass around himself and the magical thread his snake orbited.

   He turned away from the cylinder and focused on Nagini. After quickly verifying the magic within the snake’s coil was still contained, he raised his wand and began to chant. Around him, the Spire shook as another pulse of magic was fired into the sky – a pulse that spread like a massive shimmering golden umbrella around the entire island, which would prevent any reinforcements from arriving – at least any that wanted their bodies alive when they got there –

   CRACK.

   Voldemort frowned slightly as the glass around him exploded, peppering him with shards that sizzled away when they came within an inch of his skin, and he raised his wand as he turned to deflect the man-sized boulder Shacklebolt had magically propelled at him.

   “That,” he said softly, “was uncouth.”

   A twirl of his wand sent the boulder flying back towards Shacklebolt, who barely got out of the way to fire a Killing Curse straight at Voldemort.

   The Dark Lord did not flinch – he grinned. Quickly sketching a square in mid-air with his wand, he watched the curse rush towards him –

   And vanish.

   Shacklebolt’s eyes went wide. “What the –”

   But Voldemort wasn’t finished. Twisting his hand, he propelled the ‘square’ straight at Shacklebolt, homing in like a targeted projectile. The Auror managed to dodge, and the square hit the wall – and went through it like it wasn’t even there.

   “Like the spell?” Voldemort said with a hint of a grin as he continued to guide the square on the other side of the wall back towards Shacklebolt. “A little window I developed – straight into that exact point in space, ten minutes ago. And since the planet rotates so quickly, nobody will even notice the spells and objects passing through and falling into the open sea.”

   Flicking his wand upwards, he brought the square streaking forward – and yet Shacklebolt barely managed to evade it. His cloak was partially caught in the edge – and was shorn clean off.

   Voldemort could see Shacklebolt racking his brain as he dodged a flurry of simple curses the Dark Lord cast as he manipulated his square for another attack on the Auror –

   Who Disapparated, and shot another two Killing Curses at Voldemort’s exposed back.

   But somehow the ‘window’ was already there, swallowing the curses and hungrily streaking towards Shacklebolt –

   “PARIETIS!”

   The shockwave forced Voldemort to take a short step backwards, but it had blown Shacklebolt clean off of the Spire. But a quick mid-air Apparition brought him back inside, panting heavily and wiping blood from his nose.

   Voldemort’s eyes narrowed. “Not many people can bend a Force Shield Charm – a peculiar tactic to disrupt the window, I must remember that. An interesting hypothesis indeed – though it nearly killed you to test it.”

   “But it didn’t,” Shacklebolt hissed, snapping to his feet and spraying another four curses at Voldemort with surprising dexterity – none of them connecting with the Dark Lord.

   Voldemort sighed. “You are vastly outclassed, Shacklebolt – you do realize that this encounter will only result in your death.”

   “You haven’t won yet,” Shacklebolt spat. “Avada Kedavra!”

   With a flick of his wand, Voldemort conjured a stream of magic that solidified into a heavy golden shield before exploding on contact with the curse. But even as Shacklebolt shielded himself from the flaming shards, Voldemort snapped his wand into the air...

   And in an instant, everything seemed to go quiet. The air around them began to tremor... and then pulse, beginning to flow in deep waves towards the Dark Lord, as if he was sucking the world towards him. Shacklebolt planted his feet, but Voldemort could tell with satisfaction as the air thickened around him that the Auror didn’t know what was happening.

  A shame. Voldemort would have appreciated the added fear.

  Lowering his wand, he touched the cushion of thickened air surrounding him and the magical coil, and watched the spiral wave filling the top of the Spire grow stronger...

   “Incendio.”

   The super-compressed air exploded with heat, and Voldemort watched as the moving spiral wave of air ignited, trapping the Auror between walls of flame, forcing him to run along the outside of the spiral still pulsing inward –

   Voldemort bowed his head, and gracefully clapped his hands.

   The flaming spiral waves of ignited air exploded outwards, blowing through the stone walls of the Spire like so much butter before a hot knife. Voldemort quickly charmed the ceiling not to cave in or break apart above him, but as the flames vanished, he smiled.

   Kingsley Shacklebolt was gone.

*            *          *

   Harry ignored the explosion far above him – he had to keep flying behind Sirius, keep moving as he darted within the flock of enraged Death Eaters, cursing as many as he could.

   He could feel the overloaded spells explode from his wand, which vibrated up his arm with each casting. Most of his curses and jinxes as he dodged and twirled, but the few that hit were gruesomely effective. Bludgeoning Curses broke brooms into shards of hot wood. Freezing Charms froze the hands of Death Eaters to their brooms, often forcing them into suicidal dives. Whips of flame, while rarely hitting, simply tore the brooms in half and their riders with them.

   Sirius had adopted a more direct approach – he just charged, and let the chain-wrapped and Engorged snow tires of the motorcycle do the rest.

   Harry crouched slightly and readjusted his footing as he dropped into a dive. He felt his stomach fluttering, but he hadn’t forgotten the mission. They had to find –

   And there is was. The jagged northern spire, a blackened and seared spit of rock, most of it aflame, where the worst of criminals and Death Eaters had been kept.

   Where his godfather had been kept. And where Claudius Kemester was being kept.

   “SIRIUS!”

   His godfather didn’t need telling twice. Killing the Levitation Charm on the bike abruptly – and dodging five curses for the trouble, Sirius plummeted out of the sky in a dizzying arc, only pulling out at the last second to land on a large guard balcony on the northern spire – a balcony far too short to accommodate the speed Sirius was flying –

   Harry wordlessly screamed, but with a squeal of brakes that even Harry fifty feet in the air could hear, the Triumph slid sideways and skidded – straight into the wall.

   There was no explosion, and Harry ducked into a suicidal dive for the balcony, seeing Sirius crumpled on the stone... a dive he didn’t know if  the Silver Arrow could pull out of –

   It was over in an instant. He felt his hand tear free of the tow robe, and he rolled across the broken stone, his robes ripping painfully as he tumbled.

   But somehow, he was alive.

   He scrambled to his feet, only to see Sirius also standing – and cursing a low-flying Death Eater clean out of the air. Harry looked around wildly for his broom, but then he saw it lying on the stones, and Sirius kick it over by the bike – which seemed miraculously undamaged –

   “Come on, inside!” Sirius shouted, pushing Harry through the doorway and slamming it shut behind them with a resounding bang.

   The sudden near-silence, in contrast to the insane rush of air past his head and whistling of curses, was deafening.

   “Well,” Sirius said, “that was close.”

   But Harry had already pulled his godfather into a tight embrace. “Damn it, Sirius –”

   “No time for this, Harry, the story why I’m alive and my Triumph is untouched is one for later,” Sirius replied hastily, drawing his wand and lighting it with a muttered word. “Suffice to say, I tend to set the damn thing down a little harder than I should, and, well, Lily was really good with Cushioning Charms.”

   “You scared the shit out of me, I thought you were dead!”

   Sirius smirked. “I’ll let you try it sometime. Now let’s find Claudius Kemester before someone else does.”

*          *          *

   When they entered the sublevels of the northern Azkaban wall, the fight was already over.

   “Bloody... bloody fucking hell,” Wilson whispered in awe as he climbed over the debris – from the looks of things, the brawl had been prematurely and violently ended by the collapse of most of the ceiling. The iron stench of blood filled the chill, humid air, and Tonks tightened the scarf around her face instinctively. “You think your man is even still alive?”

   “I have to check,” Tonks replied, carefully avoiding stepping on the corpses as she eyed the cells. “He wouldn’t be one to fight... or if he did, he’d fight defensively.”

   Wilson made a noise of contempt. “Those kinds of fighters won’t make it out of here alive.”

   As much as he’s probably right, I’m not going to give him that credit. “Nevertheless, his cell should be just up...”

   Her voice trailed off as she peered into Podmore’s cell – a cell piled with half-dismembered corpses. No fewer than eight dead bodies were stacked in the room, and the walls were painted liberally with spattered gore.

   She felt bile rising in her stomach at the sight, but then she paused – nobody would stack bodies like this, unless...

   “Nobody’s here, let’s go,” Wilson said impatiently. “We shouldn’t linger.”

   “No, he’s here,” Tonks replied softly, stepping around the corpse pile and nudging the bodies with her foot, carefully looking for the one she knew was not dead at all...

   She bent behind the pile, just out of Wilson’s line of sight. “Sturgis? It’s Tonks.”

   A bloody hand sticking out of the pile twitched, and before Tonks’ eyes, Sturgis Podmore began pulling himself from the bottom of the pile, his unruly hair matted with filth.

   “T-Tonks? What are you –”

   “Getting you out of here, come on,” she whispered, grabbing his forearm and yanking him free. They both began to rise to their feet –

   “Huh,” Wilson said with a huff, “I guess I was –”

   “Death Eater!”

   Tonks stepped back, but then she saw that Sturgis had already drawn his wand –

   And was pointing it at Wilson

   Son of a bitch.

   Wilson’s wand was already up, but his Shield Charm barely deflected Sturgis’ hasty jinx. Tonks fumbled for her wand –

   “STUPEFY!”

   Sturgis collapsed, and Tonks snapped her wand up to Wilson – who was now pointing his wand at her.

   “Tonks, let’s not be hasty –”

   “Glisseo!”

   Wilson sidestepped the spell, and Disapparated with a crack. Tonks swore under her breath as she quickly cast a Disillusionment Charm on herself and ducked low, the bastard could be anywhere... she needed cover...

   The cell door exploded in a shower of sparks, and Tonks yanked herself back inside, cursing silently under her breath. Wilson was a trained Auror, and he was good – and that meant he would be working to destroy her cover –

   The wall beside her exploded into rubble, and she stumbled out into the main hall, shielding her eyes as she crossed the hall towards the next cell –

   “Incarcerous!”

   The ropes missed her ankles, but she still stumbled. Turning, she didn’t see Wilson hiding, but she knew he was there somewhere – and that he knew where she was –

   “Stupe-”

   “Protego!”

   Her Shield Charm barely held, and she swore under her breath as she Disapparated, reappearing in a cell a few meters down the hall, giving her some fresh cover from Wilson’s attacks.

   “Trying to take me alive, Wilson?” she shouted, keeping still as she eyed the hallway.

   “I only asked the Dark Lord for one thing,” Wilson replied back, his voice echoing down the hall, “and that was for you.”

   “And you didn’t have the balls to ask me out, so it comes to this?” Tonks retorted, forcing a laugh. “I’ve got a book for you, Wilson – you can read it in a Ministry cell.”

   A volley of curses hit a nearby wall, but Tonks ignored them, Disapparating in the noise to a new cell on the other side of the hall.

   “The Ministry will be giving me commendations,” Wilson said loudly, and Tonks could hear his boots crunching on stone. “Because I was able to pull your violated body from the rubble and save your life before the man took the last thing that was dear to you – your life. And it was a shame your mind was destroyed in the encounter...”

   Tonks clenched her teeth, refusing to let herself get provoked. He’s goading me.

   “I hear, though, there’s a very special ward in St. Mungo’s for those people, though – and I know the Healers would love to run a few ‘restorative experiments’ on one of the last Metamorphmagi left in this world...”

   Tonks’ hair went a brilliant red, and despite herself, she knew her eyes had changed colour as well. She fought to control her rage – she was not a magical creature to be studied, she was not ‘the perfect whore’ to be abused, and she was a better Auror than this slime ever dared to be –

   “That is, of course, if you don’t take the easy route and give yourself to me willingingly.”

   She snapped.

   She broke the Disillusionment Charm and leapt into the main corridor, diving and rolling from boulder to boulder as Wilson began to attack –

   “Atrum chain LEVITAS!”

   The lightning erupted from her wand, blasting stone and flesh as it carved its way down the hall, even as Wilson Disapparated again –

   “Incarcerous!”

   This time, the ropes snagged her ankles, and she fell spectacularly. Even as the black cords snaked up her body, she kept fighting, keeping her arms free even as the ropes were constricting her every move –

   “Expelliarmus!”

   And just like that, her wand was gone. She watched as Wilson snagged it out of the air, a triumphant grin on his face as he watched the robes finally truss Tonks’ wrists.

   “Gotcha.”

*          *          *

  “How much further?” Harry wheezed, putting a hand to the stitch in his side as he and Sirius paused to breathe.

   Sirius wiped a trickle of sweat from his face. “It shouldn’t be much further – hell, we’re nearly at the top –”

   “Do you think we missed –”

   “We checked every single cell, and we haven’t seen him,” Sirius said tersely, giving his wand an experimental twirl as they began to ascend the cracking and broken stairs again. “And unless he was below where we landed – and frankly, I don’t think he was, because when I... when I was in this spire, I didn’t see him when I escaped. And that means up.”

   “But why here?” Harry gasped, as he jogged along next to Sirius, shoving his simulacrum’s tangled hair away from his eyes. “You said the worst of the Death Eaters were in here – why the hell did the Ministry put Kemester Senior in here, of all places?”

   “Damned if I know, Harry – I just know they brought him in here – I remember seeing that – and that according to Tonks, he’s still alive,” Sirius breathed, pausing at the next landing and carefully scanning adjacent cells. And like all the other cells they had seen, they were completely empty. “What I’m more concerned about is why we haven’t run into anyone yet – there were some nasty people in this spire.”

   “Maybe they’re with Voldemort –”

   “I sure as hell hope for Kingsley’s sake they’re not,” Sirius said fervently. “Okay, three more flights and then we reach the top, and there are only three cells up there. He’s either up there, or below the balcony and we’re royally fucked. Get your wand out.”

   “You think he won’t come quietly?” Harry whispered, pulling his wand free.

   “Not that,” Sirius muttered. “Just promise me one thing?”

   Harry winced at the sound of a gurgling scream split the air, but he nodded.

   “If I say run, get your ass out. We’re dealing with the worst of the worst here, Harry, and even if your simulacrum can take a Killing Curse, I’d rather not test it.”

   They made it up the last three stairs and approached the landing with both wands drawn. All the cell doors were open.

   But unlike the other cells, one was still occupied.

   “Sirius, here!”

   They rushed into the cell, to behold a emaciated, shaking old man. His skin hung over his wasted muscles, as if he had been a much bigger man years earlier, and his coughs shook his whole body.

   But Harry recognized the craggy face and shock of orange hair, now mostly grey-white. The son’s the splitting image of the father...

   Sirius was at his side in a second. “Harry, keep watch on the corridor - Claudius Kemester, can you hear me?” He shook the old man’s shoulders. “Judge?”

   The man’s eyes snapped open, pale blue and wide with terror. “They said... they said you escaped.”

   “Everyone’s escaping now, Judge,” Sirius said bitterly. “Now come on, I need to get you out of here.”

   But the old man shoved Sirius back. “I have nothing to say to Lord Volde-”

   “I’m not one of his, Kemester, and if you had given me a trial, you would have known that!” Sirius snarled angrily. “I’m here to rescue you, because we need some answers about the Potter vaults, and you’re the only one who can give them to me!”

   Claudius Kemester’s eyes snapped wide. “You... you’re telling me that... they aren’t covering it up? T-That after all these years, we’ll finally have justice?”

   “I dunno about that,” Sirius whispered. “But we need to get you out of here – can you walk?”

   The man weakly shook his head, and Sirius swore.

   “Sirius, we need to get moving before we get pinned down,” Harry said tightly, keeping his wand angled at the doorway.

   “Right... Harry, you’re going to need to carry the good Judge here – don’t look at me like that, I’m better trained to handle whatever we might run into –”

   “Okay, fine, let’s just –”

   The explosion caught them all off-guard. Harry was thrown sideways against the wall, and Sirius pulled a stunned Kemester against himself so that the man’s brittle bones wouldn’t shatter. Harry shielded his face from the expected shower of hot stone –

   But it didn’t come. Cautiously opening his eyes, he moved towards the newest hole in the wall and peered downwards, into the courtyard...

   “Sirius?”

   “What?” Sirius snapped with irritation as he tried to pull the old judge to his feet.

   Harry swallowed hard. “You’ll want to see this.”

*          *          *

   They were cornered.

   They were surrounded.

   And they knew there was no way out.

   Wands were up at all sides, as the last five Hit Wizards and Aurors stood, backs straight, against the tightening circle of slavering werewolves and gaunt Death Eater escapees. From all sides, they heard discordant howls, chill shrieks of pleasure, and incessant taunting. Rookwood and Greyback were lurking in the crowd, visible only for seconds before descending back into the mob. And above them, the Death Eaters circled like vultures.

   Moreson wiped a trickle of blood from the horizontal gash that had split his forehead in two, and raised his wand in his one good arm. He wasn’t going to cower, and he wasn’t going to surrender. Not to this slime, not to these subhuman wretches.

   “Sir?” Cara Yendyl, the single Hit Witch left in the group, spoke first, spitting blood and broken teeth with every word. “Orders?”

   “I gave you our orders when we went in, Cara,” Moreson whispered. “And they haven’t changed. I recommend for your sake you don’t get taken alive.”

   Cara blinked twice, then set her jaw and gave Moreson a nod. “I understand, sir.”

   Moreson gave a look to his other men. Burt Rocel, the beefy Auror that had killed at least thirty werewolves in their desperate charge. David Urne, a black hard-scrabble Hit Wizard maintaining the best Shield Charms that Moreson had ever seen. And there was another man, a dark-haired Hit Wizard that, to his surprise, he didn’t recognize.

   “You,” Moreson called, keeping his voice strong and clear. “What’s your name, wizard?”

   “Gartens,” the man called back, not turning, but keeping his gaze fixed upon the mob surrounding them. “Roy Gartens, sir.”

   “Tell me something about yourself, Gartens,” Moreson shouted hoarsely. “What are you fighting for?”

   “My wife,” Gartens replied, his voice shaking. “My baby girl.”

   Moreson took a deep shuddering breath against the sudden tide of emotion in his gut. “Gartens, what’s your baby girl’s name?”

   “Rachel, sir,” Gartens replied. Taking his eyes away from their attackers for a second, Morseon could see the man blinking back tears.

   He wanted to rage at the unfairness of it all. He wanted to scream and curse the monsters that killed so many of his men. He wanted to curse Fate and any gods that might exist in this cold, dank, howling world.

   But he knew he couldn’t. He was the leader – and he knew what he had to do.

   “Urne, on a five count, drop the Shield Charms.”

   Urne nodded. “Starting count, sir. Five... four...”

   “The rest of our world might not remember what we do tonight...” Moreson whispered, “but that doesn’t matter.”

   “Three... two....”

   “Because we’re doing it for what we hold dear... and for that, we’re heroes.”

   “One!”

   “ATTACK!”

   The Shield Charms dropped, and twenty-five seconds later, Rick Moreson and the last of the Azkaban Guard were dead.

*          *          *

   “Merlin,” Sirius whispered, choking back emotion in his voice as he turned away from the massacre. “Come on, we’ve got to go –”

   “Right,” Harry said, swallowing hard and pulling Claudius Kemester against him so that the old man could walk. “They’ll be coming here next.”

   They began to move as quickly as the old judge’s legs could handle, scrambling down the stairs dangerously fast as Sirius kept a white-knuckled grip on his wand, prepared to strike the second he saw movement.

   They made it down the first six flights before they heard the sound. It was shrill, mocking, sadistic...

   It was laughter.

   Sirius’ face went white. “Son of a bitch.”

   “What?” Harry asked, unable to help the panic creeping into his voice.

   “Get Kemester on your back, we’re running now,” Sirius said quickly, giving the old man a hurried boost as Harry struggled to balance the new weight as they charged down the stairs, descending faster and faster until they could see the landing. For a second, Harry felt a rush of hope – the laughter was growing louder, but it was still echoing. Maybe they wouldn’t have to see –

   They reached the landing – and they were not alone.

   A solitary woman stood in their way, blocking the stairs. Her robes were tight, revealing and threadbare – the type conjured rather than purchased. She was strikingly beautiful, even despite Azkaban’s ravages – and her heavy-hooded eyes were lit with mad triumph.

   Harry realized with a jolt that he remembered this woman – she had been in the courtroom with Barty Crouch Jr. – she had tortured Neville’s parents – and from the delighted look of her face, he guessed she had enjoyed every minute of it.

   “Harry,” Sirius said, his voice shaking slightly – which sent a fresh pang of fear down Harry’s spine, “remember when I told you to run?”

   “Yeah...”

   “This is Bellatrix Lestrange – and this is why.”

  “She’s...”

   “Oh, cousin!” the woman suddenly shrieked delightedly, raising her wand in the air. “You came back to visit – I’m sure you’ve enjoyed your time away, but it’s always nice for the family to come home –”

   “AVADA KEDAVRA!”

*          *          *

   The ropes continued to constrict around her, but Tonks would not stop thrashing, not even for a second. She wriggled viciously, trying to tear her hands free from the cords that bound them –

   “Why don’t you just sit – FUCK!”

   She had recoiled instantly, swinging her bound wrists around to slash at Wilson’s face with her fingernails. She hit him just under the eyes, but it wasn’t enough – his backhand sent her reeling on the stone. Stars flew in her vision, but she blinked as quickly as she could to clear her head, trying to roll away...

   And then he was on top of her, his knee on her back, hand seizing the scruff of her robes, his wand at her throat, glowing with the dim red of a glowing ember. “I really don’t want to make this difficult –”

   Tonks twisted beneath him and tried to kick a sensitive area, but the blow only glanced off the plating that all Aurors wore. Wilson only smirked.

   And then his wand came down.

   The pain erupted across her neck as if he had slashed it. She couldn’t even scream, the wand was digging towards her vocal cords, and tears were blinding her vision.

   And then it stopped. Wilson pulled the wand away, leaving her choking and thrashing beneath him, the ropes taking advantage of her weakness to tighten even further around her arms and sneak towards her throat...

   “That was... unpleasant,” Wilson said with a disappointed nod, “so I think I should calm you down. Imperio.”

   It was like getting hit over the head with a saucepan. The bang resonated in her ears, but there was no loss of control, no warm dreamy feelings... it didn’t work –

   And the Death Eater knew it. His eyes narrowing, he lowered his glowing wand towards her breasts, her ropes splitting open at its approach –

   Desperately, she twisted her bound hands in front of her...

   And the wand split the rope in half.

   Tonks wasted no time. Her punch connected under Wilson’s jaw, slamming his teeth together with a sickening clack. As he fell backwards, she rolled and dragged herself towards her wand, hoping to get there before Wilson recovered –

   CRUNCH.

   FUCK! OH MY GOD, FUCK!

   “Like that, Tonks?” Wilson said with a vicious smile, watching as she writhed in pain, her left hand a shattered mess from the heel of his metal-shod boot. For spite, he kicked out again, this time connecting with her side. She heard something crack, and fought back tears from the onslaught of pain – but Wilson only seemed to be taking pleasure in her agony. “This could have been a lot easier on you – you could have just let me take you, like the rest of your kind –”

   The ropes began moving faster now, rebinding her hands (causing her to scream in agony as the cords tightened around her snapped wrist) and wrapping sinuously around her throat, lashing her limbs together in a vicious hogtie. She gasped painfully, struggling to yank her arms free, but every move she made the cords around her neck tighten a little more...

  “Now,” Wilson said calmly, a mad look in his eyes igniting as his wand began to glow again and descend towards her torn robes and slowly exposing her chest, “where were we –”

   She knew she only had one shot at escaping now, and had to take it... she wasn’t going to go out like this.

   She screwed up her face, and changed.

   Her muscle mass bled away, and she felt herself shrinking, the ropes around her body loosening as she transformed –

   And that was all she needed.

   She tore her hands free, and a cry of utter agony escaped her throat as her broken wrist and hand brushed the ropes, but she shoved away the pain as she grabbed the biggest piece of broken stone she could find. Unsurprisingly, it was already bloody.

   Fighting desperately to ignore the pain erupting through her arm as she fought to transform back into her ‘adult’ form, she rammed the debris piece into Wilson’s nose.

   The blood splattered her face, and he finally fell off of her, but she wasn’t going to let him get away – no, this bastard was going to pay...

   Wilson tried to rise, but Tonks leapt on him with all the strength she could muster in her trussed legs, slamming the rock into his face again.

   This time she could hear breaking teeth.

   His wand fell from his hands as she hit him a third time – but his hands were moving towards her throat and beginning to squeeze...

   She felt her air flow being cut off, and the creeping edge of blackness around her vision, but painfully twisting the rock in her hand, she brought particularly jagged edge down...

   Right onto Wilson’s left eye socket.

   His grip broke instantly as his eye caved in with a gush of hot red blood. Tears and blood ran unchecked down his face as he howled in agony – now he was the one writhing beneath her –

   The wand!

   Tonks saw Wilson struggling for it, but she was a little quicker. Swiping it in her uninjured hand, she split the ropes still binding and constricting her with a slash, and finally struggled to her feet, Wilson thrashing madly, his face a horrifying mess.

   She had stopped caring about proper procedure for dealing with scum like Wilson now, and she didn’t even try to control her rage. No, this bastard had broken her hand and tried to rape her – she was under no obligations to show any mercy.

   “Accio wand.”

   Her own wand leapt to her fingertips. Taking Wilson’s in hand, she snapped it in half. Then, Vanishing his armor around his groin, she angled the wand pieces and muttered a Banishing Charm.

   The pieces shot through the clothing, and penetrated. Wilson’s single eye went wide with utter agony as the pieces bisected his organ –

   “YOU LIKE THAT?” Tonks screamed, her restraint gone as she fought back the pain just so she could stay standing. “YOU LIKE THAT? INCENDIO!”

   She smelt burning flesh, and Wilson’s screams went an octave higher.

   She only looked down, her eyes utterly dispassionate, her hair now jet black, her eyes completely green.

   “Silencio.”

   Turning on her heel, she walked away, almost in a daze from the pain, leaving Wilson to burn alone in the darkness.

 

*          *          *

   With a blindingly fast slash of her wand, a dozen thick boulders of debris blocked the Killing Curse even as Bellatrix gracefully sidestepped. Harry could only watch in utter amazement and growing terror – he had never seen somebody move that quickly...

   She pursed her full lips and gave Sirius a disappointed smile. “Tsk, tsk, baby cousin – you and your little girl aren’t getting away that easily –”

   Before Harry could even move, waves of white-hot pain knocked him flat on his stomach. He couldn’t breathe, his lungs were on fire, he was going to die in agony –

   “NO!”

   The pain suddenly stopped, and Bellatrix lifted the curse to deflect a flurry of furious spells from Sirius. Her eyes narrowed slightly, and before Sirius knew it, she had begun tossing curses of her own-

   He felt Kemester tugging on the back of his robes, and Harry struggled to his feet, his wand up – but a second later, he was flat on his back, trying to clear the ringing pain in his head – he hadn’t even seen Bellatrix turn to attack him, much less cast a spell!

   But Sirius was moving closer, his face twisted in a grimace as fought for every step. Sparks sprayed from his wand as he cast spell after spell, forcing her away from the door to the balcony and back towards the stairs –

   Harry didn’t waste his chance. Grabbing Kemester, he ran towards the balcony –

   “Not so fast –”

   And before he even knew it, he was hit by the Cruciatus Curse again, collapsing against the doors as the pain filled every single cell in his body like acid...

   “Harry, NO!”

   The pain stopped, and blinking back tears, Harry saw Sirius running, smashing Bellatrix’s impossibly quick shield –

   And punching her with all his might in the face.

   There was an ear-shattering scream, and Harry could only watch with dumb-founded amazement as Sirius was bodily hurled across the room by Bellatrix’s next spell, his clothes smouldering. He struggled to get up, but then he started to scream...

   Harry knew he only had an instant. Snapping up his wand and focusing every ounce of raw hatred he had towards the impossibly powerful woman who was torturing his godfather, he screamed the incantation.

   “AVADA KEDAVRA!”

   But somehow four corpses erupted out of thin air, and took the curse in full, igniting from the force of the spell, but it had been enough. Sirius was on his feet and running, tearing through Bellatrix’s hasty charms and protective enchantments with brutal slashes, forcing her back towards the top of the stairs leading down into the rest of the spire. Harry began throwing every curse he knew, but somehow, the fiendish witch kept blocking everything he threw –

   “TAKE THIS!”

   Her gaze snapped to Sirius, and her wand rose, but Sirius’ foot was already moving.

   CRACK

   And like a rag doll, Bellatrix toppled down the stairs and out of sight, driven with impossibly force by Sirius’ kick to the breastbone.

   Holy shit.

*          *          *

   “Enervate.”

   Sturgis Podmore’s eyes snapped open, and he shook his head wildly as he pushed himself to a sitting position. “Death Eater –”

   “Yeah, I already knew that,” Tonks said tightly, giving Sturgis a tap with her wand.

   “And what, exactly, were you planning on doing about it?” Sturgis demanded, his eyes wide.

   “Killing him quietly so I wouldn’t have to go through a mess like I just did,” Tonks muttered, unsteadily balancing in her crouch and wiping a smear of blood away from her mouth with her wand hand as she held out the mangled mess of her other hand. “Now shut up and start casting whatever Healing Charms you know before I pass out.”

   “Merlin, what the hell –”

   “Wilson decided to use my hand like a Muggle football,” Tonks whispered, closing her eyes against the rush of pain. “Sturgis, you know more about Healing Charms than I do – one of the main reasons you’re useless in a fight –”

   “Hey –”

   “So start casting them please!”

   “Fine, fine,” Sturgis muttered, pointing his wand at her bloody, misshapen hand. “Let’s see... pone ossa –”

   “FUCK!”

   There was a sickening crunching noise that brought bile to Tonks’ mouth, but a second later, the pain was muted as the bones in her hand set themselves and fused the broken pieces back together.

   “I wouldn’t use that hand for anything,” Sturgis said cautiously, pulling Tonks to her feet, “but at least the pain won’t kill you. Still looks terrible, but you probably don’t care too much about that.”

   “Yeah,” Tonks panted. “Now take your Portkey and get out of here. Meet at Aberforth’s, Headquarters has been cut off –”

   “What? How bad have things –”

   “Sturgis, I don’t have time to explain,” Tonks replied quickly, gingerly trying to avoid shifting in a way that would make her cracked ribs hurt her anymore. “And unless you think you’re good enough to repair cracked ribs without causing me to pass out –”

   “Tonks, if you have internal bleeding, you can’t just –”

   “Sturgis, take the Portkey and go,” Tonks snapped, her patience quickly running thin. “You’re not a fighter, and I don’t want your death on my hands. Besides, you’ve got things to answer for – namely why the hell I’m breaking you out of here in the first place!”

   “I was –”

   “Later, Sturgis, later! Go!”

   He took the Portkey, and a few seconds later, he vanished, leaving Tonks alone in the darkened cell filled with corpses. Taking an unsteady deep breath – and immediately regretting it because of the stench, she staggered out into the hallway. From the looks of things, Wilson was still burning – and from the twitching, likely still alive.

   She stared at him for a long few seconds. She understood what Moody had said about the visceral nature of combat after her first fights as an Auror. She had understood what Moody had mentioned about the horrors of war from reading page after page of old reports about the First War against Voldemort.

   But this was different. This was brutal, bloody, sickening...

   “I signed up... I signed up for this,” she whispered to herself, looking away from Wilson and slowly moving towards the stairs up, towards the courtyard and the open warzone. “And then we brought Harry in... good God, what have I done?”

   Constant vigilance, Moody always said... not just against the enemy, but against our own rage, our own fear, and our own realization of what we’ve had to do.

*          *          *

   “Well, that should hold Bellatrix for a few minutes,” Sirius said with a pant, wiping sweat from his face as he leaned against his motorcycle.

   “Are you kidding me?’ Harry asked with disbelief, picking up his broom and carefully lowering the dazed Claudius Kemester against the wall.. “You kicked her down the stairs, fired a dozen curses after her, and then collapsed the staircase – you don’t think she’s dead?”

   “Not by a long shot,” Sirius retorted, climbing onto his bike and revving the engine, “because one thing Lestranges do better than they should is survive the impossible. Runs in the Black side of the family too. Now listen, we’ve got to get out of here before the entire place is turned to rubble either by us or Voldemort –”

   “I’m not leaving without Tonks.”

   Sirius’ eyes shot wide open even as he drew his wand to parry a curse that a broom-riding Death Eater decided to cast. “Excuse me?”

   “We can’t just abandon her here!” Harry said angrily, pulling his own wand free and Stunning the Death Eater without a second word. “Stupefy! Look, she’ll be going to the Spire, I can meet her there!”

   “Harry, that’s suicidal – protego! She’s got her mission, and we’ve got ours!”

   “And we can still complete it! Look, take Kemester – vercundus! Here on the motorbike and leave,” Harry said quickly, pulling Claudius Kemester to his feet and helping him get behind Sirius as he shot a Bludgeoning Curse at another Death Eater, this time missing completely. “I’ll find Tonks and we’ll get out on our own.”

   “Harry, for God’s sake –”

   “We’re not leaving people behind!” Harry said furiously, straddling his broom. “We’ll meet at the rendezvous, take Kemester and go!”

   “Look, I know you two are fucking now, but that’s not a good reason to –”

   “Sirius, I’m not changing my mind – go!”

   And before Sirius could scream out another word, Harry shot into the sky.

*          *          *

   They emerged from the south-eastern spire just as victorious howls split the frigid air.

   Tony twirled his wand lightly around his finger. “Well, that’s not good. Have a plan?”

   “Apparating out?” Kemester said tightly.

   “If any of the enchantments on this place are still intact, you’d be a puddle of gore,” Tony replied pleasantly. “But I’m assuming your ‘friends’ here might have a plan, so what was that?”

   “How the fuck should I know?” Kemester spat. “I just...”

   His voice trailed off, as he looked towards the wall. Charging across the splintered, broken courtyard, were none other than Reed Larshall and Leon Sanders.

   “Well, that’s stupid,” Tony said with a sniff, “why aren’t they just Apparating?”

    “Because I think they might find it a tad difficult to concentrate right now,” Kemester replied in a low voice, pointing at the two Hit Wizards – and right behind them was a horde of very angry-looking werewolves and Azkaban escapees, all screaming bloody murder.

   There was a brief pause and then –

   “You know,” Tony said thoughtfully, stroking his beard, “we could take them.”

   “RUN!”

   “Or that.”

   They both broke into a run, moving to intersect Larshall’s twisting course, which seemed to be deviating towards the center of the prison...

   “Remind me again why we’re going towards the Spire?” Tony roared.

   For a split second, Kemester wondered that too – and then he saw the heavy-looking package on Larshall’s back...

   “Because we’re going to destroy it,” he whispered between breaths.

*          *          *

   The spells were nearly completed – the ritual was nearly done.

   Voldemort paused in his chant to survey his work very carefully. Since Shacklebolt’s obliteration, he had made very good progress channelling and transforming the raw magical fibre Nagini surrounded. Very slowly, but surely, he had carefully transfigured the fibre into a physical form, looking very much a distended muscle sinew, coiled on the floor, albeit glowing with a feral multicoloured light.

   “Nagini, I’ll have a treat for you once we’re done,” Voldemort said lightly, carefully resisting the urge to stroke his snake lest he disrupt the potent magical circuit running inside her. “I wonder what the pure, solidified, concentrated essence of magic would taste like –”

   “Probably like chicken.”

   Voldemort did not turn yet, and he did not allow his face to convey surprise. Not impossible, but certainly improbable – and most certainly impressive.

   “Auror Shacklebolt.”

   Shacklebolt returned the words with a flurry of curses – all of which Voldemort easily deflected as he turned to face the man.

   Shacklebolt’s Auror robes were charred rags, and most of his ‘armor’ was seared beyond repair. Voldemort guessed from the man’s slightly halting motions that he was burned terribly across most of his body, although those burns could not be seen.

   “Impressive, your survival,” Voldemort began slowly, lazily firing a few curses at the Auror that made him backpedal few steps. “You must have Apparated out on reflex – I can’t help but be impressed you didn’t badly splinch yourself in the instant. If I wasn’t going to kill you in the next minute I’d offer a job.”

   “Good luck killing me,” Shacklebolt hissed.

   Voldemort gave a short sigh – the game was now getting tiresome. “Auror, you are outclassed, you are outmatched, and you’re clearly out of options, so why are you adamant to spend your last few seconds of life wasting my time?”

   “I could think of worse things,” Shacklebolt said, giving Voldemort a toothy smile. “But that’s not the point – I’ve done what I came here to do.”

   For the first time that night, Voldemort felt a twinge of uncertainty – something wasn’t right about this. He didn’t show it though. “So you actually have a plan?”

   “Enjoy death, my Lord,” Shacklebolt said mockingly, dipping his head slightly. “I’ve heard it’ll be a new experience for you.”

   And before Voldemort could say another word, the Auror Disapparated.

   It didn’t take long before Voldemort put the pieces together. The attacks had done little to thwart his progress – indeed, they seemed like little more than suicidal delaying tactics...

   Until perhaps the Spire itself could be destroyed...

   He spun around and raised his wand, beginning to chant as quickly as he could. Calculations whirled in his mind – it would take all of his formidable skill to complete the spell in time, feeding off of what magical energy remained inside of the Spire, pushing his skills and creativity to the limit. He wasn’t going to lose all of his servants and his work because a fool of an Auror planned to destroy the game board instead of playing to the end.

   No, if that is what he deigns to do, I will simply remove my pieces.

*          *          *

   The arched double doors at the base of the Spire were already pushed open as Tonks limped towards them, out of breath and barely able to walk, let alone sprint. But she had – all the way from the walls across the courtyard, a gang of werewolves in hot pursuit.

  But this time, she wasn’t alone.

   “Get inside!” Kingsley called out, raising his wand. “Protego horribilus!”

   Tonks dove for the ground as Kingsley’s spell erupted just behind her into one of the nastiest Shield Charms that the Department ever taught their Aurors, and only the best. Tonks couldn’t help but wince at the sudden sizzling sound as the werewolves reared back in agony from the Shield Charm – or maybe it was because she landed on her ribs, she couldn’t tell, it was all blurring together –

   “Tonks, go!”

   She scrambled to her feet, ran past Kingsley and through the doors – only to see a figure zoom above her and crash headlong against the far wall.

   “Harry!”

   Harry’s female simulacrum hurriedly rose and running across the room, pulled Tonks into an embrace. “Don’t use that name,” Harry whispered quickly. “In fact, don’t call me by name at all, not with Shacklebolt around. Where’s your team –”

   “Tonks, the team’s coming up, take positions!” Kingsley shouted, magic exploding from his wand as he saw four figures running at full speed towards them – closely pursued by a veritable horde.

   Tonks quickly broke the embrace, and ran to the doors, Harry right behind her. It wasn’t a very defensible room – even with no windows, there was practically nothing in the room besides a shimmering energy column in the very center – the doors were the only defensive option...

   But Harry wasn’t taking cover behind the doors. Instead, he was standing in full view, pointing his wand out at the charging group –

   “Woman, get down!” Kingsley roared. But Harry wasn’t listening, slowly moving his wand, as if he was trying to mimic another spell

   “Protego horribilus!”

   Tonks and Kingsley both dove for cover as the spell launched like a rocket between the doors, erupting just behind the Hit Wizards, exploding outwards in a miasmic bubble of pure sizzling energy. A second later, the sizzling sound split the air – along with sudden, violent screaming.

   “Son... son of a bitch,” Tonks heard Kingsley say aloud, and despite everything she had seen and heard tonight, she felt a bit of pride. Even though we might have screwed up the simulamancy ritual that time, it was a pretty impressive screw-up.

   Harry quickly darted back behind the doors, and in the nick of time – the Hit Wizards had finally entered the Spire, out of breath and panting from the run. And taking that cue, Tonks shoved herself against her door and painfully slammed it shut with an echoing bang.

   For a long ten seconds, there was silence.

   “Lady,” Larshall finally began, wiping the sheen of sweat from his large forehead and looking at Harry with admiration. “I don’t know who the hell you are, but I want to buy you a drink and give you a job. Ever considered the Department of Magical Law Enforcement?”

   “Shut it with the recruitment, Larshall,” Kemester spat. He looked up and glared at Tonks. “So, another ‘friend’ of yours, Nymphadora?”

   Tonks’ eyes narrowed dangerously – from the knowing look on Kemester’s face, he had figured out her last deception – when she and Harry in his other simulacrum had convinced Kemester to leave in order to interrogate Cuffe weeks earlier. But before Harry could say anything, she spoke. “Best not be bringing that up right now, Kemester, we just saved your life, and we’ve got a job to do.”

   “Right,” Kingsley said tersely, accepting the backpack from Larshall and pulling free what Tonks guessed was the explosive device. “We set this, and get our Portkey out – wait a minute, there was four of you running, where’s the last guy?”

   Kemester looked around quickly, off-guard, before shrugging his shoulders. “No idea. Must have fallen –”

   BANG.

   “Colloportus!” Harry snapped, pointing his wand at the door. The squelching sound echoed as the door sealed shut, but Tonks guessed from the force of the last blow, it wouldn’t hold for long.

   “We don’t have time to waste here,” Tonks said tersely. “Larshall, set up the explosive.”

   “Right on you,” Larshall replied with a nod, taking the clockwork device and stepping towards the spire. He bent to place it on the floor –

   “I can’t let you do that, Larshall.”

   Tonks turned towards the source of his voice, and drew her wand. Leon Sanders, the Hit Wizard, had drawn his wand – and was pointing it at Larshall.

   “Excuse me?” Kemester growled.

   “The Dark Lord has not yet taken leave of this building,” Sanders continued, his voice the same expressionless monotone. “I can’t let you destroy it.”

   “He’s under the Imperius Curse,” Tonks said aloud, pointing her own wand at Sanders.

   Kemester and Larshall exchanged glances, and both drew wands. Harry began to circle, moving out of Sanders’ range of vision -

   “Leon, it’s five-to-one odds against you,” Kingsley said slowly. “What makes you think you can stop us?”

   “I don’t need to stop you,” Sanders said emotionlessly. “Just Vanish your explosive.”

   He raised his wand. “Evanes-”

   “FLAMMA LACERO!”

   The spell had been shouted from two throats, and the effect was instantaneous.

   The first lash took off Sanders’ wand hand, cauterizing the wound instantly.

   The second lash bisected him horizontally.

   With a scream, the Hit Wizard collapsed to the ground, and Larshall rushed back to the explosive, hurriedly assembling the parts even as Tonks and Kingsley rushed to Sanders.

   Harry and Kemester only lowered their wands and glared at each other.

   “Damn it you two, a Stunning Spell would have been enough!” Kingsley snarled, rolling Sanders onto his front and hastily cauterizing the end of his torso where his legs and most of his abdomen had been.

   “Wouldn’t have been nearly as cathartic,” Kemester retorted.

   Some kind of catharsis, Tonks thought furiously as she felt desperately for a pulse and to stem whatever blood was seeping through the cauterized areas. “I think he’s still alive –”

   “We can correct that,” Kemester said darkly, striding up towards Sanders.

   But Sanders was already stirring, his expression pain-wracked, but filled with shock as he looked out at everyone. “What the... where am –”

   BOOM.

   Tonks felt her feet lift the ground as she and Kingsley were thrown across the room. She tried to roll into a landing, but she landed on her ribs, and couldn’t help but moan in pain.

    Kemester turned to strike the new attacker, but a single spell sent him flying across the room. He skidded across the floor, and there was a sickening crack as he hit the wall legs first.

   “Who the –”

   But Tonks’ unfinished question was answered when the figure emerged, tossing his hood back as his Disillusionment Charm faded. Revealing a man, a man with a swarthy, twisted face...

   A face Tonks recognized from an old training file – and from one of Moody’s nightmarish stories. A man who had once been a professional Quidditch player and a duelling champion, who had turned on the Ministry with a vengeance after blackmail from the Department of Magical Sports destroyed his career and a complication with the Auror Department killed his wife. A great man broken by grief – and coerced into the Death Eaters by rage and a thirst for revenge.

   The man who had been able to kill both Prewett brothers when four other Death Eaters had failed.

   Kemester struggled to pull himself up into a standing position, but his shattered leg prevented any movement. “T-Tony?”

   “Antonin, actually,” the man said smoothly, approaching Sanders, who was shaking with pain on the ground. Without a word, a sound like a gunshot split the air, and the Hit Wizard moved no more. “Or to be more precise, it’s Antonin Dolohov, bitch.”

*          *          *

   The Disillusionment Charm he cast was instinctive, but Larshall knew that he would only have a minute before the Death Eater found him.

   And I still have a job to do.

   Hastily shoving the components of the explosive device together, he paused as he set the hourglasses – each timed for exactly one minute. He pulled off his boot and muttered “Portus” as quietly as he could, setting the timing so that they would leave only seconds before the explosive device went off.

   Then taking a deep breath, he inserted his wand into the device. This was their one chance.

   “Incito.”

*          *          *

   “Kemester, you moron, how didn’t you recognize him –” Tonks spat as she fought to stand.

   “Stay down, Nympadora Tonks – none of you, even the crazy freak with the over-powered spells can’t best me,” Dolohov sneered.

   “Having just faced your master and lived, I might dispute that claim,” Kingsley said in a very low voice, picking up his wand and standing quickly. “A proper duel, Dolohov, or has your honour left you the same way the rest of your principles did?”

   “Spend fourteen years in Azkaban without a trial, and then talk to me about honour,” Dolohov replied icily. “After what your slime did to my wife, you have no honour. At least as long as Nathan Cassane still walks free.”

   Tonks’ eyes snapped wide open at the words. “What are you –”

   Dolohov’s hex hit her – literally – like a slap in the face. “Shut up and realize this – neither side in this charade is innocent, not by a fucking long shot, and I guess the cover up worked, if you’ve got no clue what’s going on. Ah, the innocence of youth. Shame none of you are going to live long enough to get out of that.”

   “And neither will you!”

   Dolohov whirled as Larshall’s Disillusionment Charm dropped, but Larshall was already moving, hurling a boot to Kemester –

   “It’s a Portkey, go!”

   Tonks was already moving, and so was Harry. Crossing to Kemester, Kingsley right behind her, they seized the boot. Looking up, she saw Larshall raise his wand – but his Shield Charm crumpled.

   The next curse went through his chest.

   “REED! ACCIO REED, ACCIO –”

   But before Larshall could fly across the room from Kemester’s screamed spells, Tonks felt the tug beneath her navel, and the world fell away.

*          *          *

   It came without warning – the Spire lit up a brilliant white, and from every point of it, a wave of pure energy erupted.

   The Death Eaters and werewolves tried to flee from it, but the second it touched them, it turned them into black mist, which flowed high into the sky like smoke on the wind.

  For a second, the courtyard of Azkaban was empty and silent.

   Click.

   A second later, there was no courtyard of Azkaban.