Her breathing was shallow and laboured. He could hear the blood beginning to fill her lungs – the splinching had done internal damage, and even though the Healers were working fast, he knew the chances weren’t good.

   “Is she…” Kemester began, taking an unsteady breath.

   “It will be hit-and-miss for a few more hours, but she should pull through,” the nearest Healer assured him, before turning back to Rita Skeeter’s unconscious body and raising his wand.

   Kemester exhaled slowly and pulled himself to his feet. He took a few heavy steps towards the door and slipped into the sterile hallway, his mind sluggishly beginning to work.

   He had only drifted off for an hour or two in the operating room, but the sleep had been restless, and the dreams were only getting worse. He couldn’t stop thinking, trying to piece together the myriad pieces of the puzzle.

   Willard Parkinson was waiting for her in her room, and Cuffe was there as well – but a few words from Rita won’t prove it to anyone but me… but how did they get keys to Rita’s room? The only people who would have had keys would have been Skeeter and…

   He froze, and his palm banged against the wall as he staggered, the sound echoing loudly down the hall.

   The traitor in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement… he’s there, in Bonaccord Hall, and he went after Rita instead of any other delegates or Ministry officials because…

   And then the piece slowly slid into place. He had been around Rita enough in recent days to know that she had a keen eye for detail – and that she didn’t care who her articles infuriated. She would print anything…

   “They were trying to stop her,” he muttered, staggering a little further down the hall, fighting to regain his equilibrium as his head spun from lack of sleep and racing thoughts. “Trying… trying to prevent her from reporting on the conference…”

   Well, that makes your role clear enough.

   He took a ragged breath and put a hand to his forehead. Something big was going to happen – something that people needed to hear…

   “And whoever thought,” he whispered, “that this would be my job?”

   He began walking quickly, racing towards the stairs. First, he would have to search Rita’s room, find whatever notes and that damned Quick-Quotes Quill of hers. And then the conference chamber.

   And time’s running out.

***

   Voldemort raised his wand a little higher, and he let a sneer creep onto his face to mask the strange feeling rising in his gut. He attributed it to uncertainty of his enemy’s plan, and the sooner he could divine it, the sooner he could counter.

   “You’re taking a great risk, Dumbledore,” he began in a low voice as he kept his gaze fixed on the old Headmaster. “Appearing alone, in my place of power, my sanctum, with my Death Eaters at my beck and call?”

   The edges of Dumbledore’s mouth began to tip upwards into a tiny grin. “Please do, Tom – I would have no qualms delivering them to a location they would find most unpleasant.”

   “Azkaban is gone, Dumbledore.” He left out a short bark of a laugh of disdain as he sidestepped towards one of the many piles of books strewn around the room. He had to keep Dumbledore talking…

   Dumbledore’s eyes hardened, and Voldemort barely deflected the curse upwards into the ceiling. Sparks exploded from the sizzling curse dancing across the charring stonework, and he didn’t waste any time. With barely a flick of his wand, two stacks of books seemed to vanish into thin air.

   “You killed many good men with your attack that day, Tom,” Dumbledore said softly, “but did you think there would not be a reckoning, that I would not know?” Without moving his wand, a trio of curses erupted from the tip of his wand. These Voldemort deflected into the walls, but he couldn’t help feel that Dumbledore was holding something back, that he was waiting for something.

   “I managed to escape your trap – a very interesting concept, Tom, and one that I studied at length – and instead of revealing myself, I decided that England was best without me.” Dumbledore flicked his wand, but Voldemort managed to counter the curse before it even crossed the room. “So I took care of some international issues…”

   A sudden cold feeling shot down Voldemort’s back. “You went to Italy.”

   “It was easy enough,” Dumbledore replied simply, Disapparating effortlessly out of the way of Voldemort’s sudden curse, which drilled into the wall with an agonized screech of metal of stone – which gave Voldemort the second he needed to send away another pile of books. “The Italians were not happy with your manipulations there, and your emissaries are ‘sleeping with the fishes’, as it is.” The old headmaster cocked his head sideways with thought. “A shame you never did see that Muggle film...”

   A tremor struck the room, and Voldemort tensed to counter the spell, but Dumbledore didn’t even seem to react as thin rivulets of dust drifted down.

   That wasn’t a spell, he suddenly realized. Something’s coming…

   “And then I just… tidied things up, as it were,” Dumbledore said calmly, another flurry of spells erupting from his wand – but this time, Voldemort’s deflection wasn’t nearly as quick, and he winced as his stone table erupted in bluebell flames. “Paid a few debts, made a few bargains… and then I just needed you to accept my invitation to return.”

   “A return too late, Dumbledore,” Voldemort hissed, a silent incantation rendering his lungs impervious to the smoke, which he ignited into a cloud of embers with a sudden slash of his wand. “Too late for your ‘Boy-Who-Lived’.”

   Dumbledore’s eyes flashed, and the embers in the cloud abruptly died – and Voldemort didn’t waste any time.

   “Avada Kedavra!”

   But Dumbledore Disapparated again, and Voldemort could only raise a shimmering silvery shield in time to deflect the jet of fluid that seemingly erupted out of nowhere.

   Another tremor struck the room, and Voldemort gritted his teeth as a stack of books toppled to the floor. Without another word, he seized The Book of Inversion and Duplex and whirled –

    Only to barely deflect a helix of blue and green that struck his shield with the sound of shattering bones.

   “You’ve targeted Harry time and time again,” Dumbledore said grimly, “and yet he perseveres. You’ve heard the Prophecy, Tom – you know how it must end.”

   “He may have the power to defeat me,” Voldemort hissed, tucking the book into his robes, “but the spirit is something different entirely. I’ve broken many spirits before, Dumbledore – and a man’s endurance is only finite.”

   His lipless face twisted into a smile. “As are the number of his loved ones.”

***

   “Harry… Harry, come on, wake up!” Tonks hissed, shaking the simulacrum on the floor as panic filled her gut. “Harry, get back here, come on…”

   “Miss Vuneren, it’s time.”

   Tonks snapped her eyes up even as the simulacrum’s head lolled. “Son of a bitch!”

   Larshall peeked inside, and his eyes went wide as he rushed over. “Oh Merlin, what happened? Is she –”

   “She’s not moving!” Tonks said, her voice breaking slightly as she shook the simulacrum harder. “Goddamn it, Clarissa, wake up –”

   “Look, you need to get out there, Miss Vuneren,” Larshall said quickly, kneeling and putting two fingers to the simulacrum’s throat. “No pulse… you have any idea –”

   “If I knew, do you think I’d be shaking her?” Tonks lied with an angry glare, fighting to regain control. Okay, so you have to do this on your own… that’s not a problem, you know everything as well as Harry does. “Mr. Larshall, can you take her back to her room – maybe it’s a Draught of Living Death that she accidentally ingested –”

   “I’ll see what I can do,” Larshall promised hastily, taking the lifeless simulacrum in his arms and struggling to his feet. “You just get out there, hurry!”

   Tonks stood up quickly – nearly tripping in her heels – and took a deep breath. I can do this.

   She stepped through the doors, and the flashes from dozens of cameras nearly blinded her. All around her, she could hear clicks and shouted questions, but nobody approached her as she regained her senses and saw the Conference Chamber for the very first time.

   The room was enormous – she guessed that a small Quidditch pitch could fit beneath the domed roof of the building. All around the arena-like oval room were desks, haphazardly scattered to accommodate the entourages of the delegates and the press. Tonks had stepped out onto an upper balcony of sorts, with a stairwell down to a podium, opposite a massive chair draped in purple, where Nathan Cassane was rising to his feet and clapping his hands.

   The sound of applause – a sound she certainly hadn’t expected, was not only from Cassane. Around the room, dozens of hands burst into clapping, and Tonks felt a heady rush as she walked to her podium.

   It was going to happen. They were going to win.

   She touched her wand to her throat, and silently cast the Amplification Charm.

   “Ladies and gentlemen, honoured members of the International Confederation of Wizards, my name is Nymphadora Vuneren of the legal firm Desdame & Vuneren, and I’m here to present –”

  Her spell suddenly cut out. She frowned, and tapped her wand to her throat. Sonorus. “I’m here to present –”

   “A cavalcade of lies?”

   The voice made Tonks’ blood run cold, and her gaze snapped to the source, who was stepping down from England’s desk – England’s desk – and steadily proceeding towards the floor, a cruel smile on his handsome face.

   Cassane rose to his feet, his wand already in his hands as his brown eyes burned with sudden anger. “Confederation guards, Aurors! Arrest him –”

   “Belay that!”

   Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.

   Cornelius Fudge took a deep breath as the entire hall broke into angry murmurs at his outburst. “I apologize for the outburst in such august company, but I have guaranteed protection for Willard Parkinson of Parkinson & Baddock, and encourage the Confederation to hear his testimony –”

   “Your request is denied, Minister,” Cassane interrupted, his voice abruptly cold. “Under the codicil of conduct for the Confederation, Mr. Parkinson is barred from testimony and is under arrest, due to his complicit actions in the attempted attack last night -”

    “He is a suspect and charged with nothing,” Fudge countered heatedly. “No evidence has been compiled for his arrest, and thus, the codicil cannot be invoked. He is not a war criminal, and under Confederation law, he is allowed to present arguments to counter Miss Vuneren’s, particularly in this call to war.”

   That got a reaction, and Tonks felt a chill feeling in her gut as the murmurs grew louder. It was a call to war, and while Voldemort had attacked international targets in the First War, she knew it would be a hard sell.

   “Are these arguments that will be presented on behalf of the Ministry for Magic?” Cassane asked slowly, daggers in his gaze as he glared at Fudge.

  Maybe it was the long distance away from each other, but Fudge only quivered for a few seconds before returning the glare in full force. “It is a simply a second measured opinion,  provided for balance and not sponsored by the Ministry.”

   Which means Parkinson has something on you and has been running around freely, Tonks thought viciously. Just perfect, me versus Voldemort’s best lawyer, who we can’t even arrest. She barely restrained a snort at the irony. Where the hell are nutcases like Kemester when you need them?

   Cassane’s hands were clenched tight with fury, but Tonks knew that he could do nothing to stop Parkinson from taking a place at a podium perpendicular to his and Tonks’. “Very… very well, then. Miss Vuneren, you may begin.”

***

   It was a fairly innocuous sports store, filled with jerseys and sportswear, hats and shoes and footballs, but the newest arrival, wearing a tattered shirt and stained slacks, didn’t quite care about any of that at the moment. His eyes were only on the back counter, where an unshaven, potbellied man wearing a battered old cap was carefully rearranging a selection of caps on a shelf on the back wall.

   The new arrival only sighed as he approached the counter and tapped the tiny bell.

   “Shop’s closed.”

   “Not at this hour in the morning, it’s not,” the man replied quietly, his hand slipping to his pants to grasp his wand. “I’d like to see the owner.”

   The man behind the counter froze. “Shop’s –”

   “Look, do we have to play this game?” the new arrival cut in, irritation in his voice. “The shop’s empty, Sturgis – let’s talk.”

   The man behind the counter reacted this time – he bolted for the back door.

   But Remus Lupin was faster. Vaulting over the counter, he hit Sturgis soundly in the back with a silent Stunning Spell. Another wave of his wand dimmed the bright lights, locked the front door, and flipped the sign on the door to ‘Closed’.

   “And here I thought this was going to be easy,” Remus muttered, kneeling next to Sturgis. “Enervate.”

   Sturgis’ eyes fluttered open – and immediately widened with fear. “Help –”

   “Would you relax?” Remus said exasperatedly, tapping the bill of Sturgis’ faded cap with his wand. “It’s me, Sturgis, Remus.”
   “How do I know it’s you?” Sturgis retorted, his own hand creeping to his pocket.

   “Because you, Sirius, and I once exchanged drinks at the Three Broomsticks, where you talked about where you got that cap,” Remus replied wearily, lowering his wand. “You went to America – a Muggle ball game of some kind…”

   “Baseball,” Sturgis replied defensively. “It was in Boston – they were playing Detroit, and I got the hat at the game.”

   “Well, Moody always thought it looked stupid,” Remus finished tiredly, extending a hand and pulling Sturgis to his feet. “It was distinctive, it gave you away –”

   “Yet none of You-Know-Who’s people are ever going to go looking in a Muggle sports store in Manchester for the Order,” Sturgis replied with a weak smile. “Perfect place to hide. Sorry that I jumped, Remus… it’s been –”

   “Scary, I know,” Remus replied, taking a deep breath as he pushed open the door to the cluttered and chemical-smelling backroom. “Talk in here?”

   “Sure, but Remus, you don’t understand.” Sturgis hastily shut the door behind Remus and locked it with a shaky tap of his wand. “I just got out of Azkaban – escaped getting caught by the Ministry in the chaos, and I’ve been lying low since.” He pulled his hat off and shook out his straw-coloured hair. “Things are getting crazy out there.”

   “Tell me about it,” Remus said quietly, sitting down at the tiny table shoved against a wall filled with boxes. “I just escaped myself.”

   “From what?”

   Remus shook his head. “Not Azkaban, but still pretty hellish. Have you had any contact with the wizarding world at all?”

   “That’s what I’ve been trying to avoid, Remus!” Sturgis exclaimed anxiously, with a nervous glance at the door. “I’ve been hiding out here – the Death Eaters never found me before.”

   “And why fix what isn’t broke, right?’

   Sturgis nodded as he sat down opposite Remus. “Yeah. So why are you here?”

   Remus took a deep breath – this could get awkward. “I need to know why you went to Azkaban.” He took another unsteady breath. “Why you killed Laertes Rawling.”

 Sturgis went pale, and threw another frightened glance at the door. “Look, you have to understand, I was under the Imperius –”

   “You said Dumbledore ordered you to do it,” Remus said grimly, “and if that’s all it is –”

   “No, Dumbledore didn’t tell me to kill him!” Sturgis exclaimed quickly. “I’m a better Healer than fighter, Remus, you know that –”

   “Then what were you doing in the Department of Mysteries that you would get anywhere near Rawling?” Remus replied calmly, folding his hands. “You’d have to be close to kill him – and from what I heard, they found his body in the Department itself, so that must mean you got inside –”

   “I told you, I was under the Imperius, Remus –”

   “What I want to know,” Remus pursued, “is how you, of all people, got that close to him.”

   Sturgis swallowed hard. “Well… look, Laertes was the Order contact –”

   “I know,” Remus said coolly. “So why were you talking with him?”

   “He was doing research on some weird stuff I didn’t understand in the Department of Mysteries,” Sturgis said, his voice getting quieter and faster as he leaned close. “Dumbledore was interested, and he wanted the two of us to relay information back to the Order. But then one day, I was crossing the Atrium and everything went… fuzzy,” he finished lamely.

   “Imperius,” Remus guessed.

   “When everything was clear again, I was sitting in a frigid Azkaban cell.” Sturgis shivered. “You can’t even imagine –”

   “Do you know who cast the curse on you?” Remus whispered. “Did you see his face, recognize his voice?”

   Sturgis rubbed his jaw and looked sick. “Remus…”

   “Sturgis, I need this information.” He leaned closer and fixed Sturgis with a steady stare. “If we want to track down who this guy is – one more piece in this bloody puzzle – I need his name.”

   “You don’t understand, Remus,” Sturgis muttered nervously, his hands shaking. “I hear his voice at night, when I’m sleeping… I don’t know if he’s still watching me, or if the curse is lifted properly –”

   Remus fought back a sigh of frustration. He wasn’t surprised at Sturgis’ reaction – people placed under the Imperius Curse tended to have this sort of reactionary paranoia – and Remus really couldn’t blame them either. “It’s okay, Sturgis, you can trust me.”

   Sturgis swallowed hard. He pulled a scrap of paper and a Muggle pen from the edge of the desk and hastily scratched down two letters before pushing the paper to Remus.

   He studied the scribbled letters for a few seconds before frowning. “R.L…these are my initials, Sturgis.”

   “Not you,” Sturgis whispered. “He’s hiding in plain sight.”

***

   “He should be here by now.”

   His wife looked up from her mug of hot tea. Her pale cheeks were pink with the chill wind, which had somehow found a way to creep inside the tiny gardener’s shack – one of the last buildings the Malfoys owned in England.

   The goblins got most of it, Lucius thought savagely as he peered out the tiny fogged window. Nearly all of it, but they didn’t get us… they didn’t get –

   “Lucius, I’m cold.”

   His eyes snapped to his wife, and without thinking, he pulled off the fur cloak he was wearing and wrapped it snugly around her shoulders. “We won’t be waiting long, Cissy. Only until Draco gets here.”

   He left the thoughts in both their heads unspoken as he took another ragged breath and peered out the window again –

   And froze. Someone was coming.

   “Cissy –”

   She understood immediately. She carefully set down her teacup on a barrel, and drew her wand as she sidled into the shadows. Lucius’s fingers tightened on his cane as he clenched his jaw, the figure slowly coming into view.

   “Cissy, it’s Antonin.”

   “Can we trust him?”

   “If we don’t let him in, there’ll be a fight,” Lucius said grimly, pulling his wand free. “Disillusion yourself and keep quiet – if he makes a move…”

   Narcissa swallowed hard, the colour in her cheeks fading away as she nodded quickly. She tapped herself on her head, and Lucius watched as the charm took hold.

   A few seconds later, he heard the muffled rap of gloved knuckles on the door.

   Show time.

   A wave of his wand unlocked the door and shoved it open, and immediately Lucius regretted the decision as the damp freezing wind rushed inside with a shrill whistle.

   A whistle that was cut off a second later, as Antonin Dolohov offhandedly kicked shut the door behind him.

   The Death Eater rubbed his dark goatee with thought as he scanned the tiny shed. “How the mighty have fallen.”

   “If you’ve come to taunt me, Antonin,” Lucius said softly, an edge in his voice, “you can leave.”

   “Oh, Lucius, you know that’s not going to happen,” Dolohov replied, leaning against the door with a cheerful smile on his face as he effortlessly twirled his wand.

   Lucius gritted his teeth – he knew how lethal Dolohov could be. “You look… well.”

   “Really?” Dolohov’s eyes lit up as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Thanks, Lucius, that means a lot – ‘cause you look…” He tapped his chin. “What’s the right word for it… ah, yes, desperate.”

   He forced back the hot indignation and rage in his gut as he glared balefully at the smiling Death Eater. “I’m not going to dignify that with a response.”

   “Really.” Dolohov’s voice was deadpan. “Because I think if I shut up, you’re just going to keep on talking.”

   “Either tell me why you’re here,” Malfoy hissed, “or get out.”

   “Why?” Dolohov replied lightly, a note of mocking innocence in his voice as he leaned against the door. “Got somewhere to be, someone to do?”

   Lucius didn’t respond to Dolohov’s taunt – the man wasn’t deserving of it. But despite the silence, a slow grin was growing wider and wider on the other man’s face.

   “So it’s tonight,” he said softly. “Tonight, you’re going to start your little journey… and you’re only waiting for Draco – by the way, Narcissa, if you’re going to use that charm, you should really stop moving, I can see you fidgeting over there –”

   For the first time, real fear flooded up into Lucius’ stomach as Narcissa muttered the counter-charm and stepped out of the shadow next Lucius. Her shaking hand slipped into his.

   “Antonin,” she began slowly, fighting to retain control, “if you know what we’re doing, why are you here?”

   “Because – and I honestly can’t even believe I’m saying this,” Dolohov replied with a slow, disbelieving shake of his head, “but I’m going to try to talk you out of it.”

   Lucius and Narcissa exchanged glances – it could well be all a stalling tactic for other Death Eaters to swoop in. But they still needed to wait for Draco…

   Lucius took a deep breath. “Talk fast.”

   “You think the Dark Lord is insane,” Dolohov said bluntly. “You think your family has been slighted time and time again, offered as scapegoats because, let’s face it, you keep screwing up. Lucius, you didn’t kill Castellan Zabini, and while your little wizarding bank scheme managed to bilk Potter out of his gold, you exposed yourself and caused a hell of a lot of chaos to break out in the meantime. And at Hogwarts, your son behaves like a fool and enjoys a nice scrub to remove all that excess skin from his face.”

   “And your point?” Lucius growled, his wand beginning to rise.

   “Only that everything that’s happened to you,” Dolohov continued, a smirk growing on his face, “isn’t because the Dark Lord has it in for you, or because he enjoys your suffering. To tell you the truth, I don’t even think he cares about your suffering, or much about your family at all, beyond what you can do for him.”

   “Again, what’s your point?”

   Dolohov shrugged. “Simply that you’re not thinking about this rationally. That you haven’t considered all of your options. That you haven’t even attempted to re-establish your usefulness and regain the attention and favour of the Dark Lord.”

   His eyes narrowed. “But if you run… oh, he’ll know. All of that attention you wanted will fall right back on you – and make no mistake, Lucius, he will find you. He’s good at that, you know.”

***

   The presentation had been going smoothly, but in her gut, Tonks still felt a quiver of unease.

   The crowd had been very quiet staring down at her podium, only murmuring upon the mention of names or recent events, or at a particular magical image she projected with a wave of her wand. From the faces she could make out in the crowd, she could detect some interest, at least… but was it enough? Would it be enough to compel them to act, to overrule Fudge’s insane policy and force something?

   Parkinson had been silent throughout the whole presentation – she knew that his snide remarks could have derailed her speech into an argument very quickly – but she didn’t like the look in his eye. He’s got something up his sleeve, I can feel it…

   But even without Parkinson’s interference or comments, she knew she had to change her tactics. I’m not getting to them, she thought with frustration.

   “Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed members of the International Confederation of Wizards, I come before you today not just to deliver a warning,” Tonks continued, taking a deep breath, “but a call to action. A resounding warning that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has returned and is active once again. We all learned from the war fourteen years ago that he will not stop at conquest of England and our Ministry.” She glanced at Cassane. “No, he has a much wider grasp, and his appetite for power is insatiable.”

   Cassane nodded with approval, and Tonks turned to look up at the audience again. “So I plead for you to come to our aid, and stand firm with us. This will not remain a national issue for much longer. He has already destroyed Azkaban and freed the majority of his old army. It won’t be long before he’ll turn his eyes to your shores.”

  Tonks closed her eyes and took a shuddering breath that she knew the amplification charm would only render all the more theatrical. “We need to stop him now, and with the depletion of our Department of Magical Law Enforcement, we would greatly appreciate your aid. If we move quickly, we can save lives, end the insanity of the past few months.” She clenched a hand into a fist. “Bring him down before… before he kills again.”

   She exhaled slowly and glanced at Cassane. “I open to questioning from the delegates, if permitted?”

   “Permission granted,” Cassane replied softly, his eyes not leaving her. “Questions may now be directed at Nymphadora Vuneren.”

   There was an immediate commotion as the reporters lining the aisles began shouting down comments that were only barely distinguishable, but the noise immediately quieted as the American delegate, a military-looking man, rose to his feet.

   “This ‘Dark Lord’,” the American began, his even voice tempered with grave concern, “I have heard only pieces about him, most frustratingly incomplete.”

   And you can thank the bloody Ministry for that, Tonks thought bitterly to herself. They didn’t want to look bad, so they tried to cover everything up, make everything look so damn dandy that everyone else didn’t know the whole truth…

  “…but I hear the sincerity of your claims.” The delegate crossed his arms over his broad chest. “How strong is he?”

   Tonks grimaced. “The only man he ever feared was Dumbledore – and right now, nobody knows where he is.”

   There were unsettled murmurs at that, as the German delegate, a tanned man with a thick goatee, rose to his feet and stared at her through suspicious, squinty eyes.

   “I feel that there has been a very real problem with this discussion – namely the role of the goblins in all of this.” The man’s thick German accent made the words seem all the more grating as the delegate looked to glare daggers at Fudge. “I call upon the English Minister for Magic to address this issue, considering the goblin problem in the past few months started here.”

   Tonks could hardly supress a groan of exasperation. She should have expected this to come up.

   Fudge cleared his throat as he stood, his best expression of haughty disdain on his face. “The goblin problem has been dealt with, Delegate Vernz.”

   “Maybe here, but not across the rest of the world,” the German replied indignantly. “What peace treaty you brokered with them hasn’t exactly carried over, and I cannot help but detect than you know more than you’re telling about this.”

   Fudge shifted uncomfortably. “I have been very plain in outlining the deals we have made with the goblins –”

   “To whom, exactly?” the Canadian delegate, an ugly blond woman with a permanent scowl etched on her face, asked with a disgusted expression. “Certainly not to any of us, out in the ‘hinterland’, where we might not have the facilities in place to negotiate cleanly with the goblins and thus our people are dying!”

   Fudge reddened with growing anger. “I made it very clear to all of our neighbors –”

   “Certainly not to us,” the Irish delegate, a dark-haired swarthy-looking man, shouted, “and we’re your closest of neighbours! What are ye trying to pull here, Fudge, bringing back this ‘Ye-Know-Who’ shit again –”

   “Let me make this very clear,” Fudge yelled, his voice immediately cutting through the erupting din, “I did not sponsor this… this lawyer to come here and make a statement today!”

   “Then who did?” the American delegate asked sternly.

   “I did.”

   The hall immediately quieted, as Cassane rose to his feet and stepped forward, his dark robes fluttering around him as he stared out at the audience.

    “I did,” Cassane repeated, his eyes sweeping the room. “I was the one who called Ms. Vuneren in here today, because I believe her claims. I believe that she brings a horrifying truth to light that we must act upon.” He pointed out at the crowd. “Now, you may not have had evidence enough when Dumbledore came before you and delivered his speech, professing You-Know-Who was back – apparently, you didn’t want to take the word of the most powerful wizard in the world!”

   There was a rather awkward silence at that. Someone coughed – a cough that Tonks found immediately familiar.

   Oh no.

   “So he was asked politely to resign for spreading such ‘ludicrous tales’,” Cassane continued scathingly, now turning his gaze at Fudge. To Tonks’ surprise, there was no anger in his expression – only coldness. “By his own government, nonetheless. But now you have heard the tale and you have heard the evidence and you know the implications of what will happen if this monster and his band of terrorists are not stopped.” His gaze finally stopped at Tonks. “So I vouch for this woman, and I have first-hand experience to prove that her arguments are indeed true. And given the events of the past few months and my well-publicized quest to prove the truth, that is all you should need.”

   The silence was eerie as Cassane stared out at the audience, daring them to ask an accusing question or shout down a snide comment.

   But none said a word, and Tonks took a deep breath…

   “Except…”

   Tonks closed her eyes. And here I thought we almost had it. Fuck.

   Cassane rounded on Willard Parkinson in an instant. “Except what, Mr. Parkinson?”

   “Except, as an excellent lawyer, I can’t just take your truth at face value,” Parkinson replied lightly, scratching the underside of his chin. “I mean, I know your history.”

   Cassane’s face hardened, but he didn’t say a word.

   “I mean, here is a man – an incredibly gifted and wealthy wizard, who didn’t need to have a thing to do with us – who decided to take his own action against You-Know-Who during the war. Not because of any altruistic endeavours or a desire to see justice.” Parkinson’s eyes gleamed as he flashed his pearly white teeth in a large smile. “No, you see, Nathan Cassane started fighting because he was bored.”

   “And I paid the price for any frivolous stupidity,” Cassane said softly, stepping closer, his eyes burning with well-contained anger. “As I’m sure you well know, Parkinson, considering you tended to represent the murderers I caught.”

   Parkinson waved a hand airily. “Every man deserves a fair trial – I was doing my job, Supreme Mugwump Cassane, you know that. And of course, I do not disparage what you have done – although I have to ask what exactly you were doing at the darkest points of the war, when the Ministry and the people you profess to protect needed you the most.”

   “If I recall correctly, I was in a coma,” Cassane growled.

   “And then you proceeded to… what?” Parkinson raised his hands with mock helplessness. “I’m sorry, Supreme Mugwump, but you didn’t enact any preventative measures, to ensure You-Know-Who or his followers wouldn’t come back? In fact, let’s jump ahead – where were you when the Ministry was bombed, or when Gringotts was attacked?” Parkinson’s eyes gleamed. “How do we have any evidence at all that you care so much, when you weren’t even at Azkaban, fighting to save all those brave witches and wizards who died trying to protect it?”

   Tonks’ heartbeat pounded in her chest. Oh no, this isn’t happening… the delegates can’t be buying this garbage he’s shilling, they can’t believe –

   “Witches and wizards of the Wizengamot,” Parkinson continued, looking out the crowd, “you have sold a bill of goods. The Ministry does not support Mr. Cassane’s position, because it is wrong. It is not simply fear he is trying to evoke in you – it was warmongering, pure and simple. He is trying to incite you to join in a war that does not exist, a war that ended fourteen long years ago.” Parkinson shook his head sadly. “A old warhorse, long away from the battlefield, wanting to bring back the glory days.”

   Cassane trembled with fury, and Tonks almost involuntarily took a step back at the expression of pure rage on his face. “I lived those ‘glory days’, you rat bastard, do you honestly think I would want to relive –”

   “So he hires this duplicitous shill of a lawyer,” Parkinson continued, completely ignoring Cassane and talking right over him, his amplification spell booming across the room. “A woman without a shred of legal credentials or history from a partnership that cannot be traced or even proven to exist! A woman who has suspected ties to the goblins who have been stirring up rebellion around the globe, to destabilize our Ministry, on this man’s mad direction –”

   “LIAR!”

   The ragged shout was amplified so loud and so roughly that it shook a thin trail of dust from the ceiling. Delegates and reporters groaned, looking wildly around the room for the source of the shout, finally landing on a man who had shoved the doors of the chamber wide open and was shoving his way through the growing crowd as quickly as he could move.

   Cassane’s eyes widened. Parkinson’s handsome face twisted into a terrible expression.

   Tonks only put her hand to her mouth as a rush of emotions surged through her head. Shock, horror, confusion, even elation… she couldn’t believe it. She just couldn’t believe it.

   Her thoughts finally crystallized into something she could understand, and she shook her head. Harry’s never going to believe this.

   “Stop that man!” Fudge roared.

   “Who is he?” the American delegate bellowed. “I want his name, I’ve seen him before –”

   The man stopped in mid-walk, his craggy scarred face illuminated in the harsh white light of the chamber, his eyes alight with conviction. That wasn’t new – conviction was not an unfamiliar emotion to the man, Tonks guessed – but for the first time, she felt a thrill in her gut.

   Guess we managed to convince somebody after all. I just can’t believe it’s him.

   “My name,” the man said, his ragged voice echoing in the hall, “is Dmitri Kemester, son of former Wizengamot judge Claudius Kemester, ranking Hit Wizard.”

   His eyes focused on Parkinson, and narrowed with absolute hatred. “And for the crimes of obstruction of justice, multiple accounts of theft and violation of legal and financial procedure, the attempted murders of Rita Skeeter and Cornelius Fudge, and high treason against the Wizengamot and Ministry for Magic, YOU ARE UNDER ARREST!”

***

   Lucius gritted his teeth. “The Dark Lord is occupied with other –”

   His voice was cut off by Dolohov’s raucous laugh. “Are you serious? Do you think that he won’t bother to pursue you because he’s distracted?”

   “You said he doesn’t care about us,” Narcissa said suddenly, attempting to draw herself up and maintain a vestige of dignity. “Why would he care if we leave?”

   Dolohov stopped laughing, and eyed her incredulously. “Really, Narcissa, you’re smarter than this. You and your blissfully ignorant moron of a husband serve him – until he takes over, there isn’t exactly a retirement date.”

   “He would lose nothing by our departure –”

   “Wrong.” Dolohov leaned against the door. “And frankly, you should be smart enough to see why, Cissy. And on that note, have you informed your sister about this?” He cocked an eyebrow. “Knowing her, she might consider your decision a tad unwise.”

   He glanced towards the window. “Lucius, I don’t recognize the colours your protective enchantments are giving off, but I suspect somebody might be coming closer to your little ruin in the countryside here.”

   “Draco,” Lucius whispered, his eyes lighting up as he moved towards the door – the door Dolohov was blocking. “Out of my way, Antonin, there isn’t much time.”

   “And you still haven’t listened to me,” Dolohov said coolly, crossing his arms over his chest and not moving an inch from his position. “Why is that?”

   “Oh, for the love of –”

   Dolohov raised a warning finger as Lucius’ wand rose. “Lucius, I’m warning you –”

   But Lucius wasn’t listening – he didn’t want to listen, he didn’t need to listen to him. He doesn’t know, he thought bitterly as he shoved past Dolohov – who didn’t bother to stop him – and pushed the door open, stepping out into the snow.

   Draco was coming in too fast, and he dropped into a sharp dive as he streaked towards the cottage, barely holding onto the slick wet wood of his Nimbus. Lucius could see his son gritting his teeth, trying to stop –

   “Immobulus.”

   Draco abruptly froze in mid-air, his broom streaking out from beneath his hands and burying itself to a stop in the snow. Twigs scattered from the broom’s impact as Draco collapsed unceremoniously in the snow, hurriedly pulling his cloak around him.

   “You’re welcome,” Dolohov muttered to himself.

   Lucius ignored the other man as he grabbed his son by the shoulders, forcing himself to stare at Draco’s scarred face. Despite himself, he felt his gut burn with disgust and growing rage at the indignity of it all. How dare Potter do this to us – how dare he –

   “Were you followed?” he said in a low voice.

   Draco nodded quickly, wiping snow from his hair. “Blaise Zabini was behind me. He fell back pretty quickly, he’s only flying a Comet, but he knows where I’m going, he knows I’m coming here –”

   “We’ll be long gone,” Lucius said curtly, turning back towards the shack. “Narcissa, time to go.”

   Draco looked past his father to see Narcissa emerging from the shack, pulling her furred cloak tighter around her – and then he saw the shadowy figure right behind her.

   “Father, why is Dolohov –”

   “He’s irrelevant right now,” Lucius muttered. “Come on, we have a Portkey to catch –”

   “I don’t suppose,” Dolohov called out loudly, lazily stepping out of the shack, “that you’d be any more amenable to my pleas for you to stay behind.”

   Lucius could see the muscles tightening in Draco’s jaw and for the first time, noticed a large camera slung around his son’s neck. What on earth –

   “I’d leave right now even if my father was against it,” Draco said, his voice deadly quiet as his hand slipped to his wand. “What I saw… what the Dark Lord made us do –”

   Dolohov’s eyes narrowed, and his wand rose again. Lucius’ hand plunged for his own wand –

   “Accio camera!”

   The flimsy strap around Draco’s neck broke, and before he could grab it, the camera soared through the air – and Dolohov caught it easily, the flash breaking off in his hand.

   “On here?”

   Draco’s eyes widened with panic. “Mr. Dolohov –”

   But Dolohov wasn’t listening. He only looked at Lucius with an exasperated expression. “Who would have thought your son would have had such humble dreams –”

   “Mr. Dolohov, the camera, please,” Draco whispered, and Lucius could hear the tremor in his son’s voice. “I need –”

   “I think I’ll just hold onto it for now,” Dolohov said, a cruel smile growing on his face. “Consider it the duty for crossing the border.”

   “Draco, is that –”

   “Yes, Father.” Draco took a ragged breath. “That’s it.”

   And that means Draco’s mission at Hogwarts is complete, Lucius thought with a sudden chill racing down his spine. And that means…

   “You say that’s a duty?” he asked aloud.

   Dolohov’s eyes narrowed. “A bargain, Lucius?”

   “You take the camera and let us pass unscathed,” Lucius said quickly. “You don’t tell the Dark Lord where we’re going, or even how we left. In return…” He clenched his fist against the surprising bile in his mouth. “In return, you can have that.”

   “Father –”

   “Silence, Draco,” Lucius snapped. “Do we have a deal, Dolohov?”

   Dolohov studied the camera for a long few seconds, periodically glancing at Draco with a thoughtful expression. Lucius held his breath…

   “Interesting pictures on here?”

   A muscle was twitching in Draco’s cheek. “Not pleasant ones.”

   Dolohov raised an eyebrow. “Ah.” He glanced down at the camera and then carefully tucked it into a pocket that looked far too small to contain it. “Fine by me.”

   “What are you going to do with–”

  Dolohov smirked. “What do you think?”

***

   The laboratory was in ruins and the tremors had begun to intensify, but neither of them had given quarter – and it wasn’t expected.

   “My Death Eaters are coming, Dumbledore,” Voldemort whispered, glancing again at the thick rivulets of dust falling from the ceiling. “Any moment now, you will be outnumbered twenty-to-one.”

   But Dumbledore only gave a small, infuriating smile. “Let them come, Tom – I think I am adequately prepared.”

   The old man’s wand began darting, and Voldemort’s hasty shield charm rung as a hailstorm of pinkish curses struck it, filling the room with even more acrid smoke as the spells sizzled away into the walls.

   “Avada Ked-”

   But Dumbledore had already vanished in a flash of phoenix fire, somehow appearing in three different locations around the laboratory, each now raising a wand to attack.

   Voldemort snarled, and his wand spat lightning, easily scything through the illusions and ricocheting off Dumbledore’s lazy Shield Charm. “Are you some common Muggle magician, Dumbledore? Stooping to paltry illusions that any street urchin could see through?”

   “I like Muggle magic,” Dumbledore replied simply, raising his wand again and giving it an experimental whirl. Voldemort immediately threw up a Shield Charm, but nothing but a stiff gust of wind struck it. But somehow, the wind caused Dumbledore’s cloak to billow even more, and Voldemort was reminded strongly of old images of a wizened Merlin ages ago.

   “However,” Dumbledore continued, his voice ringing over the wind, “I think I enjoy something else a tad more athletic than mere sleight-of-hand? Have you ever read my Chocolate Frog card, Tom?”

   What the bloody hell does that have to…

   “See, if you had bothered to sample a bit of good chocolate, you might have remembered that I have a fondness for chamber music – incidentally, I am sorry to have destroyed your phonograph, I did see some classic Wagner there, which is disappointingly cliché –”

   Voldemort wasted no time, and Dumbledore’s voice was cut off by the roar of flames fighting against the wind, but a second later they dissipated, expertly countered – and Dumbledore’s smile hadn’t wavered.

   “But I also have a great fondness for ten-pin bowling, and even in Italy, I managed to find a bit of time to dart away for a game or two, and…”

   Voldemort’s eyes widened, for now he could see the inside of Dumbledore’s rippling cloak – except where was supposed to be fabric, there was empty space. Empty, black space, filled with dozens of floating orbs, clattering against each other, each with three holes burning from inside with a pale white light…

   “I’d say,” Dumbledore finished mildly, “I have enough for a strike or two. Or perhaps a hundred.”

   He pointed his wand at Voldemort, and the floating bowling balls began to fly.

***

   The pandemonium had gotten worse in Bonaccord Hall.

   Everyone, regardless of function, was on their feet screaming at an ear-splitting volume, the aisles were filling with people charging for the floor, Confederation guards were flooding into the crowd, and Tonks could already hear the tell-tale bangs of spells –

   “SEIZE HER!”

   Okay, time to go.

   She quickly transfigured her heels into reasonable boots and she looked around wildly for a way out – but there weren’t any. The path behind her was filled with people, and even as she could see the Aurors and Hit Wizards fighting from all sides to keep the bedlam from getting worse, she knew she wasn’t getting out that way. And with Anti-Apparition charms and Anti-Portkey enchantments coating this hall like candy, I’m boxed in!

   She looked to the chair where Cassane was supposed to be sitting – in command – and her jaw dropped. No way.

   Cassane was gone.

   She fought to control herself, control her form as she looked wildly around for something, anything that would help her escape, get out of here with her cover intact –

    But grey-robed Confederation guards were already descending on brooms from the rafters –

   Aha! “Accio broom!”

   But the spell was easily deflected, and she swore as she dove away from the podium, where a torrent of Stunning Spells struck like a wave breaking on a rock –

    “NO!”

   Her eyes leapt to the raw scream as the burly shadow that could only be Dmitri Kemester leapt out of the crowd, his boots glowing red with a Propulsion Charm to catapult him off the steps and through the air –

   To tackle a descending Confederation guard from behind, tearing the man’s hands from the broom and dragging him off by brute force, following the arc of his leap as the two plummeted towards the ground –

   Tonks wasted no time now. “ACCIO BROOM!”

   It whistled to her hands, and she was airborne a second later, swerving out of the way of a volley of spells as she streaked towards a heap of broken tables, where Kemester was dizzily staggering up –

   I can’t believe I’m doing this. “Accio Kemester!”

   Without warning, and barely able to keep a grip on his wand, Kemester vaulted into the air a second time, and Tonks slowed just long enough for him to drop onto the scant remaining inches of the broom –

   “GO!”

   She didn’t need to be told twice. The double doors that had once been high above her were blown open by a single explosive curse, and then they were flying through, Tonks raising her wand to the massive glass windows that lined the hall –

   There was a sound like a million exploding wind chimes, and they were through, streaking up into the chill February air and crisp sunlight, Kemester struggling to keep a grip on her as they shot into a steep climb to get as much altitude as they could –

   “The boundaries, Tonks –”

   But it was as if their exodus from the building had been the signal, and Tonks could only give a tight smile as the hemisphere of magic surrounding the Hall and its grounds began to crack, as if a godly hammer was tapping on an egg with a dozen nested shells of many colours, giving them just enough of a chance to flit through the hole – a hole that would be too small –

   Come ON, Sirius!

   Kemester roared, there was a flash of hot white light, and Tonks nearly lost her precarious grip on the overweight broom – but they were through.

   They were free.

   She dropped her disguise as she righted the broom, and immediately her head felt lighter without the weight of blonde curls. Short and pink, just the way I like it.

   “So I guess I wasn’t wrong,” Kemester shouted against the cold howling wind as they soared higher, moving towards the skyscrapers of London.

   “Guess you weren’t,” Tonks yelled, taking a firmer grip on her broom. “Disillusion us, will you?”

    Kemester obliged, and Tonks gritted her teeth as she soared between the glass buildings, pointing her broom north. Need to regroup, get some focus, get some answers…

   “We need to get back to the Ministry –”

   “Are you nuts?” Tonks screamed, glancing back at the ugly Hit Wizard holding on behind her. “They’ll try to kill us, you moron, especially considering Azkaban doesn’t seem to work on you!”

   “The traitor’s there –”

   Tonks slowed a bit, to better hear him against the wind. “You know who it is?”

   “I have ideas –”

   “Not enough. We need a name or something.” Tonks thought about Lupin, and fervently wished that he was having a better day than she was. “Besides, my contact’s closing in –”

   “Not good enough, you’re going to need serious firepower to take this guy down,” Kemester shouted, shaking his head emphatically as they curved around one of the skyscrapers. “Maybe your little curse-breaker who got us out can help –”

   “Not an option,” Tonks interrupted. “He’s too hard to handle.” And even if I might trust you, Kemester, doesn’t mean I trust you enough not to murder Sirius the second you see him. “I’ll set you down and contact you later. In the meantime, you need to keep Skeeter alive – she’s the only concrete evidence we have that Cuffe and Parkinson are scum that we can arrest.”

   She pulled the broom into a steep climb again and flew towards the roof of a tower she thought might have been called Centre Point.

   A few seconds later, she slowed to a stop on the snow-covered roof.

   Kemester quickly leapt off the broom and gave Tonks a firm nod. “Thanks for getting me out of there.”

   “And thanks for starting the pandemonium that nearly got us killed,” Tonks replied, shaking her head. “And by the way, nice little wrestling move there, tackling that Confederation guard.”

   “Thanks –”

   “Didn’t stop it from being completely fucking ridiculous.”

   Kemester shook his head with scorn. “No respect for talent when you see it.”

***

   His wand was only inches from his outstretched fingers, blown from his hand by a casual hex and now awkwardly sticking out of the snow like a broken twig – and yet even as Blaise Zabini looked up at Antonin Dolohov’s wand pointing at his face, he knew he wouldn’t have a chance.

His wand might as well have been left at Hogwarts.

   “You see, that,” Dolohov began, his voice filled with annoyance, “was really, really stupid. I knew your mother, she really didn’t raise you like that –”

   “You blew my broom out of the sky,” Blaise hissed, sliding back away from his and slowly beginning to pull himself into a more dignified position.

   Dolohov rolled his eyes. “Speaking as a former professional Quidditch player, I was doing you a favour.”

   “Where’s Malfoy?”

   Dolohov smirked. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he replied, pulling a very familiar camera with a broken strap from a pocket. “Though I suspect this is what you really want.”

   Blaise breathed a little easier when he saw the camera intact, but he couldn’t help the sinking feeling. I’m never going to get it from this lunatic, unless…

   “That camera needs to be taken to Barnabus Cuffe,” he said, keeping his voice stiff and brittle as he pulled himself into a sitting position. “The Dark Lord requires –”

   Dolohov sighed. “Of course he does. Tell me something, Zabini: why are you doing this?”

   Blaise felt blood rush to his face. “I don’t see –”

    “You see, your mother had the right of it, I think,” Dolohov continued thoughtfully, stroking his goatee. “She’d spend her days as a socialite husband hunting and then do this sort of business in her spare time. So what about you, then?” Dolohov leaned against the shed, keeping his wand still firmly pointed at Zabini, who was slowly getting to his feet. “Why aren’t you spending your days casually fucking your way through Slytherin and Ravenclaw – ‘cause frankly, speaking as someone who has spent some time in Azkaban, you want to ensure you’re spending your time well before you get there.”

   Blaise was fully standing now, and he gave Dolohov an acrid glare which the Death Eater completely ignored.

   “Come to think of it,” Dolohov continued, “considering the mountain of gold your mother left you – and I’ve met some of her ex-husbands, it will be a mountain, considering your stepfather’s likely locked out of it – you could probably spend the rest of your days living like royalty.” Dolohov gave Blaise a meaningful look. “You know, wasting time, wasting money, and fucking everything that moves.”

   Blaise’s eyes narrowed. “Well, that’s tends to get boring after a while, and you don’t get remembered for that kind of life. I am capable of so much more.”

   Dolohov sighed heavily and put a hand to his forehead. “Kid, if a certain old friend of mine wasn’t one to kill me on sight, I’d introduce you to him.” He met Blaise’s eyes and despite his chill demeanour, Blaise could feel something in his gut shrivel back. “And then you’d understand.”

   He pulled back his wand and tucked the camera into his cloak with a grimace. “Get your wand.”

   Blaise was already moving, snatching up the wand before Dolohov finished his sentence. “The camera?”

   Dolohov snorted. “Yeah, I don’t think so. I’m not stupid. But apparently you are, and considering the burning that’s racing down my arm, the Dark Lord has need of his Death Eaters right about now.” He met Blaise’s eyes again. “One last chance, Zabini.”

   Blaise was silent – he’d made his choice. He wasn’t quite sure when he had become certain that this path was right – maybe it was before Potter had killed his mother, maybe it was when Malfoy had tasted acid at Potter’s hands – but he knew he had a destiny. He knew that his life at Hogwarts was over, and there was something far bigger on the horizon.

   Dolohov held the glance for a long time before shrugging with resignation. “Nobody listens to the Death Eater. Okay, fine. Welcome to the real world, Blaise Zabini.” He extended a gloved hand. “Grab my arm – if you don’t die in the next ten minutes, maybe you’ll learn something.”

***

   There were a hundred and twenty bowling balls – and they all had a different enchantment.

   Some were simple, exploding in clouds of fire or acid or bone-numbing frost when they hit his shields. Some bounced off his shields only to come whistling through the air for a second attack like a bloated Bludger. Some simply scythed through his protective charms like damp fog, and had to be incinerated with a pinpoint strike.

  But Dumbledore had been more creative. One had multiplied everytime it touched a spell, forcing Voldemort to smash it apart with the remains of his stone table. One had created energy trails in its wake that remained hovering in the air even after it was destroyed, scorching away a piece of his cloak when he had brushed against it by accident. One had screamed like a dying manticore and sprayed a trail of rainbows behind it, and everything that had approached it had just faded away with no effect. It had nearly shredded all of Voldemort’s protective enchantments before he had simply ripped a hole in space like he had with Shacklebolt and sent the damned orb twenty minutes into the past.

   And one ball simply was impenetrable to anything. Every spell, every shield, every obstacle that Voldemort could conjure wouldn’t stop the silvery-pink ball from smashing through it unscathed. Even a magical field designed to thicken air to a solid wall that could slow the orb couldn’t stop it. Even the hole in space only held it back for twenty minutes before it ripped through the wall, showering them all in debris as it attacked again.

   It was the last orb that remained, and Voldemort wiped a thin cut from his forehead as he raised his wand. If this doesn’t work –

   It streaked towards him. Voldemort didn’t speak, only raising his wand.

   The orb froze in mid-air, and the silvery-pink veneer began to crack and splinter, as if internal forces were crushing it down.

   Voldemort bared his teeth. “Now.”

   The orb imploded in a flash of white light and smoke, and Voldemort let a hard smile reach his face.

   He looked at Dumbledore, triumphant, and indeed, the old Headmaster was applauding, clear admiration on his face.

   “Bravo, Tom.”

   “Avada Kedavra!”

   Dumbledore quickly Disapparated out the way, but his smile hadn’t wavered. “That was truly inspired, Tom, I honestly had not even considered that method. And such a wealth of spells you utilized – magnificent.”

   But then Dumbledore’s smile hardened, and his eyes flashed with fury. “Such a shame, Tom, that you wasted your vast potential.”

   “Do not mock me, Dumbledore,” Voldemort hissed. “I have defeated your arsenal, and despite the fact that you continued to attack me even as you loosed your swarm, I remain here, hardly scathed.”

   “And yet none of your Death Eaters have arrived,” Dumbledore replied calmly. “Would you like to know why?”

   Voldemort felt a twinge, for the old fool was right – where were they?

   Another tremor struck the room, and Dumbledore didn’t waste time. But Voldemort easily countered the spray of curses – after defeating Dumbledore’s enchanted arsenal, he was duelling at his peak. Not since Dumbledore faced Grindelwald himself has there been such a duel – and I will be the one to recount it.

   “You see, Tom,” Dumbledore began slowly, “while I did make sure you were harried by my enchanted sporting goods, I was also making sure the battle above was going well.”

   Voldemort chose to respond to that comment with a flurry of hexes, but Dumbledore quickly deflected them.

   “Of course, that wasn’t all I was doing.” Dumbledore gave a quick twirl of his wand, but no spell emerged from its tip.

   Voldemort paused as a strange, chemical smell suddenly filled his nose.

   Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “I was also filling this room with a Muggle compound called octane. Fawkes, if you will –”

   And suddenly the phoenix soared in and landed on Dumbledore’s shoulder, and Voldemort suddenly remembered a tome he had scanned cursorily decades ago regarding Muggle chemistry…

   There was a flash of phoenix fire, and Voldemort instantly Disapparated, reappearing in the sky a hundred feet above the ground.

   The sound of the explosion was deafening.

   Voldemort quickly darted away from the fireball that blossomed beneath him, tearing through Nott Manor like superheating an overripe tomato, but as he surveyed the battlefield, he knew that the explosion was hardly the worst of his problems.

   The grounds of Nott Manor had become a war zone. Voldemort’s eyes widened as he saw giants – giants – roaring and stomping, their clubs sweeping through the Venomous Tentaculas and Acromantula that hadn’t already been cooked by the explosion. He saw his Death Eaters harried, driven back as they fought figures in silvery robes spraying spells that even he did not recognize.

  Without another word, he Disapparated, reappearing on the ground and raising his wand. In the tight confines of the laboratory, he hadn’t used his most devastating spells, but on the open grounds…

   Voldemort raised his wand towards the line of charging giants, and his eyes flashed. So you rejected my envoys in favour of Dumbledore? I ignored this group for too long… but I can fix that.

   “Arcus exitium!”

   It was like a giant personification of Death’s scythe had erupted from his wand. Exploding outwards with the force of an earthquake, the wave of pale white unlife hit the giants – and shredded through them. The blood flowed in torrents across the grass as the stupid behemoths groaned as one and collapsed, trying desperately to rejoin their sundered organs.

   He could hear Bellatrix’s mad cackle as she saw her lord. Her face was painted with blood, but Voldemort knew it wasn’t her own. “Our Lord is here!” she shrieked, her eyes wild as a single slash of her wand sent silvery figures tumbling. “Drive them back, kill them all! Kill them –”

   Her words were drowned out by a new sound. A sound that shook the courtyard, as the silvery figures fell back against the revitalized Death Eaters, who were fighting harder than ever.

   A sound Voldemort recognized instantly. He couldn’t help his eyes widening.

   He didn’t.

   The sound – the roar – split the air again, the bestial intensity belying the fact it did not come from a human throat. And it was coming from the sky.

   “You see, Tom,” Dumbledore’s voice split the air, and suddenly Voldemort could see the old man standing across the courtyard, next to his phoenix. He wasn’t alone either – Voldemort instantly recognized the scarred angry face of Kingsley Shacklebolt sitting behind him. “Nicholas and I were always fascinated by them, and even when we found twelve uses for their blood, I always speculated we were only scratching the surface…”

   It came from the sky. It was massive, probably enhanced by magic. Black scales, bronze horns, a prominent black ridge lining its back – and atop that ridge was something that seemed like a cross between a chariot and a saddle. Lashed between the massive wings, it allowed a rider to stand and brandish a weapon.

   And the rider was brandishing a weapon unlike anything Voldemort had ever seen. It looked vaguely like a Muggle weapon, with a rotating barrel spewing hot light and fire, but it was massive, sized for the rider that was far bigger than any ordinary man.

   A rider with a thick black beard, and a heavy brown overcoat, and a crossbow and battered pink umbrella tied to his back.

   Voldemort knew that rider, and took a deep breath – the battle had just gotten very interesting.

   “I’M BACK, YEH BASTARD!” Rubeus Hagrid roared, angling his massive weapon down as the Norwegian Ridgeback beneath him howled. “THIS IS NORBERTA, AND THIS IS FOR GETTING’ ME EXPELLED!”

***

   Sirius’ eyes snapped to the door of the room the second he heard the knock, and his wand was up even faster.

   “Who is it –”

   “Let me in, Sirius!”

   He flicked his wand, the lock clicked, and Tonks hurried in, kicking the door shut behind her as she tossed her broom aside and peeled her gloves off. “Any sign of –”

   “I cast my spells from the office tower on the other side of Bonaccord Hall, we’re good here,” Sirius replied heavily, eyeing Tonks’ hair with some surprise – it seemed to be cycling through a different colour every second. “What the hell happened –”

   “Way too much,” Tonks panted, stepping past Sirius to take a glance out the window. From the looks of things, nobody was leaving Bonaccord Hall quite yet. “Skeeter got attacked by Parkinson and Cuffe, splinched herself badly trying to flee –”

   “Yeah, I saw the guards taking her out on a stretcher –”

   “ – Then Peeves shows up and implicates that Harry’s body might have been possessed back at Hogwarts, and then Harry tries to check –”

   “Wait a second, I thought Bonaccord Hall was enchanted to block spiritual attacks!” Sirius interrupted, his eyes widening. “How the hell did that damn poltergeist get –”

   “I don’t know what set of rules Peeves is playing with, Sirius, but it sure as hell isn’t one I’m familiar with!” Tonks raked a head through her hair as she began to pace. “And then Parkinson showed up in the middle of the speech and tried to destroy our case, and then Kemester tried to arrest Parkinson…” She took a deep breath. “Yeah.”

   “Where’s Harry’s simulacrum?” Sirius tried to keep from sounding anxious, but he could feel his heart beating faster.

   “I gave it to Kemester’s partner, Larshall,” Tonks replied quickly. “He probably took it to St. Mungo’s – I mean, did you see him leave with it?”

   “There was a fair amount of Hit Wizard traffic around the boundaries,” Sirius replied helplessly. “Probably searching for Cuffe and Parkinson –”

   The banging on the door caught them both off-guard, but Sirius recovered first, snapping his wand at the door.

   “Who is it?”

   “It’s Moony, Padfoot –”

   Tonks exchanged a glance with Sirius before flicking her wand, letting Remus rush into the room. He looked exhausted, as if he had run up the five flights of stairs to the room instead of Apparating to the door.

   “Wasn’t sure what room you were staying at, so I had to search each floor,” Remus said, holding his side. “And then I saw out the window – what the hell happened at the Inter –”

   “Everything went to hell, let’s go with that,” Tonks interrupted. “Did you talk to Sturgis?”

   Remus nodded. “Yeah.” He reached into his battered coat and pulled a tiny scrap of paper from an inside pocket. “And this is what he gave me about the traitor. Wouldn’t give me a name – he was still pretty spooked from being under the Imperius.”

   Sirius leaned over and scanned the two letters. “R.L.,” he muttered aloud. “Moony, these are your initials –”

   But the blood had fled from Tonks’ face.

   “Oh… oh fuck.”

   “You know –”

   “Of course I know!” Tonks said furiously, slapping her hand against her forehead. “Stupid, stupid, stupid, it’s the only thing that makes sense –”

   “What?” Sirius asked urgently, but Tonks was already moving, her hair finally stabilized on a puke-shade of green. “Do you know –”

   “Sirius, you need to get to Cassane Manor and fast,” Tonks interrupted, yanking her gloves back on. “He vanished from Bonaccord when things went to hell, and right now, we need all the help we can get.” She paused, and then her eyes went wide with fear. “It’s coming together… oh shit, we’re not going to have time! Remus, you’re with me – we need to get to St. Mungo’s before we lose everything –”

   “Tonks, talk to us!” Sirius exclaimed, Summoning his cloak to his hands. “What do you know? What the hell is going on?”

   “It’s from the very beginning,” Tonks muttered to herself, shaking her head. “From the very fucking beginning, why didn’t I see it –”

   “Tonks –”

   “Sirius, the traitor’s been in front of our eyes all along!” She swore again under her breath. “Ever since the beginning – since that explosion at Ollivanders that he chased us right into – fuck, probably even before that! And we didn’t even suspect him, because he had just the perfect scapegoat the entire time –”

   Sirius’ eyes widened with sudden realization. Tonks was right – the bastard had been hiding in plain sight. “Oh. Oh shit.”

***

   He wanted to be surprised that it was raining, but somehow, in the pit of his gut, he knew he couldn’t be.

   The snow dissolved into slush as he locked the gate and trudged up the cobblestones to the manor, his eyes shadowed as he passed between the trees, their barren branches stretching and clawing at the path like so many wretched hands.

   Brings back the memories I never cared for, he thought darkly, thinking back to the anarchy that had exploded within the conference chamber. At least Tonks and Kemester got away, and Fudge will have much to answer for before he can come looking for me… which gives me a little more time…

   He wound around the last bend and saw the vine-shrouded manor – even with the chill wind, icy rain, and thick snow, the vines never seemed to lose their colour or wither away –

   He paused. Something was up. The heavy wooden doors were ajar, and there was a light in one of the windows – from the looks of things, someone had lit a fire in the small fireplace in the drawing room.

  His wand leapt to his hand as he hurried towards the doors, his mind racing. Had Fudge sent somebody already, or was it someone far worse?

   He slipped into the darkened foyer – none of the candles of the chandelier were lit – and he silently slid the heavy door shut behind him. He padded soundlessly down the hall, towards the drawing room, raising his wand…

   “Hello, Cassane.”

   Harry Potter’s toneless voice was quiet, but somehow it sent a shiver down his spine as he stepped into the darkened drawing room. As he had expected, a tiny, sputtering fire had been lit in the grate, casting flickering light throughout the room. None of the brass instruments were floating in the air – all of them were lifeless and strewn across the table, casting weird shadows across the walls.

   And Harry was sitting on the edge of the table, staring up at the massive parchment map on the wall. His eyes were shadowed, and he looked as though he was ready to fall over from sheer exhaustion, but was somehow sitting upright. His robes were torn and filthy, stained with mud and blood.

   Cassane shut the door behind him. “Harry, what are you doing here?”

   Harry took a deep, shuddering breath, but continued to stare at the map. “I…I didn’t know where else to go.”

   “You weren’t at Bonaccord Hall.”

   Harry blinked, but didn’t turn to meet his eyes. Cassane felt a sudden rush of fear in his stomach. None of this behaviour was like the Harry he knew… what had happened to him –

   “Voldemort fooled us both, Nathan,” Harry whispered, blinking quickly to stop the emotion. “Fooled us both… I should have seen it coming, after I saw those memories you gave me. I should have expected it. I should have known he would have sunk… would have done…”

   His voice broke, and Cassane immediately moved to his side, pulling the young man close as shaking sobs broke through his veneer of composure.

   “Nathan, I should have known… I should have done something… I –”

   “Control,” Nathan said quietly, the onslaught of memories rushing through him. He remembered saying those choked words as Lily and James had found him in the wreckage all those years ago, kneeling next to his daughter’s body. He remembered Lily’s green eyes, so much like her son’s, filling with tears as she had held him close. And he remembered the words that she had said all those years ago, and he repeated them aloud.

   “I know better than to promise things are going to be okay, but you… you need to tell me what happened. As much as it will hurt, you need to tell me everything.”

***

   The second the Norwegian Ridgeback had landed, the fight had turned into a rout.

   Voldemort immediately launched a flurry of Killing Curses at the roaring dragon, but Dumbledore was even faster, ripping huge broken boulders from the foundation of Nott Manor into the air to absorb the curses. The other Death Eaters joined in the attack, but the silver-cloaked Italian mercenaries Dumbledore had hired were just as skilful, conjuring the vastly complex shields their country was well-known for.

   And then Norberta breathed.

   It was like a liquid inferno had erupted from the dragon’s mouth. Hagrid’s roar was only barely audible above the explosively concussive force of the torrent of fire. Any remaining plants in the yard were gone in an instant, and even the stones around them began to melt away.

   But even through the fire, Dumbledore could see Voldemort standing tall, his wand whirling rapidly to keep a powerful shielding spell, protecting his entire force, active and stable. Once again, Dumbledore had to marvel at the man’s speed and power. Oh, Tom, if we could have worked together, what wonders would we have wrought…

   There was a mechanical whir, and Dumbledore glanced up, where the thick, flameproof barrel of Hagrid’s weapon began to rotate, the tip glowing and sparking with raw magical energy –

   Dumbledore closed his eyes and drew together his concentration as he began to chant, the wand beneath his fingers beginning to glow as a tight ball of blue-white sparks burst forth from it, like a dandelion puff blowing in the wind. It expanded, growing bigger and bigger.

   Kingsley barked out an order, and the Italians immediately fell back, as Hagrid’s weapon finally spoke, spraying magically-enhanced, white-hot shots of pure energy, crunching into Voldemort’s shield with impressive power…

   Dumbledore flicked his wand skyward, and the blue white sparks burst away, zooming like little faeries to surround the hemisphere of protection that Voldemort had created.

   “Now.”

   Hagrid hauled on Norberta’s reins, and the dragon stopped breathing as the blue-white sparks shot inward, embedding into Voldemort’s shield with splintering bangs. Cracks began to spread through the shield, cracks lined with energy that Voldemort immediately began to counter –

   But then Hagrid fired again, and the cracking shield exploded like a broken egg.

   Norberta needed no encouragement, and Dumbledore put a hand to shield his eyes as dragonfire exploded forth again – this time washing over the Death Eaters in a hellish deluge. A lethal hellish deluge.

   When the smoke cleared, there was nothing left of Nott Manor – and nothing left of its inhabitants.

   Norberta shrieked with triumph, and launched herself into the air, Hagrid struggling to hold on as they soared into a victory lap. Even the Italians let out a cheer.

   But Kingsley’s face was grim as he glanced at Dumbledore.

   “They escaped.”

   “There were losses, but enough of them managed to flee,” Dumbledore replied grimly, as Fawkes let out a mournful trill. “His spell bought them enough time – but fortunately, the other enchantments we cast over the manor have held – including the Tracking Charms.”

   “So we’re going to chase them?” Kingsley said, his eyes lighting up. “But what if they split up?”

   Dumbledore let a tight smile creep onto his face. “That is why we must hurry, keep them harried and on their toes, unable to call for substantial reinforcements. Voldemort will soon detect the Charm placed over him and his servants, so we have little time. And I believe we have enough here to dissuade him from dividing his forces even further.”

   “And if he brings in reinforcements?”

   Dumbledore’s smile didn’t waver. “Let it not be said, Kingsley, that I would abstain from using overwhelming firepower when necessary.” He cast a quick skyward glance at the dragon and Hagrid whooping with triumph. “Particularly when it is – and I daresay in this case, the word is appropriate – awesome.”

***

   “And then I came here.”

   He had told Cassane everything. Every moment that had passed, from the instant he had set foot in Bonaccord Hall onwards. He only made a cursory mention of the night he and Tonks had shared at Bonaccord Hall – that wasn’t anyone’s business – but the rest he told. Every detail he could recall, every fleeting second he could remember.

   He blinked, his eyes dry. He hadn’t cried either. Somehow, he had kept his composure but for the very beginning. He hadn’t broken down, he hadn’t lost control – he had recounted the events as if he was summarizing a Potions essay.

   But why am I surprised… I didn’t cry when Voldemort returned, and Cedric was killed… I told Dumbledore and Sirius everything…

   Cassane’s eyes had been closed in deep thought as Harry had recounted everything – the man had hardly moved since Harry had begun – but now he had opened his eyes, fixing Harry with a long, hard stare.

   “Harry, I want you to listen to me,” he began softly. “This was not your fault. This was Voldemort’s doing, and only Voldemort’s doing.”

   “But I –”

   “NO!” Cassane roared, his voice suddenly deafening as he hammered his hand on the table. “I don’t want excuses, I don’t want protests, I don’t want your guilt! Because at this point, none of it is relevant. None of it is true. Half of Voldemort’s tactic is to make you feel responsible for this – but you’re not.”

   Harry took a deep breath as he tried to force back the memories of Hermione’s horrified face as she had run away from him… the memories of his fist and boot slamming against her… “I can see it all, Nathan, I can’t just forget –”

   “When Charlie Weasley was killed,” Cassane continued harshly, rising slowly to his feet, “you may have had some vestige of a reason to feel guilt – but not now. Not when that hellspawn decides to take one more step into ruining your life.” His voice softened slightly for a moment. “In this case, a Pensieve is recommended.”

   Harry nodded numbly, already wishing that he had considered that before he had left Hogwarts.

   “Whatever possession ritual Voldemort utilized,” Cassane growled, Summoning a book to his hand with a brisk wave of his wand, “it likely used a link between you two – normally possession requires eye contact, but I wouldn’t put it past Voldemort to try something new –”

   And then Harry remembered the conversation he had had with Dumbledore, almost eight months earlier, when he had asked about the dreams. “Yeah… yeah, there’s a link there – but my scar doesn’t hurt anymore –”

   Cassane’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the book. “If there is a link… well, I’m not surprised. Voldemort’s probably been utilizing magic to seal himself away from you, not even give the inkling that you should be doing the same.” He looked at Harry. “And I suspect the only reason the possession worked as well as it did was because your consciousness wasn’t inside your body. Incredible timing…”

   “Hermione.”

   Cassane closed his eyes, slowly pushing the book away. “The girl… do you know where she went?”

   Harry shook his head numbly. “Think she left Hogwarts – I remember seeing her leave the gates –”

   “She should be found, and quickly,” Cassane muttered. “I can do what I can to track her down…” He shook his head. “Do you know where her parents live?”

   “Somewhere in London,” Harry said quietly. “I think.”

   “I’ll see what I can do to find her,” Cassane murmured, and Harry could tell the man was thinking fast “She sent me that letter – I could probably construct a crude Tracking Charm through that.”

   “I want to –”

   “You can’t help with this, Harry,” Cassane interrupted bluntly, “and neither should you. Of everything that you’re feeling, she’s feeling it a million times worse – and unlike you, she doesn’t have options.” His eyes hardened. “Or a job to do.”

   Harry took another deep breath, and he tried to focus. His head was throbbing with a dull ache, he hadn’t slept – but somewhere in his gut, something hot was building. “Mission?”

   “Focus,” Cassane snapped, and before Harry could step back, the older man’s hands clenched around his shoulders, and he was staring into a pair of enraged brown eyes. “At this point, you cannot stop what has already occurred, but you can destroy those involved.”

   And the fire in his gut surged up his spine. The dullness was gone, replaced by flaming hot clarity.

   “Malfoy,” Harry hissed with hatred.

   “Forget Malfoy,” Cassane replied, still staring into Harry’s eyes. “Malfoy’s the scapegoat, you know who the true criminal is. And you also know where he has fled.”

   “Theodore Nott,” Harry spat, real anger in his voice now. “And he probably went straight to the ritual chamber – and we don’t know where it is.”

   Cassane released Harry’s shoulders and shook his head. “You’re right, we don’t – but you also know how to find out.”

   Harry blinked. Cassane was right – he did know. “You’re talking about those simulamancy visions –”

   “They get clearer every time, don’t they?” Cassane stepped back and raised his wand, and without a word, a sheaf of papers zoomed into his hand, where he spread them across the table. “A side effect, undoubtedly, of the temporal anomaly surrounding Hogwarts. When you used simulamancy there the first time, you untapped something – and now you can use it to track Nott down.”

   “But we don’t have a corpse –”

   Cassane wordlessly pointed down at the paper. Harry bent to read, and even though he couldn’t understand the thick scrawls of Arithmancy equations, he understood the paragraph Cassane had scribbled underneath – and the colour fled from his face.

   “You can’t be serious.”

   “It might be the only way, Harry.” Cassane said evenly. “You now have the gold stored within the Potter Vaults, which should cover any costs. You have Tonks to perform the ritual. And with this,” he finished, sliding the paper forward, “you have the necessary corrections in the ritual to make it work.”

   “Nathan, this is insane –”

   “When you deal with this brand of magic, Harry, you’re dealing with the thickness of a fine line,” Cassane snapped. “The key is how much you dare to blur it.”

   “Tonks won’t agree to this,” Harry said quietly, picking up the paper and carefully folding it. “No way she’ll agree – hell, I don’t even think I –”

   “What other option do you have?” Cassane’s tone was implacable. “The longer Nott is in that chamber, the closer he comes to completing Voldemort’s work – and given his sanity, I wouldn’t question that it won’t take long to finish things.”

    Harry blinked twice as he tucked the paper away. “And… and you think it’ll work?”

   “Even if it doesn’t, do you have any other option than to try?” Cassane retorted. “This is the endgame, Harry Potter – the chips are down, the bets are made, and you have to play the hand you’ve been dealt. And right now, you can’t walk away.”

   Harry took a deep breath and tried to compose himself. The plan was mad, insane, and would probably get him killed in more ways than one…

   But what else can I do?

   “You’ll find Hermione?”

   Cassane nodded as Harry picked up his cloak.

   “If you see her…” Harry’s voice trailed off.

   “I swear to you, I will make sure she will be taken care of,” Cassane promised, and for the briefest second, Harry saw a twinge of restrained grief in the old man’s eyes.

   “The Pensieve…” Harry began numbly, “it won’t help, will it?”

   Cassane shook his head.

   “And you knew that.”

   “You can’t forget destroying the ones you love,” Cassane whispered, “even if it was never really you. Even if it was never your fault. Even if you did all you could.” He glanced across the room at a tiny picture in the corner, with three figures in it. “Even if you destroyed yourself along the way.”

   Harry’s hand clenched into a fist again. “I remember you telling me that I’d never understand how it felt.”

   Cassane nodded.

   “I think now I do.”

   “Not quite yet,” Cassane whispered. “But you will.”

    “What more is there to see?” Harry demanded, his voice raw. “What the fuck is left?”

   Cassane blinked, and his deep brown eyes were suddenly moist. “You’ll know soon enough.”

***

   Harry was gone, but Cassane had not left the room. He hadn’t moved from his spot, watching the door Harry had left ajar.

   “You heard it?”

   “Enough of it.” The voice was low, guttural – and filled with a rage unlike most had ever heard before.

   A rage that was all too familiar. A rage that brought back the smells of blood-drenched leather and motor oil, of Firewhiskey and fire and pure hatred.

   Cassane closed his eyes again. “The photographs… they can’t reach the Daily Prophet. And you know at this point, you’ll never find them.”

   “I know.”

   “And Cuffe…” Cassane’s fingers traced long patterns across the table. “Well, you know.”

   “I know,” the voice repeated. “Just like old times.”

   Cassane’s eyebrows shot up as he turned to see Sirius Black standing in the shadows, lank black hair hanging around his face, his expression a blend of dispassionate rage and murderous grief. “You lied to me, to Harry? You remember old times?”

   “Enough of them,” Sirius hissed, stepping into the flickering light of the dying fire. “See, even when the group fell apart, I never really left.”

   “Semantics.”

   “And it’s not hard to put things together when there’s dried blood an inch thick on the rims of your tires,” Sirius continued softly, stepping a little closer. “So maybe I don’t remember the details, but I’ve got a good idea of what we did. And you know what?” He stepped close and fixed Cassane with a dead stare. “I don’t regret a damn bit of it. And not even twelve years in Azkaban can take it away from me.”

   Cassane was silent for a long few seconds before Summoning a bottle of scotch and two glasses to his hands – the same bottle Rita Skeeter had bought him months ago.

   “You must do this alone,” he said coolly, uncorking the bottle and pouring a generous amount into each glass.

   “Tonks and Remus are going to St. Mungo’s, to deal with the Ministry traitor,” Sirius replied, picking up the glass. “Don’t worry – I’ll do this alone.”

   “You found him?”

   “Yeah.” Sirius’ laugh was bitter. “And we should have found him sooner.”

   They clinked glasses, and both drained their scotch in a single swig, setting down the glasses with a single, simultaneous sound.

   “Good luck.”

   “Same to you,” Sirius replied in a low voice, “but then again, I think you’ve had it all along.”

   

***

   “I need the room of Rita Skeeter –”

   The Healer gave him a long-suffering look. “I already told one of your Hit Wizards that she was moved. Although at this point, I wouldn’t recommend seeing her – we managed to fix the splinching without serious issue, but the treatment was exhaustive, and she remains unconscious –”

   Kemester fought his urge to throttle the Healer. “Just tell me the room, please.”

   “Fourth floor for Spell Damage, Mider the Missing Recovery Ward,” the Healer replied. “But wait, you’ll need – wait!”

   Kemester wasn’t waiting. He hurtled down the hall towards the stairs, climbing them two at a time as he wrenched his wand free.

   “God, what an ugly man –”

   “- What’s your hurry –”

   He cut the voices off as he kicked the door at the fourth landing open, and he could see the door of the recovery ward down the hall opening, a cloaked figure slipping inside –

   “STOP!” he bellowed, sprinting as fast he could, shoving a startled Healer into a wall as he seized the edge of the open door and used his momentum to pull himself inside.

   The recovery ward was very small, with a trio of empty beds scattered around the shadowy room – and a figure raising his wand over the lone occupied mattress –

   “Vercundus!”

   Kemester’s spell was high, but it clipped the traitor’s shoulder, knocking him backwards, sending his curse into the ceiling. Plaster and stone immediately fell over the room in a torrent of dust, making the details of the murky room even harder to discern –

   He heard a chant, and Kemester instinctively ducked to the side. The magical blast from the traitor’s wand hammered into the door, splitting it in two.

    “You have nowhere to run, traitor!” Kemester shouted, coughing against the dust. “Surrender now –”

   “Expelliarmus!”

   Kemester barely got a Shield Charm up in time, and even still he could feel his grip on his wand loosen – but why had the traitor used a non-lethal spell?

   And why do I know that voice…

   “I repeat,” he shouted, “you have nowhere to run! Surrender and I can guarantee due process of law –”

   “No, you can’t.”

   Kemester froze. It felt as if every cell of his body had been stopped dead by shock, unable to move a muscle.

   Because he knew that voice. By Merlin, he knew it. He knew the stocky cloaked figure stepping out of the shadows, pulling his hood back to reveal a heavy jaw and a snub-nose, with close-cropped hair and honest eyes…

   It can’t be. No, it can’t be. How did I miss it… how the hell did I miss…

   “I’m sorry, Dmitri.”

   He tried to speak, but he could only whisper the words.

   “Why, Larshall?”