69.Setting the Stage

1st of November 1994, Tuesday

Harry

“I have no enemies, nor any feuds, I swear. Neither does my boy… help me, Headmaster, please.”

Harry awkwardly shuffled his weight from one leg to the other, feeling completely out of place, even though Trelawney had yet to notice him. Nevertheless, he didn’t dare to ease his magic and reveal his presence.

The poor woman did not know the man she had so dearly loved was merely a husk controlled by the dark lord, and even if she did, it would do her no good. At times like these, he understood why the headmaster kept things from him, even if he struggled to fully agree with it.

“Go to Poppy for a cup of Calming Draught, dear Sybil,” Dumbledore urged, patting the distraught professor on the back. “Take a few days of rest to calm your mind.”

“But… my boy… the classes—”

“I’ll see what I can do for little Quirinus. Missing a few days of class hasn’t hurt anyone. At most, they’ll have to study a bit harder.”

Sniffling, the Divination Professor finally hobbled out of the headmaster’s office. 

Dumbledore already unwrapped a lemon drop and popped it into his mouth, his face surrendering no emotion.

“What do you think, Harry?” 

“It can only be Voldemort,” he said quietly, emerging from the corner he had hidden in. “While Trelawney might be a bit dramatic in her classes, she has neither the personality nor the position to make true enemies. If she did, they would target her, not Quirrell’s son. But headmaster… can that baby be considered… you know…”  

“Tom’s son?” Dumbledore stroked his beard. “That is a fascinating question. There is no one answer, not one that can be confirmed with certainty, and your stance on the matter merely depends on whether you consider souls to play a significant role in conception or not. If Voldemort believes it, it just might be so, but if he doesn’t, it absolutely isn’t. Magic is wonderful like that.”

Harry did not know how to feel. “What if he’s hesitant?”

“It’s hard to say. But indecision is not something Voldemort suffers from. Anyway, I must now look into this.” His voice turned solemn. “Do you wish to join me, Harry?”

Harry opened his mouth to decline, but the words died on his lips. Truth be told, it was none of his business. This Trelawney was neither his teacher nor his friend, merely a face he knew. 

And yet… it was a chance to thwart whatever Voldemort was planning. 

The headmaster’s offer was not merely to ‘come and see’, he realised, but an invitation to get directly involved in the struggle against the Dark Lord in person.

“I’m in,” Harry declared.

Dumbledore rose from his seat. “Go prepare then. We shall meet at the school gate in half an hour.”

“Shouldn’t we hurry?”

“Little Quirinus has been missing for a while now. Half an hour will not make any difference.”

Harry rushed back to his quarters to grab the basilisk scale robes Mrs Tonks had made for him.

***

Hogsmeade’s streets were desolate, with only a single old wizard stumbling on the way to the Hog’s Head.

Dumbledore led him to the outskirts of the village, where a lone cottage lay amidst a field of cabbage with a cracked pathway leading to it. It was barely larger than Hagrid’s hut, with an old slate roof and plaster peeling from the brick walls.

The door lay ajar.

The headmaster’s stride halted at the door. 

“This used to be my uncle’s house,” he said absentmindedly. “I lent it to Sybil along with a house elf to take care of little Quirinus while at school.”

“Shouldn’t we check inside?” Harry asked.

Dumbledore threw a glance through the dirty window. “That might interfere with the DMLE investigation. There’s not much to see—someone broke in, stunned the elf, grabbed the boy, and left right away.”

“Then, why are we here?”

“Magic leaves a faint trace,” the headmaster said. “The intent and the will of the caster linger on for a while unless their control has reached the pinnacle. Close your eyes, empty your mind, and feel it. Your senses should be sharp enough by now.”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, letting his emotions slowly flow away, and stretched his senses. It would have been difficult once, but after countless hours of meditation and years of Occlumency practice, the calmness came naturally, and it came quickly. 

Dumbledore’s presence was like a vortex beside him, blotting out his senses. Though the moment Harry sensed him, the vortex slowed down and quickly faded. Harry could now feel the cabbages, the birds in the trees near the cottage, the faint mix of magic coming from the village behind him. 

Harry focused his senses on the cottage and frowned. “There’s something in the house. It smells like… mint… I think.”

“That’s house elf magic,” Dumbledore’s voice came. “Look deeper.”

He felt it, then, just by the door. It was faint, barely perceivable, but it tasted foul.

“A dark wizard,” he said coldly.

The headmaster hummed. “Yes. He Apparated by the door, went in, grabbed the baby, and Disapparated right away.”

“Can he be tracked?”

“By the trace of magic he left?” Dumbledore let out a long sigh. “No. If it was a few minutes since he had left, perhaps I could try… but hours have already passed, and everything had long since grown faint. It’s far easier to scry little Quirinus’s location. In fact, I have already done so, and I can tell that he is no longer in Wizarding Britain.”

‘Bloody brilliant. Why did we come here, then?’ he thought. But the answer came to him before he could open his mouth to ask. An inspection was still due, and the headmaster was using this chance to teach him.

“How’d they leave Magical Britain so swiftly?” Harry asked instead. “I thought Wizarding Britain had the old war island-wide protections still up.”

“Well, I suspect it has something to do with that new Channel Tunnel the Muggles opened in the spring. It directly bypasses the previous magical protection. The Ministry is already aware of the issue, but as you’d expect, they have yet to decide how to address it…”

“Of course,” Harry muttered darkly, inwardly cursing the Ministry. “Whatever would the dark lord need a baby for?”

Dumbledore gave him a sorrowful smile. “Nothing good, Harry. Nothing good. I’m afraid it’s time I informed the DMLE.”

“So… we’re going to leave this to the Ministry?”

“It’s their job,” the headmaster said. “The Auror department has plenty of wizards better at tracking than me.”

“But will the Ministry try hard when the baby is already out of Wizarding Britain?” Harry retorted. 

Dumbledore merely dipped his head in defeat, and that was answer enough. 

“I understand your frustration, Harry. But the situation on the continent is delicate enough as it is, even without my involvement.”

“So, you’ll let Voldemort get his way there?” Harry pressed sharply. “You’ll let the Dark Lord use Trelawney’s son for… whatever evil scheme his mind has concocted?”

“Searching for Little Quirinus now is no different from finding a needle in a haystack. As much as I wish I could help, I’m afraid I have other duties in school with the tournament. The Order is otherwise occupied too, you know—Voldemort has been trying to smuggle dark wizards inside Wizarding Britain, and a band of vicious giants is stirring trouble in Wales.”

Harry felt a surge of irritation bubble up, fighting with reason. Logically, he knew Dumbledore was right. If the headmaster had no confidence in finding Quirinus, his time was better spent elsewhere, dealing with other pressing issues.

Some might come to say that letting a father reunite with his son might not necessarily be wrong, even if it was the Dark Lord and a poor infant. And yet…

“Screw that.”

Dumbledore’s white brows flew so high they almost disappeared. “Pardon?”

“I’m gonna search myself, sir,” he declared. 

“That’s unwise, Harry.” The headmaster adjusted his spectacles. “And I am not speaking of the difficulty of the search or retrieval, which are both bound to be quite the challenge. Even though the Dark Lord has given up on dealing with you, he will not refuse the chance to kill or recruit you should the chance arise. You’d be delivering yourself on a silver platter.”

“I know all of that.” With a thought, his wand leapt into his grasp, as if eager for blood. “But I did not train so hard to just sit down and wait while Voldemort recruits followers, gathers strength, power, and influence.”

Dumbledore merely looked at him. His blue eyes were deathly calm, revealing no emotion, yet they felt like a mountain pressing down on his mind and magic. Slowly, the headmaster loosened the reins on his power, and Harry felt the air thicken with pressure. The two crows on the nearby tree immediately spread out their wings and fled, but not before raising a storm of caws in protest. He felt as if he were drowning in an ocean of power. He felt his leg buckle and fear coiled around his heart—the instinctive fear of meeting something overwhelming, an opponent you had no chance of matching, let alone defeating.

A muffled scoff tore from Harry’s throat. Perhaps before he would have been suppressed by such a display, but things had long changed. Now, his spine remained ramrod straight, not faltering under the headmaster’s heavy gaze.

I refuse to just sit back and hope for the best. Never again. I cannot give up here. Yesterday, it was Muggles. Today, it’s Trelawney’s son. Tomorrow, it’ll be Ron, Diana, and perhaps their families.

Harry knew it would not stop here. He knew things would only grow worse from here on, and if Voldemort was left to his own devices in Europe, he would eventually bend the whole continent to his will, perhaps even grow in power and delve deeper into the Dark Arts. Something had to be done to stop it.

The Ministry would not move a finger for the continent—they barely moved a finger on their own territory. The ICW, Wizarding France, and the others were just as incompetent as the Ministry, and even slower to respond. Dumbledore clearly gave up on a baby, simply because it was not expedient to his plans. Perhaps he had the right of it, and yet…

His magic stirred, surging in waves as if to respond to his very will, rising to meet Dumbledore’s crushing pressure.

Something broke, and the air around him erupted. 

A shockwave of dark green rippled out, but was halted by a sweep of Dumbledore’s wand. The headmaster’s pressure immediately disappeared, and he looked as if he had aged five years in an instant.

“Congratulations, Harry.” The headmaster dipped his head, lowering his wand. “You are the youngest to transcend the limit of Intent. I myself only managed this feat at seventeen.”

“I don’t feel much different, sir,” Harry said breathlessly, returning his own wand to the holster. “But there’s a subtle change I can’t quite pin down.”

“You might not feel it now, but magic will come easier to you. It will be swifter to obey your command, and your very spells will be faster for it. And each one will hold a tad more power than all others. Your intent will not make you invincible, but it’ll give you a certain edge against other powerful opponents.”

Dumbledore spoke no more of Quirinus and stepped aside, and Harry took it for a quiet agreement. Somehow, the old wizard managed to look both incredibly impressed and saddened at the same time, and Harry suppressed the pang of pride in his chest. He was no longer a child who yearned for others’ approval.

“Go now, and be careful whatever you decide to do. I still need to deal with the DMLE and the mess here, Mr Potter,” the headmaster said at last, dismissing him with a wave of his hand.

---

“Dumbledore is right,” Juno told him in the afternoon, once the classes ended. They settled in the Room, now in the shape of Harry’s living room. “Searching for Trelawney’s baby is a waste of time. Thousands disappeared in a similar fashion before the Blood War, and only a small handful were found. Their corpses, to be precise. I would understand if Diana or someone we know was taken, but Trelawney’s kid is nobody to us.”

‘He’s your half-brother,’ Harry wanted to say, but Juno would never admit it, and perhaps she would be right.

“It’s not just about Quirinus,” he said instead. “Voldemort is growing stronger by the day, more and more wizards and creatures are joining his ranks, and nobody is doing a bloody thing! The Ministry is useless, and Dumbledore is too cautious to make some grand moves … I want to go out and do something.”

A heavy frown settled over Juno’s face.

“It’s too dangerous.”

Harry snorted. “What happened to the witch proposing I go and assassinate folks in their sleep?”

“She got betrothed,” Juno said shamelessly.

Harry was struck speechless. 

The air beside her rippled, and Grindelwald’s ghost took shape.

“What exactly do you seek to achieve, young Harry?” he said with a slight accent. 

“…Defeat Voldemort,” Harry said firmly. “But I know I lack the strength for it, sir.”

The ghost let out a soft laugh. “And in that, you are gravely mistaken. There are many ways to defeat an enemy, and a direct confrontation is merely the crudest one.”

“And what are the others, then?”

“To gain victory, you must know yourself and know your enemy… and his goals. You need to match him in means, cunning, and cruelty.” 

Harry’s nose wrinkled. “You wish me to stoop so low as to kidnap and murder babies in a crib?”

“Murder?” Grindelwald looked at him with pity. “Not necessarily. But kidnapping, yes. Put the children in an unplottable safehouse protected from tracking and a house-elf to raise them, if you don’t have the stomach to kill them. Mercy always comes at a price—the roof over their heads, clothing, and food in their stomach, the gold for which shall come from your pocket. Today, Trelawney lost her son. If you do nothing to retaliate, what’s stopping them from abducting the children of others tomorrow? What will you do when the morale of your side slowly crumbles, and the enemy has leverage over your allies?” 

His eyes grew distant. “That’s how I lost my war, Mr Potter. My defeat by Albus’s hand was merely the final dirge of an already dying cause. In truth, I had all but lost the war by then. The ICW was willing to match me in cruelty and then some, and my followers were melting by the day, and they kept bringing in more and more manpower into the war.” 

“Now, you face a smaller foe than I did, though no less tricky. Voldemort seeks to remain hidden behind that pyromancer? Reveal him. He wants to recruit followers? Cull them. He wants to cow others with fear? Inspire his foes. He wishes to divide his enemies? Unite them. He wishes to recruit creatures to his cause? Defeat them. Strike first, strike fast.”

Harry swallowed. He much preferred… just fighting. But he could recognise the truthfulness in Grindelwald’s words. If a dark lord could be defeated by simple means and a quick fight, Dumbledore would have never allowed Voldemort to rise. He vividly remembered how the Dark Lord chipped away at their every advantage in their last life, until nothing was left.

Juno nodded along. “We cannot allow sentiment to drag us down in this. If you wish to enter the quagmire of war, you might as well do it properly.”

“There’s no right or wrong in war, Mr Potter,” Grindelwald’s tone grew icy, “only those who are dead and those who are left. If you wish to join such a struggle, you must do so with eyes wide open and your heart hardened.”

He was right, Harry knew. It pained him to admit it, but perhaps if it had been Grindelwald in his last life in place of the headmaster, Voldemort would have never risen to power so swiftly, not truly.

Harry bowed his head. “Teach me, sir.”

The spectre merely gave him a slight smile and nodded. 

Juno’s nose wrinkled. “If I knew it would’ve come to this, I wouldn’t have entered the Triwizard Tournament. Joining you will be a tall task. Now, I will have to cut my preparation time—”

“No need.” Harry gently squeezed her hand. “Winning the Tournament is your goal, and you might as well see it through properly.”

Grindelwald cleared his throat loudly. “I have a suggestion, if you may, Mr Potter. Perhaps it would be prudent to start big, perhaps make… an impression.” 

---

4th of November 1994, Friday (3 days later)

Wind and rain battered at his robes relentlessly as the waves of the North Sea raged behind him. The sky was choked with clouds, and even the air itself oozed with dread and malice. Dark, tattered shades coiled around the black fortress’s ramparts, weaving over the walls and towers like restless ghosts.

Dementors.

The phoenix within his mind stirred awake, its feathers ruffled by the presence of dementors. Harry clamped down on the anger bubbling in his throat.

‘This place is vile,’ Nyx hissed. 

That didn’t stop her from lunging from his shadow, her jaws snatching the approaching dementor.

An earthly shriek tore through the air, and the nearing dementors dispersed as the snake eagerly tore through the rotten flesh of their kind. He was surprised for a heartbeat before shaking his head with amusement. Of course, Nyx could eat dementors. Even the feeling of looming despair from the shrieking form dissipated, though the malice in the air still lingered—evil had long since imprinted itself into every nook and cranny of this island.

‘Don’t get indigestion,’ Harry warned her as he lowered his wand slightly.

Nyx spat out a few strips of tattered black cloth and burped. ‘Too bland—and tough. Even a troll is better than this. I won’t eat another.’

‘Come back and lend me your strength.’

Without a word, Nyx slithered back into his shadow, coiling underneath his skin. A torrent of magic flooded his body until he felt bloated.

He brought up the anger in his mind as his wand fluttered into a complex motion. O flames of wrath, ancient and wild, crawl forth from the void, devour the world, unleash destruction. Abyssal Inferno!

A thrill echoed through his mind as a fiery green phoenix erupted from the tip of his wand. He poured more and more magic into it, until his stomach lurched and his wand faltered and even Nyx muttered, ‘No more.’ 

The flutter of flame was now the size of a grown dragon, its flaming wings enveloping the band of shrieking dementors. The tattered dementor robes turned into ash in seconds, and the flames even burned through their rotted forms, leaving nothing behind. 

The great phoenix split apart, turning into smaller birds and serpents. Some fanned out to chase the fleeing dementors, others clashed into the rocks of the castle itself, as if the very stone offended them.

The chill in the air gave way to a wave of sweltering heat as even the rain began to evaporate before it could reach Harry. The Fiendfyre was completely out of control, but Harry had no intent to try to rein it in.

The crashing of waves mingled with the crackling of flame and the shrieking dementors, and Harry gave a satisfied nod. His Fiendfyre could indeed vanquish dementors. 

Squeezing his remaining magic, he Disapparated away with a loud crack.

---

Azkaban destroyed!

By special reporter Octavia Brightmoor

Last night, in an unprecedented attack, the whole island of Azkaban was engulfed in a green inferno of Fiendfyre, reminiscent of the Brecha Forest. The DMLE has confirmed the cause as Fiendfyre and the destruction of ninety-three dementors, nearly a third of their total numbers. The rest of the dementors have fled across the North Sea and into Wizarding Britain, kissing at least two Muggles in the process. The DMLE assures that the dementors will be reined in for good.

Meanwhile, some of the flames still linger, preventing closer inspection.

This surprising attack comes days after the Wizengamot voted to reopen Azkaban Prison officially. Fortunately, prisoners and guards had yet to return to the island. (More on the prisoner reform on page 3)

The island itself has turned into a ruin, with the old fortress prison a charred, half-melted husk, no longer fit for use. Sources in the Ministry claim that certain departments are urging the construction of a new prison and reviewing the previous prison reform.

While nobody will miss the dreadful Azkaban Prison and its inhuman wardens, DMLE director Rufus Scrimgeour has issued a statement condemning the attack and assuring that the dark wizard responsible shall be apprehended. However, he has yet to provide further information about the perpetrator, and, according to an insider, the Aurors have found no leads.

Meanwhile, there are calls to hunt down the remaining dementors and put a swift end to the dreadful scourge once and for all…

---

8th of November, 1994 Tuesday  (4 days later)

It didn’t come as a surprise that Narcissa and Lucius knew nothing about Quirinus’s disappearance. The Dark Lord was notorious for splitting his followers into groups and keeping their missions and identities separate and secret. Even now, that secrecy had yet to change, and Harry only knew of a handful of new Death Eaters serving the Dark Lord. The rest remained a complete mystery. 

Regardless, he had already gotten a taste of action, and, after hunting the dementors for the last three days and killing two dozen more, it was time for his next step.

Harry strolled through the village of Weaverthorpe, marvelling at the simple but cosy-looking houses. Some had a rustic red brick facade, others were plastered with white. The few villagers all looked tidy and unhurried; the roads were clean, the gardens finely trimmed, and the walls low.

‘What a calm place,’ he thought, slowing down his stride and immersing himself in the surroundings. Far better than Surrey and Ottery St. Catchpole, but not as good as the calm of the Clwydian mountain range where the Potter House lay.

He stopped at the very outskirts at a tidy but well-built house with a red brick facade that was far away from the main road. 

The door swung open before he could knock, revealing a vigilant young wizard with his wand raised. His brown hair was a mess, but his duelling robe was spotless and immaculate. 

“Roger,” Harry greeted with a nod, not bothered by the wand pointing at his face for a moment. It had been quite a while since he had seen the former Slytherin prefect.

Roger forced a smile to his face. “I wasn’t quite expecting a visit as of late.”

“Having trouble already?”

He only gave a curt nod. “Let’s speak inside.”

Harry slipped into a small foyer and noticed Elise, Roger’s fellow prefect and now wife, holding a bundle of her own pressed to her bosom, lowering her wand. 

“Congratulations,” he beamed. “You two sure act fast. How’s the little one named?”

“Harold,” Elise murmured. She had dark bags under her eyes, and her face had grown gaunter than he remembered. “We call him Harry. Want to hold him?”

“Uh…” Harry stammered. Had they named their firstborn after… him? “I’m flattered, but I’m no good with babies. You two don’t look very good.”

“Uncle and Father are pressing me to join…”

“Lord Voldemort,” Harry finished with a slight smile. 

Both of them shuddered. 

“Don’t—”

Harry gave a lazy shrug. “The Dark Lord has yet to cast a taboo on his name. I suppose calling him Tom Riddle will do. I thought you’d be interested in joining.”

“Once, maybe,” Roger said with a sigh. “But I grew up. There’s nothing glorious or good in murder and arson or working with those vile mutts. I just want to raise my boy away from all the trouble. We have another child on the way, and the risk is too much.”

His features softened as he looked at his wife, and in turn, a smile bloomed across Elise’s face as her free hand hovered over her stomach. Harry would have thought theirs was a love match if he didn’t know the two of them had been matched by their families.

Harry leaned in. “How about I give you a way to sit out this whole mess?”

Roger’s brows furrowed. “Whatever you mean?”

“Listen, I need the two of you to…”

---

The Dark Mark reappears!

By Betty Braithwaite, 9th of November

In a single night, the Dark Mark reappeared above the Yaxley, Rosier, and Travers manors, for the first time since Voldemort’s fall, alerting the DMLE. 

A reminder that even Bellatrix Lestrange and the escaped Death Eaters had refrained from using the Dark Mark during their attacks. (More on the Black Mark on page seven)

The one-year-old Pineas Yaxley has been abducted from his home under the nose of his parents. Alfred Travers has also been taken from his crib with none the wiser. The Yaxleys and Travers have both refused to comment, and an informant in the DMLE says the Aurors are working hard on the case. There’s no sign of forced entry nor any missing items aside from the babies.

Roger Rosier and his wife, Elise Travers, have also gone missing from their home along with their newborn son, Harold Rosier. Unlike the previous two cases, Mr Rosier’s home bears clear signs of struggle and has been reduced to a wreck. Our hit wizard consultant theorises that they confronted the intruder and lost miserably. (More on what to do in case of a home invasion on page twelve)

This is the fourth kidnapping of young babies after Quirinus Quirrell Jr. Calls to action have flooded the DMLE, and the Lords of Travers, Yaxley, and Rosier have urged to convene a Wizengamot meeting on the matter…

---

???

He stepped out of the ritual circle, not sparing a glance at the tiny, crumbling husk across him.  

Its skin had sunken in, dried up like old parchment. A sweep of his wand turned it to dust.

A raspy chuckle tore from his lips despite himself as he closed his eyes and took great relish in the power coursing within his flesh with ferocious vigour. His former strength was all there, and he had even surpassed it by half a step. His knowledge and mastery of dark magic were already deeper than they had been in that hallowed night in Godric’s Hollow. 

Rookwood knelt the moment he stepped out of the chamber.

“My Lord,” he said, bowing his head deeply. “Mulciber’s nephew has also been kidnapped, and they request your aid…”

“Incompetent wretches cannot even protect their own children,” Voldemort sneered. “I have already sent Lucius to investigate.”

If he didn’t know better, he’d think this was Dumbledore doing. Not retaliation for little Quirinus’s abduction, but perhaps getting bargaining chips to negotiate. It was too late now, and no attempt at bargaining had ever come to his followers—not that he would ever entertain such a poor trade.

Yet the mere thought that someone had outwitted him so easily angered him greatly. 

The old headmaster had not chased after the infant as Voldemort had planned, leaving his trap unsprung. But it mattered little. Other chances to test the old man would come. 

It was the destruction of Azkaban and the Scouring of the Dementors that denied him no small advantage. It was a green inferno again, now striking just as great a blow as it had in Brechfa Forest. That was no doubt the true retaliation from Dumbledore. 

The old man was becoming an even greater obstacle than ever. Still, it was far from fatal. While the dementors were useful pawns, Voldemort would, at most, lament their disappearance. He was not without options or pawns to recruit, after all.

Next would be retrieving the piece of soul he had entrusted to Bellatrix and attempting to seize the enchantments of Helga’s cup into himself. But the Cup was in the Lestrange Vault, and all the Lestranges were dead… save for little Juno.

He remembered that precocious little witch, so proud, so easily dominated by the young Potter boy for it. 

For a short moment, he contemplated contacting her. Bella’s daughter naturally had to come to his ranks and take on her mother’s duties… all of them. 

But she was a champion of the Triwizard Tournament, and in the spotlight for it. Contacting her now was possible, but unwise. Doubtlessly, the meddlesome old man would keep a close eye on her after Bellatrix’s kidnapping. 

Voldemort could wait—another ritual in the next nine months would be too great a risk. Retrieving the Gaunt Ring, the Slytherin Locket, or the Diary would not do him much good either, not right now. As precious as these trinkets were, they bore no great enchantments, unlike the Diadem and the Cup. It was better to keep them separate, and at least one had to remain unclaimed, allowing him to enjoy the benefits of immortality.  

Shaking his head, he turned his steps to the grey hall. This was a new base on the outskirts of the Austrian Alps, carved directly into the bedrock by himself.

At the very end, a throne of pale platinum encrusted with emeralds sat, above all, looking down on all others. On the wall behind him hung a silver cloth with the great serpent of Slytherin in green, quartered with the Dark Mark.

Barty was already waiting by the seat of honour in his robes of dark purple, head lifted high as he looked down on all the other followers gathered across the long tables. 

As Voldemort strode forth, they bowed their heads in submission.

Forty men were under his direct command here, and half as many waited for his return in Britain, content to serve as his eyes and ears for now. Of course, that was far from the full force he could wield. Voldemort only branded the most capable and most loyal, even allowing them to glimpse the glory of the dark arts and rise in skill and power. The rest were handed to the pyromancer. Emberwick commanded hundreds now, all recruited criminals, crooks, and wretched scum from every dark corner of Europe, and Lupin ruled over nearly two thousand werewolves. 

The sheer numbers alone were more than twice what they were in his service before his first defeat, and his ranks were swelling by the day.

He seated himself on the throne, ignoring the cold of the metal biting through his robes.

“How goes our effort in Austria?”

“Emberwick is preparing for an assault on the Ministry,” Mulciber said, dipping his head. “He claims he has two moles inside to open up the gates and lower the enchantments.”

“Good.” Voldemort closed his eyes for a moment. “Tell Lupin to intensify his attacks in France. Pin down the ICW’s attention there for good.”

Mulciber bowed and hurried out of the room. 

With Austria, three countries would come under his command. 

Czechia’s Minister of Magic was under Imperius, already working hard to get rid of the stubborn upper ranks and put Emberwick’s people in their place—a process that would be finished before the end of the year. Dalmatia had already consolidated and was training a new batch of recruits to join his ranks.

“Master,” Barty spoke, coming forth with a deep bow. “The Minister of Hungary is willing to swear a vow of fealty to you… in exchange for a hundred thousand galleons.”

“How dull,” the Dark Lord yawned. He would be angered at the attempt to bargain, but he knew the old Vilmos in person. “I knew the fool was greedy, but I underestimated his appetite. Kidnap his wife and children. His little lover secretary, too. If he refuses to listen, send him back some gifts.” 

Barty nodded and rushed out.

It would be easier to put someone like that under Imperius, but the man was not only disliked by the Hungarians but also notoriously cowardly, fearing to show his face without a heavy guard.

Bored. Voldemort was dreadfully bored. Now that the rituals were done, the only joys left to him were delving deeper and deeper into the Dark Arts, and yet his gains in that had long since stalled. Training the promising subordinates had been interesting at first, but the lessons had begun to irk him as of late. Some showed promise, a select few could only make a bit of progress with the Severing, and then stall for the rest of their lives.

Worse, the lackwits at the ICW were no challenge for him, nor did they take him seriously. It didn’t help that he had taken to hiding his presence behind Emberwick, and plotting and scheming no longer brought him the thrill they once had. 

He almost missed the clash of wits with Dumbledore. Almost.

The old man had grown too ruthless, and Voldemort dared not face him now, though he’d never admit it out loud. If there were one obstacle to his plans, it would be no other than Dumbledore. Voldemort had grown in power, but the old man was no less dangerous if he was willing to kidnap babies and hunt down dementors. He had made plans within plans to entrap and counter the old man should he come searching, but Dumbledore had not risen to the bait.

“Rookwood,” he called out. “Get someone to research the headmaster.”

Rookwood stepped forth and knelt, confusion clouded his face. “My lord?”

“Make it discreet.” Voldemort spun the wand in his hands. “I want to know everything. The old man’s changed—he’s no longer the soft, hesitant old thing we all remember.”

A sweep of his hand saw all of his followers disperse quickly. 

Meanwhile, he returned to his workroom and sat down on the marble floor, arranged into the pattern of his Dark Mark. He sank his magic into the marble, and the mark lit up in an eerie, dim glow as he spread his senses, seeking out his followers. 

His thoughts sensed each Dark Mark carefully, and everyone was as they were supposed to be. 

This was how he had caught Pettigrew and that lying whore Bedilla—Azkaban melting away the beauty that was once only second to Bella, but far more disloyal. She was now shackled in the atrium, shrieking in pain as the Bitterfrost Flame slowly froze her flesh into crystals that were quick to crumble. She wished to die, but couldn’t, and Rookwood was a master of keeping people alive. Now, everyone could see the price of treason the moment they left the fortress.

On the other hand, Pettigrew had been handed to Lupin, who had thanked him profusely for the gift. The rat-like man had been flayed alive and had already expired.

Voldemort’s thoughts moved onto Snape. His Potion Master was nowhere to be found, no matter how hard he looked—not even a single hair. There was no trace of his magic, nor could the Dark Lord sense his mark. 

Karkaroff was no different, the old treacherous bastard having fled Durmstrang the day after the body ritual. A bounty of ten thousand galleons was already posted on the black market for his head, and double if he was brought in alive, but none had yet reported. 

Even so, the mystery of his disappearance did not bother Voldemort much. Karkaroff was merely another insect that could be dealt with as soon as he was found.

He rose from the floor and stretched his limbs, feeling dreadfully bored again. Hiding in the shadows was duller than he remembered. Or was his patience growing thin?

Voldemort couldn’t tell. He turned his footsteps to the stone garden outside, hoping that the fresh air would clear his mind. It only made him more restless. His thoughts drifted to the gorgeous face of Ottavia Zabini, that murderous seductress who had so daringly flirted with Thomas Riddle last month. A tryst would not be worth his time, but this particular witch was close friends with the wife of the Italian Minister of Magic.

“I’ll return by the evening,” he told Travers, the guard who was swift to bow. “You need not accompany me.”

Sighing, he cleared his mind and Disapparated into Rome with a pop.

---

Author’s Endnote. Super late chapter, but I could finally sit down and write. Probably not what you expect. The war is going to ramp up from now on. 

Anyway, good old GG convinces Harry to become a professional ‘child trafficker’ and an arsonist. Voldemort is plotting more and more, while Dumbledore and his order remain woefully passive.