73.For the Good of Wizardkind

29th of November 1994, Tuesday (2 days later) 

??? The Dark Lord

The plan to meet with the Italian Minister and control him in person had fallen through. Dumbledore had moved swiftly, notifying the ICW and even managing to make the slothful behemoth finally act—Ettore Velenza was now guarded around the clock by twenty elite hit wizards from Africa, Australia, and the Far East. They were no better or worse than other veteran hit wizards when it came to fighting and guarding, but each hailed from a place far from Voldemort’s influence. Even Ettore’s wife had been sent to the ICW headquarters as a precaution.

With that, the Italian operation was strangled in the cradle. He could kill his way through such a guard, yes, but now, even if he controlled the Italian Minister, it would be of no use with the ICW aware of it.

“My lord, the ICW forces in Italy outnumber our estimation by a significant margin,” Augustus Rookwood said, dabbing the sweat on his brow with a silver handkerchief. “Mulciber couldn’t quite get close, but he counted more than seven hundred.”

“Yaxley?” Emberwick prodded impatiently from his raised gilded chair, sitting just to Voldemort’s left. Lord Incendius wore deep crimson robes embroidered with dancing orange flames. His hair was dark crimson, as was his well-trimmed goatee, and his amber eyes held a fiery glint that made those who stared for too long feel hot and stuffy. The man breathed and lived fire magic, and it had influenced his body and mind to no small degree.

Such a man would make even Voldemort wary in a fight, but the Dark Lord had subdued him regardless, and he now bore his mark. In great contrast to his imposing magic, Ascalon Emberwick was dreadfully short at five feet two, more than a full head shorter than Voldemort.

“Our spies in the ICW headquarters have stopped responding,” Harold Yaxley said, bowing deeply. “My lords, it is as we feared, with such a little time frame, they could not infiltrate too deeply—not without making mistakes.”

Emberwick gave a sharp snort. “Incompetent.”

“This reeks of a trap,” said Voldemort, frowning. Even he would struggle to take down hundreds of experienced wizards. Worse, in such numbers, some true experts might be hiding. He could spring the trap and deal with the core of the ICW forces in one fell swoop, but if Dumbledore was part of this ambush…

He scarcely remembered the last time someone had dared to face him so openly. Voldemort was certain he could escape any trap, but a total victory… that was questionable. Confronting Dumbledore here was even more dangerous. Revealing his presence openly would also be a heavy blow to his plans.

“Barty,” he said darkly, “contact Lupin and tell him to redouble his efforts in France for the next week. Let loose those mad dogs of his. Send words to the giants and vampire clans also. I command them to emerge and muddy the waters for the ICW.”

“Of course, master.”

The Dark Lord then glanced at Rowle. “Alan, unleash the inferi in Germany on a rainy day.”

It was a pity Germany and France were too big to take down so swiftly; old and new powers were too tightly entrenched, leaving little to no gaps to exploit. He knew he could not expand too quickly without pushback, but once he overcame this pesky problem, his influence would spread even further. But for now, he would test the ICW’s resolve… and their competence.

“Ascalon, turn your sights to the Balkans. It will do us good if Greece remains as it is. Romania and Bulgaria should be easy pickings now that the ICW has focused its forces elsewhere. If you can’t take down their Ministries, you know what to do.”

The red-haired wizard gave him a wicked grin and nodded eagerly.

He retreated to his quarters, his thoughts drifting to his encounter in Hogwarts. Two little prodigies, as Potter and Black had dared to defy him so openly. Juno, in particular, was so full of venom and loathing that her barbed remarks made him lose his composure. Unacceptable. Even Dumbledore could not guide or hoodwink someone like this—he could taste the darkness and fury of her magic. It was pure, thick enough to be one step away from a limit. That step was the hardest, of course, but she had delved into the Dark Arts deeper than most of his own save for his strongest followers, and she wasn’t even a grown witch!

This only made his interest grow. From what he saw, Potter and Black were unrivalled in raw power and ability for their age—even at fifteen, he would come up short by a little, though he would never openly admit it. Their attainments in the Mind Arts were both profound, and their thoughts were protected by solid shields polished for years. Solid enough that even he would’ve needed a full minute to pierce through. And Potter’s magic was an immovable mountain, steady, thick, and incredibly solid.

That child had definitely dabbled in rituals with considerable success. He had touched upon a limit, too, or perhaps even surpassed it. A single mastery would see him become the youngest archmage ever, beating Dumbledore’s advancement at sixteen. 

…the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal,

he will have the power the Dark Lord knows not, 

and either must die at the hand of the other

for neither can live while the other survives…

He shook his head. That prophecy had been fulfilled, and yet, young Potter’s power was beyond doubt. His potential shone brighter than a lantern in the dark.

Voldemort wanted them both even more. They were too dangerous to be left alone. In two years, perhaps three, they would be incredibly difficult to deal with together.

But Bella’s daughter had no weakness to grasp. And her home…

A heavy frown settled on his face. Black Manor was in… Black Manor… he couldn’t remember.

“Fidelius,” he spat. “The damned Fidelius again.”

What a troublesome spell. But even without it, House Black’s properties were as numerous as a clever rabbit’s burrows, and even he didn’t know them all.

Potter was not any easier to leverage—Quirrell had checked long ago. The boy had no blood family left, save for those vile Muggles that even the boy didn’t care about. As for his Black godfather and school friends… that was not easy. Not under Dumbledore’s nose, especially now that the old man had grown vigilant.

He had grown heavy-handed, too, leaving almost no dementors behind. As amortal beings, they were hard to destroy, but not impossible, not for a powerful wizard with sufficient resolve and powerful magic. Those few who survived were already preparing to flee far away, and even his own persuasions were of little use.

His desire to deal with Dumbledore intensified. But while the spirit was willing, the mind knew that a wizard of such calibre was not easily killed. This was far from the first time he wished to deal with the meddlesome old man, but he had never gotten closer to success.

For now, he turned his attention to Ottavia, who still slept on the bed, as bare as the day she was born.

---

3rd of December 1994, Saturday (4 days later) 

“My lord, more than half of the giants have been slaughtered by Dumbledore yesterday—including all of their chieftains, and the rest have routed, fleeing into the fjords and forests of Norway.” Rookwood’s pale face grew even grimmer. “And Lord Dracul has withdrawn his vampires, and the other minor elders can no longer be contacted. He says… he cannot face Dumbledore. The werewolves have also scattered, their attacks growing far more cautious.”

Voldemort’s fingers clawed at the gilded armrest of his throne. Old, meddlesome fool. No, not a fool.

Albus Dumbledore was a clever man and a wizard of great strength—killing a tribe of giants alone was no simple or easy task. Voldemort himself would struggle. If the old man had acted this way in the last war, Voldemort would have been pushed into a corner instead of being on the cusp of victory.

“There’s more, my lord.” Rivulets of sweat glistened on Yaxley’s face. “Supreme Mugwump Silvano has given Dumbledore a license to act as he deems fit—including sanctioned killing of all magical races, no matter the circumstance. Wizards and witches included.”

Dumbledore was dead-set on putting a real stop to his rise this time. Even the usually slow-to-act European ministries had decisively raised their national defences, blocking international Portkeys and Apparition regardless of the blow to trade. 

His desire to kill only intensified, and his magic pulsed in the air, thickening with each heartbeat. His kneeling subordinates began to tremble as Lord Voldemort stroked his wand, vivid green coalescing at the tip to match his desires.

He was half tempted to curse his men. But while it would vent his rage, it would not make the meddlesome problem go away. Weak. His men were too few and too weak. 

“You two will go to the cave of darkness and train for a month,” he said coldly. “Mulciber, you shall join them.”

The two looked ghostly pale—as if they preferred the Cruciatus—but after a moment bowed and turned to leave obediently. The burly wizard to the side saluted, trailed after the pair, and disappeared with them through the black double doors at the far end of the chamber.

Voldemort’s gaze glanced through the empty hall. Most of his followers were already on missions, recruiting more men, undermining the ICW and the local Aurors, or training. And yet, he could not afford to show up. Not yet.  

Any venture outside might draw Dumbledore’s swift arrival. He had seen the steely resolve in the headmaster’s cool blue eyes that day. The old man was prepared to fight and to kill, and now that he had seen him in person, the Dark Lord knew he had grown only more powerful in his old age, not weaker. Voldemort would never admit it aloud, but he dared not fight Dumbledore to the death. His power was restored—even advanced half a step further—but the Dark Lord still didn’t think it was enough. At least one more great ritual, perhaps two. 

The old headmaster was like a looming mountain, a shadow hanging over his head that he couldn’t cast away. Even the thought of Dumbledore made his sleep uneasy.

A cloaked figure slipped through the ajar door, rushing toward him. The hood was shrugged off, revealing a head full of flowing platinum hair.

“My lord…” Lucius lowered himself to both knees, bowing so deeply his brow touched the flagstone floor. “My lord, the situation with my daughter—”

“I have Nott and Selwyn looking into it,” said the Dark Lord. “Dumbledore has grown too active for me to appear openly now.” 

Especially since the old man found out about his public persona. He didn’t know what the headmaster would do now, but it would certainly be troublesome and tricky. Voldemort could change his face and name—but disdained doing so. Hiding in the shadows like this was barely acceptable, but changing faces and skulking around like some frightened dreg was beneath him. 

Lucius raised his head, his pale face heavy with hesitation. “My lord,” he eked out. “My wife… is angry.”  

“Struggling to deal with your Black trophy wife, now, Lucius?” The Dark Lord let out a low, amused laugh. 

“I… she’s stronger than me and better with a wand. And a mother is most dangerous when protecting her child.”

Voldemort quirked a brow. “Should I help you deal with her, then?” 

He had already gotten a good taste of the Black family women. There was madness to them, but it made them all the more alluring. Especially a married, charming, and proud noble lady with children like Narcissa Malfoy. Dominating his servants that way only excited him more.

Except… a flash of red hair and green eyes rose in his mind, and a cold shiver ran down his spine. No, he still did not understand how Olde Magic worked in such a case. There was no need to tempt fate once again. Pushing a talented but desperate mother into a corner… was unwise. 

Sacrifice for love? What a vain, foolish emotion. A weakness… until it wasn’t. He was tempted to try his hand at it, but nurturing genuine feelings took time, and such a boon might not be necessarily any better than what he could gain from ordinary rituals.

“No, my lord,” Lucius said weakly, breaking him from his thoughts. “It’s just a daughter. I can have another if I wish. But my wife… she’s dead set on dragging down the Minister for this. He was the one to arrange an Auror guard for the child, and she blames him for the kidnapping as much as the elusive culprit.”  

Stirring things up under Dumbledore’s nose?

“Good.” A smile tugged at Voldemort’s lips. “Why would I stop her? I’ll back her, even. Give the Ministry something to worry about beyond werewolves and dementors. We can coordinate in the open and in the shadows to drag Fudge’s name through the mud.”

Right now, the Ministry of Wizarding Britain was united, too united, and that made it effective when facing threats, nearly rivalling its ability to project force and influence at the peak of the previous war. They had even grown the DMLE after the Azkaban break-out; the Aurors were now numerous and well-trained, further raising their vigilance. Using a grieving mother like Narcissa as a wedge to divide and erode that unity was perfect. 

Once, he had considered making a move on Fudge, but the man was too cowardly and always under heavy guard. Killing him was unfeasible; his death would only rally the Dumbledore hardliners, and someone harder to deal with would replace him, and controlling him was impossible—at least under Dumbledore’s watch. 

Dumbledore. It all boiled down to bloody Dumbledore!

Bang!

The door slammed open, and Barty rushed in, face clouded by worry.

“They’re attacking, my lord,” he said, words breathless. “The ICW force assaulted the Austrian border mounted on brooms. Their number has increased even further—now over a thousand. They must have broken through already.”

Did they grow impatient?

Austria could not be lost—it was their true stronghold, a natural fortress and the base that supplied them with the greatest wealth and number of skilled wizards and witches. It was also the doorway to the rest of the conquered domains. But he could not show himself, not openly. Not without risking too much. Even if he kept his identity veiled, the appearance of an arch-wizard versed in the Dark Arts would alarm the ICW far more than just one mere powerful Pyromancer.

Voldemort rose slowly. “Recall Ascalon. Summon all available wands.”

Three hours later, as the sun set, Ascalon led a force of three hundred and fifty men into the Gail Valley, with Voldemort tagging along, clad in an enchanted silk cloak that hid his features and distorted his voice. They could gather another two hundred in a day, but by that time, Austria could already be lost.

A young Austrian wizard met them at a makeshift outpost by a secluded ravine and saluted Ascalon. “Lord Emberwick. They have made camp at the far end of the valley, fortifying their position while dismantling the border-protection enchantments.”

“Expelling them will be difficult,” Ascalon said, stroking his goatee.

“Waiting is not an option, either, Lord Incendius,” Barty said, voice grim. “If they fortify even further or bring more reinforcements, defeating them will be difficult, and dislodging them—nigh impossible.” 

Emberwick glanced at the Dark Lord, and Voldemort subtly nodded.

“Anastasia,” the Pyromancer turned to a stout, scar-faced witch with her neck painted in runes, one of his most trusted lieutenants, “go north and flank them with the left wing. Jaroslav, take your men south and prepare. Use only cursed flames and spells with wide-area destruction. Wait for my signal.”

Once darkness fell, they moved slowly, approaching the flickering lights at the far end of the valley. 

Voldemort’s fingers coiled around the dark ebony wand. It was warm in his hand, pliant to his magic and eager to be used. The enemy camp grew in their vision, protected by a wooden palisade. While the rest of the men were all smiling, eager for blood and death, Voldemort was far from calm.

Being forced to react to the enemy was never good. Dumbledore’s hand was at play here, no doubt. 

Within a hundred yards, a loud, ringing noise tore through the night, and the enemy stirred. 

In a moment, the night turned as bright as day. Spellfire erupted through the darkness as a volley of curses and jinxes launched at them. 

Voldemort swept out his wand, raising a wall of dirt that absorbed the attack. With such a numerical disadvantage, he had no choice but to act. A spell here, a curse there, he could slowly tilt the battle in his favour while keeping his identity veiled, even if it would raise ICW’s vigilance later.

Emberwick moved half a breath later, his wand dancing in a complex pattern.

“O flames of wrath,” he began chanting, “ancient and wild, crawl forth from the void, devour the world, unleash destruction. Abyssal Inferno!”

Streaks of white-hot flame burst towards the wall, pulsing and twisting into shapes of fire falcons and flaming wraiths. Cursed fire rose in waves from the north and south at the same time in dark blue, pale orange, and red like molten iron, threatening to devour the ICW camp. The fire shattered through the shields, but the moment it passed through the wooden palisade, it grew sluggish and began to dwindle.

Voldemort saw them, then. 

Two bronze-skinned wizards in ornate black robes with a burning sun embroidered in gold on their chests, chanting loudly while waving pale battle-staffs at the sky. 

Sun-mages. Nur al-Nejoom’s disciples. The dark lord didn’t know how the ICW dragged those reclusive hermits out of the City of the Dead, but they spelt trouble.

“Aim at the sun-mages,” he commanded, voice lingering in the dark. 

His men immediately switched their focus to the new targets.

“Avada Kedavra!”

“Crucio!”

“Eviscera!”

“Cardia Finis!”

A stream of spell-light rushed at the sun-mages, but a solid wall of granite and sandstone rose along with layers of translucent shields, blocking all the curses.

A moment later, the camp’s gate groaned open, and a stream of brown-and-green-robed wizards rushed out as men on brooms rose from above, flinging curses back into Emberwick’s ranks.

Channelling his anger, Voldemort’s hand blurred as he moved like a cloaked wraith between his ranks, launching curses at the enemies. A broom shattered, sending wooden splinters everywhere, and the wizard beneath it fell head-first until he was trampled to death. A Killing Curse pierced through a shield, killing a man on the spot. A Spine-twisting Curse turned another into a twitching wreck. 

When he felt merciful, he even saved some of Emberwick’s subordinates with a quick shield. But it was not enough. ICW had too many wizards, and a single wand, no matter how powerful the wielder, struggled to turn the tide. 

He stopped advancing, allowing the stream of wizards to rush forward. Focusing, he moulded his will and magic together, fanning them out across the field to restrain the enemy and erode their courage and resolve.

A moment later, the air was choked with ozone. A streak of lightning as thick as an old oak rushed his way, and Voldemort barely lifted his wand in time. The conjured silver shield took the full brunt of the spell, turning white-hot and its edges beginning to melt.

Voldemort’s hair stood all on end when he saw the caster, strolling calmly through the fighting as if taking a walk in the park. 

Pristine pink robes stood out like a sore thumb in the fighting, a lemon-yellow wizarding cap, and eyes glowing with power behind crescent-shaped spectacles. His spread-out intent was immediately rebuffed by a bubbling wave of magic no less thick than his own.

“Dumbledore,” he ground out. For a moment, they stared at each other as their raw magic struggled for dominance across the battlefield. For a long moment, they seemed equal, neither gaining the advantage, but the old man’s power was heavier, more solid, and when his initial momentum faltered, Voldemort slowly found himself pushed back. He lashed out with his mind, but his mental attack barely put a dent in the old man’s mind shield.

The headmaster raised his wand again, and the ground around Voldemort began to transfigure into stony wolves and mountain lions that pounced on him. A flick of his wand sent powerful blasting curses that made even Voldemort’s skin crawl.

Then, he felt a powerful Anti-Apparition curse settle over the area, the kind that took anchors and dozens of people to cast.

The old man meant to kill him.

The Dark Lord spun out of the way, and three swift flickers of his wand turned half the conjured beasts into serpents that turned on their brethren. His hand blurred, matching Dumbledore curse for curse.

Moments later, everyone around them moved away—and those who failed to do so were killed by the errant spells, curse ricochets, or mauled by the conjured beasts.

Their speed was about the same, and the old man’s spells were a fraction stronger and his control better, but not enough to overwhelm Voldemort. There was no time to cast great sorcery—every big spell was too lengthy and taxing, and would allow the enemy to squeeze in several deadly curses in the meantime. A fight between top wizards boiled down to speed, power, mental and elemental control.

The Dark Lord could retreat easily enough, but his men…

The ICW’s numbers were too great, and the Death Eaters and the Flame Knights were on the back foot, surrounded and mercilessly killed. Emberwick and his best men were pinned by the Egyptian sun-mages, neither gaining an advantage.

Voldemort flung out a Great Quagmire Hex, but Dumbledore swiftly dispelled it, launching back streaks of ice and sharpened steel arrows. 

The Dark Lord avoided most and shielded against the rest.

“Avada Kedavra!” 

‘Nervus Seco! Ruptum!’ 

Voldemort kept casting the Killing Curse as swiftly as he could, mixing it with swift curses, and streaks of bright green and eerie purple rushed at the headmaster. He raised a marble wall to block it and tossed out a bright yellow lion statue made of the same material as those flanking the Hogwarts entrance. 

Orichalcum!

The beast came to life, shook itself for a moment, and then pounced on Rowle, tearing him apart in an instant. Magic splashed harmlessly off its gleaming metal fur, and even transfiguration was useless. The metal beast was like a true lion among a flock of sheep, leaving a wet, bloody trail of corpses in its wake.

The Dark Lord shielded himself from another volley of conjured arrows mixed with powerful blasting curses and swept out his wand, launching a grey-purple cloud of Magic Rot at the headmaster to buy himself a moment of respite. As he followed up with a Killing Curse and conjured dozens more serpents, he glanced around him. His men were dying by the dozens. Emberwick had already lost one of his powerful lieutenants and was slowly pushed back.

Soon enough, he would find himself surrounded by Dumbledore and other ICW elites. The headmaster had already dealt with his curses and threw out another Orichalcum statue, this one shaped like a badger. The Dark Lord did not try to deal with these statues—not for lack of ability, but because doing so would pin his attention and magic for more than a moment. A moment that could spell his defeat. 

“Retreat!” Voldemort roared as he ducked under another one of Dumbledore’s steel arrows. 

Pulling in his anger, he melded half his remaining magic and intent into an elongated, impossibly sharp spike and launched it skyward. 

A loud crack rang out as the Anti-Apparition enchantments shattered.

---

His base had now turned into an infirmary. Rookwood and the few medi-wizards they had at hand fretted between rows of makeshift beds, attending to the moaning wizards. The air stank of bitter draughts and healing concoctions, stinging at his eyes.

Voldemort had slumped into his throne, his mind in disarray. He was relatively unharmed, yes, but the backlash of breaking such a powerful Anti-Apparition curse had left his innards shaken and his magic in disarray—it would take another hour to calm it, and the taste of iron on his tongue would take a full day to go away.

“A hundred and fifty dead,” Ascalon murmured, his eyes staring at the stump where his left hand ended just beneath the elbow. As the aftermath of quite the dark, poisonous curse, it was gone for good, thwarting any attempts at limb regrowth. Half of his ear was missing too, and a large yellowish scar was running down his collarbone, all the way to his ribs—missing his heart just by an inch. “Everyone else is wounded. A good thirty of them crippled.”

A devastating defeat indeed. Only the Dark Lord had emerged relatively unscathed. A small mercy that his identity was not revealed. But unless every wizard was blind and missed his duel with Dumbledore, the ICW now knew a powerful dark wizard stood behind Emberwick.

Curse the old man!

“The Austrian Ministry is fortified enough to hold off an assault for two days,” Barty Crouch rasped. His head was wrapped up with bandages, leaving only his mouth and eyes revealed. “It should be under siege any moment now. We can muster another group perhaps, and launch a counter-attack…”

“It’s of no use,” Voldemort’s voice grew colder, “not with the Egyptian sun-mages and Dumbledore lurking in the dark. Not to mention, Nur al-Nejoom did not even make an appearance; only his disciples did. The ICW must have paid a heavy price to recruit them, so they won’t aid them for long; they’re not as great a problem as Dumbledore. We must get rid of the headmaster.”

“But my lord… wizards of Dumbledore’s calibre are not so easily killed. He’ll sense any ill intent or dark magic, making assassination near impossible.”

“No man can remain vigilant forever,” Voldemort said darkly. “There are moments that even the vaunted headmaster would drop his guard, and he can be weakened further through other means before an attempt is made. Augustus?”

Rookwood came over and bowed deeply.

“I have… discovered some knowledge about Dumbledore’s childhood and time at school.”

That was far from enough.

The Dark Lord leaned back into his throne. “The entire treasury is at your disposal. Dig deeper. I want more results within the week.”

“We cannot face the ICW head-on,” Ascalon said, voice hoarse.

He was right, as loath as Voldemort was to admit it. They had gotten too drunk on their previous success and their dominance over Central Europe. As much as it pained him to admit, there was a limit to using beasts, hags, and dark wizards—they were all disorganised, and ultimately few in number. Pureblood rhetoric was just as limited, with little to no following outside Wizarding Britain, especially after the Great War and Grindelwald’s fall gutted over two-thirds of the old, traditional families. 

While they could continue guerrilla hit-and-run tactics, those wouldn’t give them much of an advantage. Not with Dumbledore actively venturing onto the battlefield and destroying his side’s morale while lifting the enemy’s spirits.

He needed something different. He needed something new, something that would tie down ICW’s hands. An ideology that could rally more wizards. The Dark Lord sank into deep thought as the hours passed in a blur, the wounded were carried back to their quarters, and gloom and quiet settled in the great hall.

Before long, he finally stirred from his throne and waved over a man to fetch Crouch. His most devoted servant was quick to appear, though in bright orange pyjamas, his eyes still bleary with sleep.

“Barty,” he said, “Get in touch with the international reporters you scouted.”

---

7th of December 1994, Wednesday (4 days later) 

Ron Weasley  

The morning run had left him famished, but he could now keep up with Harry and Juno’s pace. His stamina had noticeably increased, both in work-outs and in magic.

The clattering of plates and cutlery echoed across the Great Hall when the morning owls arrived in a flurry of feathers, but he paid them no heed as he pulled over another serving of bacon, buttered toast, and spicy roast sausage. He wasn’t subscribed to anything (mostly because he had no knuts to spare), and no one ever wrote to him. His parents wrote to Ginny and the twins if they had something to inform him, now that Percy had graduated.

But something went wrong. Suddenly, the Great Hall quieted down, and even Astoria and Luna beside him froze, staring at the Daily Prophet. Huh. 

“What is it?” he asked after swallowing a mouthful of sausage. Even the retaking of the Austrian Ministry had not elicited such stunned reactions.

“Here.” The Greengrass witch laid the paper between the plates, letting him take a closer look. “See for yourself.”

Lord Incendius, now with a silvery left arm poking out of his crimson robes, stood on a great podium and stared down at him from the front page.

‘For the Good of Wizardkind!’

After his defeat at the Battle of Gail Valley, the renowned dark wizard and pyromancer Ascalon Emberwick strongly denounced the ICW and their befuddled ways. An anonymous Greek reporter interviewed the dark lord, spreading his words far and wide. 

‘The ICW is working for the good of Muggles,’ he claimed. ‘I am merely fighting for more land for wizards and magical creatures. With each passing decade, the old forests shrink, magical creatures go extinct, and the Muggles turn woodland into fields or cut it down for pure profit. Wizarding settlements are a third of what they were at the end of the last century, and many must live in secrecy as Muggles try to squeeze out more land. The traditional magical territories have shrunk by half, and nearly all the resources, from essentials like food to minerals and metals, have been monopolised by the greedy Muggles, leaving only scraps for the Wizarding World.

At this rate, wizards will have nowhere to live in another century; each wizard would be poor and at the mercy of Muggles, and magical beasts would be rarer—if they still endure at all.

My followers and I are not against the Statute of Secrecy and all it entails, nor do we wish to rule over Muggle-kind, but the dignity and heritage of wizards cannot be constantly sacrificed by old bureaucrats for the comfort of Muggles. We will expel Muggles from our ancestral homes and ancient magical settlements, restore the old magical forests, retake the hills, valleys, and streams, and give wizards and magical creatures the land and the opportunities that should have been theirs by rights!

The Statute must be kept, yes, but wizards deserve to walk out in the open in their own dwellings, with their heads raised high!’

Emberwick then blamed the ICW for being rigid, passive, and close-minded, claiming they were clinging to old glory while refusing to address important issues. (More on Ascalon Emberwick’s dark deeds on page three)

True to his claim, he passed the Magical Protection Act in the territory under his control, laying claim to a third of the woodland in Hungary, Slovakia, Dalmatia, and Czechia, and not insignificant swathes of the countryside half-abandoned by Muggles. Incendius plans to reclaim a tenth of the total territory of those countries over the next ten years. It is uncertain how Ascalon would address the legality of such acts while upholding the Statute of Secrecy.

Meanwhile, although the Austrian Ministry had been retaken by the ICW, the local population now resists the ICW’s presence, with skirmishes and small battles taking place every day—

Ron found himself nodding throughout the page. Yes, who wouldn’t want more wizarding villages and magical forests? This was far better than talk of murder, mayhem, or lording over Muggles and Muggle-borns. Perhaps even his family could have a second house with a bigger garden. Perhaps once he grew up, he could get a nice cottage of his own, one with a proper body-building gym. He wasn’t the only one so engrossed in the paper. Hushed whispers rose through the four tables, and many of the students looked confused, conflicted, and quite surprised.

Then he froze.

That’s what Emberwick wanted.

…It would have been great if it hadn’t been a Dark Lord suggesting this.

Ron stole a glance at the staff table and saw Dumbledore and the two headmistresses all wearing grim expressions, as if the newspaper in their grasp was some great enemy. Perhaps it was.

The whispers grew louder and louder until the headmaster rose from his chair. “Silence!”

His words lingered in the air, halting the clamour instantly.

“I know some of you might be… tempted by Emberwick’s words.” Dumbledore paused, his piercing blue eyes gliding over the student body. Even Ron averted his eyes, failing to meet the headmaster’s heavy gaze. “But remember this. It’s easy to offer things that are not yours to others, but giving them out is another matter entirely. If he were so broad-minded and generous, Ascalon wouldn’t be skulking in the dark like a gutter rat, nor would he have ended up in Azkaban’s maximum-security wing. His words may be lofty, but they don’t match his deeds at all.”

“Furthermore, I took part in the Battle of Gail Valley, and there was another dark wizard there, far more powerful than Emberwick.” The headmaster looked five years older, then. “I suspect he was the one truly in charge. He was no weaker than Voldemort at his heyday, but was dead-set on hiding his identity. I urge you to keep your calm as proper wizards and witches, not rushing blindly into the unknown and the dangerous.”

The Great Hall erupted. 

“Did you win, Headmaster?” someone called from the other end of the Gryffindor table.

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “Of course. The enemy fled to avoid a complete defeat. Over a hundred dark wizards perished that night.”

“What magic did you use?”

“Can we see?” Fred piped up.

“I’m afraid it’s not appropriate for students of your age. Classes start in half an hour, and many of you still need to finish your breakfast. Learning cannot be done on an empty stomach.” The headmaster pointedly looked at Ginny and her Hufflepuff friends.

Ron returned his focus to the bacon, shaking his head inwardly as the buzzing and whispers returned, mingling with the clattering of plates. Dumbledore’s words had definitely had an effect; not many were as confused as before.

“What do you think, Ron?” Astoria asked.

The blonde witch was paler than usual, and she seemed fragile after her two-week stay in the hospital. Her movements lacked the vigour she had shown before, and she now avoided training.

“I think Emberwick is a slimeball,” he said bluntly. “A murderer and a crazy git with too much love for fire.”

“Yes, those… words don’t fit his known temper,” Luna piped in. “I heard he’s quick to anger and eager for a fight. This careful speech doesn’t sound like him at all.”

Astoria let out a long sigh. “While true, that’s not what I meant. I was speaking about… his idea.” 

Even Hermione and Neville in the nearby seats leaned in to listen, no doubt curious.

Ron let out a snort. “Such important matters don’t require my opinion at all. It’s not like the big shots who make the call would ever ask me about it. But if the Ministry goes around the idea… I wouldn’t refuse a good, cosy house to move into after I graduate. Forget a house—even a plot of land to call my own wouldn’t be bad.”

Luna laughed merrily. “I wouldn’t either!”

“You’re incorrigible, the two of you,” Astoria said, cheeks puffed up. 

Breakfast ended, and they all picked up their bags and headed towards their respective classes. As they reached the Great Staircase, Astoria and Luna tugged on his sleeves from both sides.

“Ron,” Luna called out, hesitation written all over her small face. “We need to ask you something important. Go, Tory.”

“Err,” Astoria stammered. Redness crept up her pale neck and into her cheeks. “Do you have plans for the Yule Ball?”

“Was thinking of skipping,” Ron said with a yawn. “My uniform’s a total bust. But Professor McGonagall said the meals will be great, and Gabby asked me to escort her to it, so I agreed.”

“What?” Astoria gasped. “How could you?”

Ron scratched his nose. “She wanted to go and see it, and I had no reason to refuse, Tori.” 

Luna had already wilted all over. “Now we can’t go anymore.”

“Huh? Oh, right, you’re both third years. Why don’t I take you two along as well? I read the rules, and nowhere does it say I need to bring a single date.”

“You idiot!” Astoria shrieked, drawing the attention of the nearby students. Then she kicked his shin, turned around, and fled into one of the side hallways, mumbling something that suspiciously sounded like ‘Stupid Ron’.

Luna gave him a very disappointed look and ran after Astoria.

‘What a bother,’ he groaned inwardly, rubbing his shin. The two of them hadn’t been half as troublesome last year. At this moment, he even regretted agreeing to Gabrielle. There wouldn’t be any drama, and now he still had to learn to dance, taking precious time away from his training and studies. Though he had given his word and would definitely go. Old Jonny at the Muggle gym he went to during the summer had it right—girls only slowed his gains. 

Sighing heavily, Ron made his way to the Charms classroom, arriving last. They were together with Slytherin in this class, leaving only a spot between Damien and Malfoy in the middle rows.

Giving a curt nod to his two fellow clubmates, he slumped in his seat.

Flitwick entered, climbed onto his pile of books, with a flick of his wand enchanted a piece of chalk to write on the board, and began explaining the theory of the Banishing Charm. The three of them didn’t pay too close attention—Juno had already taught them how to cast the spell in the D.A. last year, and Ron had already managed to do it silently. 

“You don’t look too well, Ronald,” Damien said quietly. “Yule Ball woes like Draco?”

“Sorta,” Ron forced a weak smile, unwilling to explain how he made Damien’s sister flee in tears. Well, he hadn’t seen her crying, but knowing Astoria… “I… agreed to go with little Gabby when she invited me, but my friends aren’t too happy about it. Worse—my robes look like the latest fad from two centuries ago.”

Damien clicked his tongue. “Our Ronald, most wanted. How about I lend you a set of official dance robes? Of the proper sort, I mean.”

“I’ll owe you, then,” Ron said, grinning. “Now I only gotta learn how to dance—just enough to not break some toes will do.”

“You should ask your head of house for that,” Draco said, face glum all over. “They say McGonagall was the finest dancer in Hogwarts in her youth.”

“Might as well give it a try,” Ron said with a shrug. “What’s the matter with you? Why so morose, Malfoy?”

“He has to accompany his fiancée to the Yule Ball,” Damien was the one to respond, a mocking smile tugging at his lips.

“Fiancée?” Ron blurted out. “Congratulations.”

Draco’s face darkened even further.

“It’s Melony Burke,” the Greengrass boy said. “And he can’t legally break the contract without his father’s approval. His inheritance depends on it.”

“Oh, my condolences, then.” Ron reached out to pat Draco’s shoulder, and the blonde boy didn’t snap as he expected. No, he looked as if the end of the world had come. 

“By the way,” Damien said once the class ended, “we have an emergency meeting with the D.A. tonight, just before dinner—at the abandoned wing on the fifth floor, our first haunt.”

After the last and dreadfully long History of Magic class ended, Ron turned his steps to the fifth floor. Luna stood together with Susan Bones and Hannah, throwing glares his way, while Astoria was urgently whispering something to Juno. 

The Black witch glanced his way, her eyes flashing with deep purple. “No, Astoria,” she said loudly. “Ronald is not under the control of allure—or any other spell or potion, for that matter.”

Ron’s face heated as everyone turned to look at him. He didn’t back down; instead, he raised his head high and glared back. “What are you all looking at?”

Diggory gave him a grin, while Fred and George whistled. “Our Ronnie bagged a veela?”

“Enough,” Harry’s sharp voice cut in. “We’re here to address Emberwick’s announcement. Juno and I strongly suspect that these are Voldemort’s words, merely using the pyromancer as his mouthpiece.”

“The Dark Lord?” Ralina frowned, anxiously tugging on her dark braid. “That’s entirely different from the ideals he fought for in the war back then.”

Juno sneered. “An ambitious man like Voldemort will promise whatever grants him the most power and the greatest influence. Scruples and values are no better than tools to be discarded once they’ve served their purpose. Besides, who do you think will benefit most from such expansion? It most certainly won’t be the Muggle-born.”

“Why doesn’t the ICW just announce it’s just a fraud, then?” Hannah asked weakly.

Juno’s face somehow grew colder. “Who says it’s a lie? The Dark Lord would definitely do it for power. Even if it were, the world wouldn’t be short on wizards, witches, and creatures who dearly want to believe in it. I can see it now—he’d gain thousands of willing followers within a month. Dozens of times as many sympathisers, too. After all, only fools would refuse good things like land and resources. The ICW might not be paralysed just yet, but it won’t be long until it is.” 

“How does one defeat such an idea?” Cedric asked, face growing pale.

Silence stretched in the vast chamber as everyone exchanged fearful, confused looks. The prospect of the Dark Lord’s forces growing so quickly was terrifying—even to Ron. Even if Voldemort was far away now…

“The Ministry,” Juno said at last. “They can… take the first step. Implement it in a feasible way that won’t affect the Muggle world. Expanding the wizarding space and giving more room even to the magical creatures. That will surely cut off any growing support for Emberwick—and Voldemort would gain.”

“But is that possible?” asked Fred.

She gave him a brittle smile. “I don’t know. Such expansion comes at the expense of Muggles and won’t be easy to implement. No matter how you sugarcoat it, it’s plunder, plain and simple. Some would no doubt claim it’s a simple reclamation of old, abandoned wizarding dwellings and magical territory. But our Ministry was never quite quick to respond to problems. And the ICW… this just might tear them apart.”

“The Muggles already control most of the land and forests,” Anthony said, eyes darting around. “Surely having some more for ourselves is not a bad thing—especially if we don’t harm anybody?”

“Taking someone’s possessions is quite harmful to them,” Harry deadpanned. “There’s maybe… what? Fifty million Muggles in Britain? Sixty at most. The wizarding population is only about thirty thousand. Say you triple it if you add magical creatures and the like. Even then, for every wizard or creature, there are more than a thousand Muggles.”

“But Emberwick… he’s not wrong,” Hannah blurted out. “The old wizarding villages and settlements are almost all gone. And the magical woodlands—” 

“I know, Hannah.” Juno gave her a reassuring smile. “The idea is not evil by itself. It might even be… necessary, but it remains to be seen how best to go about it, and Emberwick’s appetite is not small at all—tripling the wizarding living space and reclaiming a woodland or two for magical creatures is enough. It should be easy to do, too, without affecting the Muggle world. I will see what I can do to put a motion to the Wizengamot, but even so, it would need support. You can try to contact your parents about this matter.”

The meeting soon ended, leaving Ron somewhat dazed. Still, these lofty matters indeed had nothing to do with him. Nobody would offer him a house either. 

Juno motioned for him to remain.

“I want to thank you for the tip,” she said, though her expression remained cold.

He waved away her concern. “Don’t sweat it. The club is all about helping each other anyway. I was just worried when Charlie told me about the dragons. Class five monsters are no joking matter.”

“I’m not one who doesn’t appreciate help. Here, this is for you.” She motioned toward a large, elongated lacquered mahogany case still on the table.

Ron cautiously approached, unlatched the leather straps, and lifted the lid. Inside lay a long, fancy handle of black walnut, crowned by a crescent-shaped head of dark metal with smoky, rippling patterns along its length.

“Wicked!” 

“It’s good stuff, though ceremonial,” Harry’s voice came from the side. “Supposedly one of the finer works of Damascus spell-steel.”

Absentmindedly nodding, Ron instinctively reached out to touch the smooth, cool metal that emitted a soft purple glow. It was magnificent. He knew nothing about axes, but it didn’t matter. This one called out to him. A jolt shot down his spine as his fingers wrapped around the handle; it felt surprisingly light. “Where am I gonna put a whole executioner’s axe, though?”

When he turned around, Juno was nowhere to be seen, and only Harry lingered behind.

“Don’t worry about her; she’s just too shy to accept gratitude,” the boy chuckled. “There’s an enchanted sheath at the bottom. It’s as large as a wand-holster and can fit the axe inside. You can use it as a token or add it to your future collection, but it’s the real deal. Spellforged by some Syrian smith I forgot the name of, and not much worse than goblin-wrought silver. Razor-sharp and enchanted to stay that way. Or so they write.”

Harry waved as he left the classroom, but Ron was too busy trying out the sheath. The axe disappeared into it like it weighed nothing. Mokeskin? Or maybe an Expansion Charm. He chuckled as he slipped the small sheath into his pocket.

Where would he hang something like that? Ron didn’t have a home. It would make more sense to threaten idiots with it instead.

---

Author’s Endnote: Whew. I wanted to write this Voldemort plot point for a while now. The Dark Lord suffers a major defeat and is a sore loser, and it shouldn’t have come off as a surprise (considering Dumbledore is wielding the Death Stick with the intent to kill). But even a rat would bite when cornered, let alone someone like Voldemort. 

Ronnie has girl trouble and gets an axe, because why the fuck not? That axe appeared before (plundered from the Lestrange vaults by those who remember), and I wanted to hand it off to Ron ever since. No particular reason, but I’m writing Ron on a whim, so…