A/N:  This has perhaps been a long time coming, so I apologize.  Just a note to the readers of my other stories – none of them have been abandoned…though perhaps they have been pushed to the wayside.  Nonetheless, I have material for them, and plans to eventually update and finish them, difficult as that may seem to believe.

In any case, thanks to everyone who helped make this happen – Sophie and vlad for betaing (and Ellisande for recently joining the team!), as well as everyone at Dark Lord Potter.  Your comments and help have made this story and this chapter, in particular, a lot better than it otherwise might have been.  Without further ado, on with the story!

***

Consciousness came upon Lucius Malfoy rather slowly. There was a distinct grogginess in his head, as though a large amount of cotton had been stuffed between his ears.

It was somewhat hot in his room, he decided once his brain realized he was awake; it was getting uncomfortable. His left arm in particular was very warm; he could not feel enough to be in any actual pain, but he expected that if someone took out the cotton from between his ears, it might hurt. His head lazily rolled so that he could look at his left arm and he was shocked to see that his arm was inches away from a fire!

In a hospital!

What kind of negligent fool ran this ward, anyway?!

Hurriedly he attempted to move his arm, but its response was sluggish, and it took a few seconds before he had moved enough of himself that he fell entirely out of the hospital bed onto the floor. How ignoble.

The fall helped to clear one layer of the fog from his mind, so with some determination, Lucius was able to grab his wand after reaching up a few feet to the nightstand at the side of the bed. Flowers in one of his favorite vases from the manor crashed to the floor and splintered as he fumbled around for his wand, dousing his hospital gown in water and glass shards.

For the first time he noticed that he was wearing said hospital gown, and that his posterior was uncovered. St. Mungo’s would be receiving notification of that as soon as he got out of here alive, he vowed.

Still crawling because his attempts to stand ended in nothing but dizziness and a stream of reddish brown vomit, Lucius finally made it to the doorway. He knew his mouth and right arm were streamed with sick, and likely part of his gown too – he could smell the reek of it even in his befuddled state. As he approached the doorway, he heard the crack of several Apparitions. Voices were running through his head as too many people tried to talk at once over the din of the fire.

He vaguely thought of Apparating to safety; with his befuddled head, however, he knew he would splinch himself terribly, at best.

He could see several rooms that had been affected by the fire; his own was by no means the worst. Four rooms to the left and one to his right were also belching smoke. To his immediate left, three hysterical Medi-witches and one even more hysterical young Healer were hurriedly shuffling an elderly patient out of his room – it was one of the rooms that was spewing thick black smoke.

“Someone light up a cigar? I always said those things were trouble!” The man said, obviously addled as he waved his arm at one of the Medi-witches. His arm was the reason he was in St. Mungo’s – it had been swallowed by an angry African Man-Trap, whose roots were frantically squirming to get away from the fire, and had begun clinging to the patient’s leg.

Lucius used the doorway to pull himself to his feet – he retched and coughed as he did so, not noticing that the smoke was thicker as he stood up. This earned him the attention of one of the Medi-witches.

“Mr. Malfoy! You shouldn’t be up in your condition!” She was young, perhaps a few years older than Draco, and quite pretty – likely at least a half-blood, with those cheekbones, he reckoned slowly.

“My bloody arm was burning, Medi-witch!  Do you expect me to wait for approval from negligent hospital staff before I get up?”  Lucius glared at the girl, who had enough sense to look sheepish and shake her head slightly.

“And besides,” he continued his tirade, “Apparently you people cannot even manage to keep a simple hospital under control, so I do not believe my condition should be your concern –” he sputtered, taking time to make sure his tongue and mouth performed the same motions at the right time. It was a bit of a mumble, but he thought it was quite good. As an addendum, he looked at the nametag on her chest and finished, “Anna McTavish.”

“I apologize, Mr. Malfoy, but the entirety of St. Mungo’s is critically understaffed today – there wasn’t a single Medi-witch or Healer on shift in this satellite ward until I was called in just fifteen minutes ago!  Everyone with the proper social standing and seniority is attending one of the Ministry’s parties, so there are only three Healers and five Medi-witches trying to run all of St. Mungo’s.”  Lucius rolled his eyes at her.

“Anyway, we need to get you out of here now, Mr. Malfoy – the fires were already too entrenched for any of the charms we know to extinguish them – and no one is at the Ministry either, so they’re no help.  We’re evacuating patients through the Floo system to the main wing of the hospital – it’s a completely separate building with Fireproofing Charms on it anyway, and they have extra beds ready for the patients here.” She put her arm around his back and helped support him, leading him toward the main Floo.  

“Why wouldn’t there be Fireproofing Charms on this building?”  Anna looked a bit queerly at Lucius before responding.

“I heard that the benefactor of the ward thought that it was a frivolous expense, and wasn’t willing to pay for it.”  Lucius fought back a glare and continued on to the Floo without another question.

Predictably, the large fireplace was near one of the most heavily burning rooms. Lucius noted a large shelf of potions to one side, and instantly knew it was a bad combination.

Few of the Healers would have had experience with fires, but Lucius had burnt down enough Muggle homes and buildings to know that sometimes liquids exploded for no reason he knew of – that shelf was possibly a time bomb. He was about to attempt to call out a warning when he heard another young doctor cry out.

“You two get Mr. Sackworth to the main wing through the Floo. MacNair’s still sedated, I’ve got to try to get him out!” Lucius choked out a cough again – though he didn’t much notice through his half-consciousness, the acrid smoke was also making his eyes water, further obscuring his vision.

“MacNair’s here?” Lucius demanded hazily. His head finally a bit clearer, he shook the young Medi-witch off his arm and followed the Healer to the doorway to MacNair’s room. Thick smoke immediately assaulted them and they both coughed, the Healer holding his jacket over his mouth.

“What are you doing, a real wizard uses his wand!” Lucius said, swaying on his feet. “Ebublio.” The Bubble-Head charm cleared the air around his head, allowing him to breathe easily. The Healer, chagrined, followed suit. Unfortunately, Lucius could see almost instantly that there was no hope for his fellow Death Eater – flames had consumed him, and he was now merely a charring corpse.

“I…I-oh God!” The Healer was frantic, his mouth gaping as he wrung his hands and stood around, uncertain what to do.

“He’s dead, boy. Let’s get out of here. Now!” The Healer wrapped an arm around Lucius to support him, though the boy was shaking so bad himself that he did little good; the McTavish Medi-witch had waited for them and was much more stable, taking over.

The doctor ran for the fireplace and grabbed some Floo powder off of the nearby shelf, accidentally tossing in the entire pot. His shaking hands had destabilized the entire rickety shelf, which was now careening comically.

It finally toppled, and the volatile ingredients shattered on the floor, a 'BOOM!' erupting from them as they splashed and mixed together. The shockwave tossed the young doctor into and through the green flames in the fireplace. Lucius had reflexively shoved the girl to the side when it exploded, but the move had taken him off balance and he was starting to lean forward as the explosion hit; he took the brunt of the blast directly to his face before being thrown several feet and landing on his back.

When he next opened his eyes, the world was spinning again – much like the last time he had awoken, except this time there was a distinct pressure on his nose. Lucius knew he was far too medicated to feel any pain, but he had possibly broken his nose. And maybe the rest of his face, too, if that was any real indication.

Lucius had to think very hard in order to remember the sequence of events leading to him breaking his face. There had been a fire…and Mulciber – no, MacNair! – had died…and then the Floo exploded. Ah yes, the explosion must have knocked him out.

There was a woman kneeling over him now, moving her lips – she was not talking, though. She had vivid blue eyes – they were quite pretty. He always thought his own steely grey eyes were one of his better features, really, so they were something he looked for in a witch. Wait a moment, he definitely recognized this somewhat pretty – in an unkempt, too-busy-to-care-for-her-appearance-with-WonderWitch-products way – Medi-witch. She had helped him before, when he found out about MacNair’s death. She was still moving her lips with no sound coming out, and pulled out her wand with a concerned look on her face. Maybe she was more addled than he was – wait, then she thrust her bosom right in Lucius’ face!

A sudden burst of pain accompanied a blast of sound, and Lucius cried out. His pain-relieving potions immediately dulled the pain in his ears – spreading throughout his entire head to numb it – and he glared at the young witch.

“Mr. Malfoy, your eardrums were burst in the explosion. I- I think I healed them. Can you hear me?” She was nervous, scared probably. He tried to suppress his natural reaction to pain – gruff anger – and merely nodded affirmatively.

“Alright. You have a few more burns now, mostly on your arms and face. Nothing we can’t fix with a bit of Burn Healing Paste once we get out of here, though.” Lucius could tell that the girl was trying to hold up a brave face for him, but her voice quavered when she mentioned getting out – she did not think their survival likely.

As though a wizard the caliber of Lucius Malfoy could perish in a fire like some common Muggle. Even if it had already claimed MacNair – the man had been barely capable of dealing even with animals, anyway; he was no real loss.

Lucius imperiously jerked his arm away from her after she helped him to stand and made his way – with copious assistance from a railing on the nearby wall – toward a small door at the end of one of the hallways. “EXIT” was illuminated in flashing green paint above the door. He recast the Bubble-Head Charm and proceeded to lead the way to safety.

The hallway they were heading through bordered the origin of the fire on one side, and made for an odd spectacle – one side bellowed smoke and flame, while the other was as-yet untouched. Lucius and the girl were making good progress. They were only twenty feet from the door when he heard a hacking cough from one of the rooms they had already passed – one of the rooms that belched smoke.

“Who’s in there?” He wearily demanded of Anna, his strength exhausted from the flight from the hospital.

“I don’t know, Mr. Malfoy, I’ve never worked in this wing before!” Her voice was muffled from the Bubble-Head Charm, but Lucius understood her well enough. With one last glance at the glowing green paint, flashing tantalizingly, he wondered just what exactly he was doing as he turned around.

“He’s alive. And he’s coming with us.” She nodded and followed his lead back to the room.

The ceiling had partially collapsed in the patient’s room; most of it lay smoldering across the floor. The bed was empty, but another cough indicated that someone was underneath the burning ceiling tiles.

“Wingardium Leviosa!” Lucius called clearly. With a bit of hesitation, the mass of ceiling and insulation floated up three feet; underneath, what seemed to be an elderly man let out what might have been a relieved sigh. Patches of his skin were alternately red and blistered or blackened slightly, charred, and Lucius imagined he had to be in unimaginable pain.

Anna made a move to go and physically pull him out to the hall, before Lucius angrily interrupted her, yelling, “Are you a bloody witch or not?!”

She sheepishly pulled out her own wand and summoned the burned patient from across the room with a quick “Accio!”

The man shrieked as some of the skin on his back was left on the floor. Anna retched at seeing the bloody trail the old man left.

Lucius let the ceiling drop once more, and did the whimpering man two kindnesses.

“Stupefy! Mobilicorpus!” As he levitated the man, he felt legs give out from the exhaustion – Anna was able to get a hand under his armpit and kept him upright, just barely.

She performed a quick battery of charms, and the older patient was wrapped from head to toe in clean bandages – though were quickly soiled with blood as his back soaked them through.

“Let’s go now, Mr. Malfoy. There we are, don’t forget to bring him along.” In the time they'd taken to rescue the patient, however, the ceiling on the right half of the hallway had collapsed and was actively burning, blocking the path to their escape.

"Oh no! We'll need to find another way out!" Anna said somewhat hysterically. Lucius barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes - it would have made him far too dizzy and nauseous.

"Flame-Freezing Charm on them." He said as he struggled to keep the elderly burned man from dropping with another Mobilicorpus.

"Oh, right! Congelo Incendia!" The trio passed next to them and the hot flames felt like nothing more than a warm breeze as the small fire was rendered virtually harmless.

Anna blasted the exit door open and all three emerged into the warm streetlight of nighttime Muggle London.

***

Two rubies burned as they glared at Lucius Malfoy – he knew it was impossible, but he swore that the recent burns, covered in a thick orange paste that had dried into a crust, itched and heated up a bit under his Master’s gaze.

“I must have misheard you, Lucius.  You couldn’t possibly have known for days that one of my most loyal, most trusted Death Eaters was dead before it crossed your mind that I might be interested in this information.  No, you would not have waited until another was also killed in what seems to have been a tragic accident – an accident where you yourself were injured – before you informed me that Barty’s death may have been more – may have been an act of war against me!”  With his final words, he waved his wand and the decorations of the room exploded out from their places on the wall in a terrible cacophony of destruction.  Lord Voldemort’s voice, which Lucius rarely recalled ever reaching above a sinister whisper, had risen to a shout; the Dark Lord’s neck was bulging inhumanly, and his face was flushed a sickly orange, where a normal wizard would have turned red or purple – despite many attempts, Lord Voldemort had never regained a true human body.

“No, my Lord, of course not!”  Lucius backpedaled quickly.  “I only knew that Barty was missing for some time – I expected him to be off on a task for you, and who am I to question your orders?  No, it was only recently that I obtained proof of Barty’s demise.  That very night was the party, with several attempts on my life.  I fear a conspiracy, my Lord.”  Lord Voldemort had calmed down noticeably when the betrayal of Lucius was taken out of consideration; Lucius was secretly thankful that his skill with Occlumency had concealed the truth from the probing eyes of his Master, but quickly banished that thought from his head.

Voldemort picked up a large red book from where it had fallen as he tore apart the room in his anger.  Lucius recognized it as a much larger version of something he himself possessed as a “secret” member of the Wizengamot, the underground government.  Voldemort had used his genius to singlehandedly craft each volume for every member of the ruling body – they dutifully revealed legislation for the body to consider, and passed on their votes and comments to Voldemort’s master tome, which he then ignored and wrote down the result he wanted; no one was the wiser, and thus the Wizengamot still passed laws while Voldemort shaped Britain into a dictatorship.

Voldemort replaced the book on the wall – one large, ebony bookshelf had remained standing, while the other was sticking out of the opposite wall – and turned back to Lucius, his voice once more soft, with only his usual sibilance.  “Barty was my favorite, Lucius.  He alone amongst my Death Eaters remained loyal – when you forgot me and turned to your gold to keep you safe.”  Voldemort’s voice held an odd twinge, and right then, Lucius almost believed that he had cared about Barty Crouch as much as he had ever cared about another person.

“He infiltrated Hogwarts, and killed Dumbledore along with Severus.  As for Macnair…well, he was a brute, but they too have their uses.  Find the one responsible, Lucius.  Bring him to me.  I will gather the others tonight…they must know about this.”  Lucius caught Voldemort’s glance over his shoulder before his master disappeared without any sign, within the blink of an eye.

Apparation within the manor itself was impossible except at one particular location, and the only thing behind Lucius was a full sized mirror, surrounded by a finely gilded ouroboros.

It was another way his Master had pushed the boundaries of magic, broken laws believed sacrosanct – just as he’d managed true flight, previously thought impossible – and it was Voldemort’s own, personal secret that he refused to share even with his Death Eaters.  Lucius was almost glad that his Master had kept that secret; for some reason, it seemed dirty, almost, and always left Lucius feeling the need to cleanse himself.

Lucius made his way through the devastated parlor, which involved stepping over a broken vase dating back to Babylon and a fine marble bust of Merlin, he noticed remorsefully, and through two other meeting rooms before coming to the main entrance hall of Voldemort’s manor.

While he wasn’t quite jealous of his master’s mansion – after all, his own was half a millenia old, and had a glorious and bloody history to match the impressive and oft-remodeled décor – Lucius was forced to admit that the entrance hall was most impressive.

The inspiration was gothic, complete with a stained glass window depicting the downfall of Albus Dumbledore with Lord Voldemort standing above him, victorious – and Lucius had always been particularly annoyed that both Bellatrix and Severus had made it into the image, while he himself was absent – above a stairway seemingly held up by mock flying buttresses, carved from obsidian by Voldemort’s own magic.  

When the Dark Lord descended the stairway the first night after its completion, in full view of his most loyal Death Eaters with explosions lighting the sky outside in celebration of the complete takeover of Britain, it was admittedly one of the more impressive sights Lucius had ever beheld.  Bellatrix had been shivering with pleasure at the mere thought of her powerful Lord, then.

Admittedly, she had only recently been freed from Azkaban at the time of the celebration, and to this day never regained all of the limited sanity she’d started with.

Pausing once more to admire the relics in this room – the most impressive and sentimental souvenirs were kept here – Lucius ran a finger along a box carrying the wand of Albus Dumbledore.  Across the room he spotted a restored version of the diary he himself had given to the young Weasley girl, before his Master’s return.  Voldemort had been terribly upset at its destruction, but there it was, looking as new and handsome as ever, with jet-black leather and crisp pages.

The most important part about these particular treasures was that no one besides Voldemort knew the story of each piece – Lucius was the only Death Eater to know why the diary was given a place of honor, but could not fathom why an onyx ring was afforded the same status.  He assumed the large stone statue was of Salazar Slytherin, but had no clue where the Dark Lord had found such an amazing piece of art.

Lucius reached a particular point near the front of the house and a tingle went through his spine; he had reached the only point of the manor where the blanket of protections was loosened, and a select few could Apparate to and from.  

As he drew his wand, the action stretching the charred flesh that made up most of his left arm to the point of making him wince, he turned on the spot and vanished with a ‘pop’.

Lucius reappeared an instant later in the heart of the Ministry’s Auror Office; it was another place few were able to Apparate into, but with his son as Head Auror, Lucius had many privileges with the office.

He quickly strode past the crowded cubicles of the Junior Aurors, taking particular care to sneer at Kingsley Shacklebolt, and the much larger desks around each gaggle of junior aurors that belonged to the Senior Aurors.

“Good Morning, Mr. Malfoy,” the Nott scion called out cordially.  Lucius ignored him and continued to the only office isolated from the rest of the room; he blew past the empty desk where the receptionist usually sat, and stormed into his son’s office.

Draco had his head in the azure flames of his fireplace – the Conference Floo Call was a recent modification that had gained great popularity with the Ministry offices, but the powder lent an odd blue color to the flames and was much costlier than traditional Floo powder – and Draco’s secretary was dictating the meeting with an enchanted quill while she read the latest Witch Weekly.

With a slight clearing of Lucius’ throat, she jumped and hissed at him in a whisper, “Mr. Malfoy, I’m sorry but Draco is very busy – you’ll have to come back later.”

“Get out.”  Lucius said evenly, motioning to the door with a jerk of head that finally opened up the blackened flesh of his neck and shoulder that he’d been aggravating all day; if Lucius’ nerves hadn’t been burned off, he would have felt it oozing as it dribbled over the dried burn paste.

The girl hurriedly complied, and Lucius yanked his son’s head out of the Floo.  Draco’s eyes flared with indignation, but it disappeared quickly.

“Father,” he drawled, “I’m not certain how you expect me to find out anything about this attack on your life if you end my meetings prematurely like that.”

“What have you found?”  

Draco had the audacity to roll his eyes at his father before replying in an aggravated tone, “It’s only been a few hours!  I’ve put three of my most trusted Aurors on the job, but you can’t expect a report after an hour – these things take time!”  Draco smoothed his robes before he sat down at his luxurious desk in his plush chair.  Lucius sat in the matching guest chair.

“Your best aurors?  Is Nott one of them?  The idiot – too busy falling over himself to greet me to do any work!”  Lucius spat viciously.  Draco let out a breath, and when he responded, it was almost as though he was talking to a petulant child.

“Fine, I’ll take Theodore off the case.  It was him who ruled out the use of Fiendfyre, in case you were curious.  The others haven’t learned anything more than that.”

“Perhaps it is because your entire office is filled with incompetent rejects who couldn’t find another job!”  Lucius said viciously, standing up with a swirl of his cloak.

“Father,” Draco called as Lucius slammed open the door to his office, causing every Auror to peer at the commotion, “Perhaps you should get that shoulder reexamined – it’s opened up again.”  Lucius paused, eyed the blood running down his arm, and nodded jerkily at his son.

He strode briskly to the spot he’d came from, slightly more disheveled than when he’d arrived, and disappeared with a slight ‘crack’.

Draco buried his face in his hands and massaged his temple before using his wand to shut the door to his office with a nonverbal charm.

***

“Henri!  What a surprise to see you here!”  Narcissa Malfoy said as she cleaned a hospital bed with a nonverbal Scourgify that sent bubbles careening wildly across the soiled sheets; they disappeared into nothingness once they had accomplished their task.

“Ah, Madame, it was only a matter of time before we were assigned a similar task…ze ‘ospital is not zat big.”  Harry said charmingly as he once more hid behind the fictitious façade of Henri Desjardins.

“Of course.  I usually volunteer with the children in the Creature-Induced Injury Ward – they make up most of the clientele, since children are much more likely to try to play with dangerous creatures – but it was housed in the satellite office that…well, I’m sure you’ve heard.”  Narcissa looked around at the frightfully crowded ward they were currently standing in, the Spell Damage Ward, which was also temporarily housing burn victims and Creature-Induced Injuries.  Potion and Plant Poisoning was temporarily housed alongside Accidental Muggle-related Injuries, and the only unit not crowded with at least one other was the contagious disease floor – no one needed THAT complication.

“Indeed,” Harry responded darkly, swallowing a lump in his throat.  Each time he saw one of the burn victims – innocent bystanders that had been caught up in his private revenge, he tried to shut out the guilt that he felt.  So far it hadn’t worked.  “But I suppose we all must simply soldier on, and ‘elp any way we can, non?  I do not mind ze commotion, if zese poor people get ‘elp.”  

Narcissa smiled at him, and replied, “Of course, Henri, exactly.  Much as it may be tiresome for me, as long as the children get the attention they need, I’m happy to help.”

They cleaned in silence some, and started restacking standard potions at the bedsides, until Harry broke the silence once more.

“And ‘ow is Lucius, my dear?  I know ‘e went to the satellite unit after ze party last night…’e wasn’t injured, was ‘e?”  Harry noticed a brief flash of anger cross her face.

“A few burns, but he’ll be alright.  The stubborn man checked himself out of the hospital immediately afterward, and made a terrible scene – yelling about their incompetence and all.  I wasn’t able to look Healer Davis in the eye this morning, he told her off so bad.  As if it was the poor dear’s fault – she’d just been called in from the party a few moments ago!”  She said waspishly.  

Harry wondered if the healer was his old classmate Tracy Davis; she was a Slytherin, so she likely would have been invited to the party, but he believed she was also a half-blood, and would likely have been one of the first Healers recalled.

“Well, I suppose ‘e did go zrough a difficult time…” Harry said, placing a comforting arm on Narcissa’s shoulder.  It was the first time he’d initiated contact with Mrs. Malfoy, and figured it was a good test of how his attempted seduction was coming along.

She placed her hand over his and sighed.  “If only, Henri – no, he insisted that some Medi-witch care for him exclusively.  She seems to be the only one he wasn’t furious at, calling everyone else a fool, screaming about their incompetence, or proclaiming them a traitor…honestly, I’ve never seen him so out of control.  And then that tart of a Medi-witch comes along and puts his arm around her shoulder, helping him to a private suite – which I was barred access from!  Can you believe it?  His own wife locked out of the room!”  Narcissa had grown angrier as she spoke, which drew stares until Harry subtly cast a charm that ensured their privacy.

“I’m sorry, Henri…I suppose it’s just too much to deal with right now.”  Narcissa said, overwhelmed, but shamed at her outburst.  Harry moved his hand from Narcissa’s nearest shoulder to her other, putting his arm around her.

“My dear…’ow about zat lunch you promised me earlier?  I know a fantastique place in Normandy – don’t worry, I can take us boz zere, it is not a problem!” With that, Harry ushered Narcissa to France to drown her worries in fine wine and a five-course lunch.

***

Harry returned from his lunch with Narcissa – the first of many, he hoped – to find an unusual sight at the Fidelius-charmed warehouse he and Grindelwald called home.

Antonin Dolohov, whom Harry had gotten to know quite well and despise from his time as Giacomo the Italian Ambassador, was bound to a chair by seemingly ridiculous neck-to-ankle loops of rope; Harry couldn’t see what he was wearing underneath the ropes, but judging by how form-fitting they were, he doubted it could be much – no possible chance of hidden Portkeys or an extra wand.  Dolohov’s eyes, ears, and mouth were bleeding, his neck one big purple bruise, and both ankles were twisted opposite from what they should have been – he’d obviously been cursed to within an inch of his life.

Standing over him was another Antonin Dolohov, who was casting what Harry recognized as face-altering charms, looking between a mirror and the tied-up Death Eater, and making subtle adjustments.

“Ah, Harry,” the standing Dolohov greeted.  “I’m glad you’re here, I could use some help with these charms.  I’ve never used them to exactly impersonate someone else, so it seems that I’ve flubbed the details a bit.  Oh!  And do you perhaps recall that set of curses I mentioned ‘Jack the Ripper’ using?  I’ve tested five of them on Mr. Dolohov here, so you can take a closer look.”  Grindelwald’s – or rather, a decent imitation of Dolohov’s – face was lit up at the inspection of his spellwork by a rather curious Harry, who had dispelled the face of Henri and assumed his own features.

“Eardrums burst – the Thunder curse you mentioned? – and his eyes…they were light blue, in case you hadn’t changed yours yet.  Merlin knows I spent long enough across the table from the bastard.  Is that a blindness curse or blunt impact?”  Grindelwald smiled creepily.

“My favorite blinding curse.  It’s totally reversible, so you can do it over and over.  Happens to be one of the more painful ones too, it supposedly feels like your eyes are being boiled.”  Harry nodded distantly as he inspected Dolohov rather clinically.

“Broken ankles, I remember from the sharp twisting wand motion, it’s tricky.  And the strangulation itself, of course, which is also repeatable…I believe you mentioned Jack the Ripper would rape the prostitutes as he cast the strangulation curse over and over?”  Grindelwald nodded encouragingly, so Harry continued.

“But that’s only four different curses – I know Jack’s last curse was to slice the neck open…but what’s the fifth curse you used?”  The ropes around Dolohov’s middle loosened slightly, but not enough for him to move much, with a swish of Grindelwald’s wand.

“Kidney removal – rips them clean out.  Of course the victim would eventually die from the buildup of toxins, but with Jack they never lasted that long.  I’m curious to see how long Dolohov will survive…I doubt more than a day or so, but he might prove resilient.”  With a twisting, tightening motion of Grindelwald’s wand the restraining ropes tightened a bit.  The old man saw that Harry was a bit green at seeing Dolohov’s mutilated gut, so he eyed him carefully.

“Do you not think he’s done worse, Harry?  I assure you, many of his victims would have begged for such treatment before their own untimely demise.”  Harry nodded his assent, though he would not look in the prisoner’s direction as he fought back nausea, so Grindelwald continued.

“Muggles, of course, thought the mutilation post-mortem – they had no idea the speed with which spells could accomplish what would take them so long, however, so I suppose their conclusion was logical.”  Harry finished his inspection of Dolohov and was making slight modifications to Grindelwald’s face with his well-practiced cosmetic charms – the basic transfiguration was adequate, so Harry could simply nudge it here and there to perfect the disguise.

“Now,” Harry began as he finished the proper crook to Grindelwald’s nose; Dolohov had obviously had it broken and let it heal without magic.  “Why are you going to all this trouble, when Polyjuice Potion is so much easier?  It even gives you the same voice, with a little practice…you know what a hassle matching that will be.”

“Yes, but this deception is going to be rather more permanent than most of our disguises – I’ve been thinking about how we need a permanent spy, and I got tired of listening to Dolohov speak at meetings, since Giacomo the real ambassador hasn’t shown up in nearly a week.  So you decided to fire your assistant Ambassador, and you’ll have to be a more regular figure at the Ministry.  Besides, if Voldemort suddenly notices me taking a drink from a hip flask every hour, he’d eventually grow suspicious.”  Grindelwald said, his voice modulating freakishly as he tried to get a similar tone to Dolohov by stretching his vocal cords.

“It’s a good thing you think about these things, Gelgrin.  I’ve been so obsessed with ruining Malfoy that I’ve hardly given a thought to anything else – even Voldemort!”  Harry said; Grindelwald smiled at him with a bit of indulgence.

“We haven’t got any Polyjuice Potion anyway – I haven’t had the time to brew it, and your Potion-brewing skills are probably not up to the task.  We do, however, have this Veritaserum from Italy.  Dolohov probably won’t last a full day without his kidneys if I keep dosing him with it, but I have much to learn about his daily habits, so we must make that sacrifice.”  Grindelwald retrieved a full flask of the clear potion.

“Now, I need to restore his hearing and finish my voice modification.  The Italian Ambassador, however, has to keep an appointment his assistant made.  It seems that a certain pureblood wants a fine Italian broom – technically illegal due to the ban, but let’s see what he’s offering, at least.  After all, the British Minister of Foreign Magical Affairs is about to become significantly more agreeable to the Italians’ demands…” Grindelwald said, smiling slightly at his captive.  “You’re to meet him at the Leaky Cauldron about five minutes ago.”

Harry knew that Grindelwald neither particularly needed nor wanted him present – and Harry had never developed the stomach for torture, even on a Death Eater as notoriously sadistic as Dolohov.

“Argh!”  The captive cried out as his ability to hear was restored.  “Who are you?!  What do you want from me – ugh!” Grindelwald had squirted a dose of the truth serum to Dolohov with a dropper, then closed his mouth.

Harry quickly adjusted his features to the well rounded Italian and Disapparated, leaving Grindelwald alone to his work.

***

‘I’m going to kill Gelgrin,’ Harry thought, stone-faced as he sat across from Ron Weasley, who was hurriedly shoveling down a Steak and Ale pie, chips, coleslaw, and his second pint.

Harry was mildly impressed – Ron’s eating skills had certainly improved since Hogwarts, and they had not been inconsiderable then.

Harry took a sip of the beer in front of him and eyed his former friend with just a hint of trepidation, a dash of nostalgia, and his usual objective eyes.

Ron had seemingly done well for himself after Hogwarts – as a pureblood in England, one generally had to make an active attempt to fail, after all – with a decent Ministry job and a wife with two children, from Harry’s perfunctory background check nearly a year ago.  He’d married Lavender Brown, oddly enough – Harry could not recall them ever even greeting each other in passing in the first four years of Hogwarts.

From the bits of idle conversation exchanged over Ron’s meal – Harry felt a bit odd asking questions to fulfill a somewhat childish longing to discover how his friend had spent his life – he was able to learn a bit more.  Ron’s position within the Department of Magical Games and Sports specifically dealt with Quidditch regulations and uniform enforcement across the Leagues.  

Harry never knew that the Holyhead Harpies gave the Ministry so much trouble with their constant flouting of the wardrobe regulations, but had a sudden and inexplicable desire to abandon the idea of seducing Narcissa Malfoy in favor of going after the all-female Quidditch team.  In its entirety.

“Mr. Weasley,” Harry began in Giacomo’s flowery lilt, when Ron was finally slowing down.  Ron dabbed, then wiped both cheeks with his napkin, and gave the Ambassador a grin.  “You called me here about brooms, I believe.”

“Er, right!”  Ron said excitedly.  He looked around to see if anyone had overheard; they had not, since Harry had reflexively taken precautions against such a thing before sitting down.  “Italian brooms are way faster, now, with the new models they put out to compete with the Firebolt.  The Tempesta and the Scossa are principally the ones I’m interested in, of course.  I’ve got a pureblood who wants to outfit his Quidditch team with the best, you know.  He figured since I’m in the Games and Sports Department I could help him out and meet with you.”

“Of course.  I am, however, rather curious how you intend to circumvent the restrictions placed by Mr. Flint – your boss, the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports – on using foreign brooms in domestic competition.  After all, his reasoning was that if the English National Team still rode your quaint little Firebolts, then they were good enough for the entire league.”  Ron shrugged vacantly as he took a deep swig from his pint and emptied it.

“I dunno, he apparently has some way around it.  Look, I’m just supposed to get in touch with you and see if it’s theoretically possible for you to get the brooms, Mr. Macillio…” Ron said, uncomfortable with the question and looking around even more blatantly.

“Macilento, Mr. Weasley.  Giacomo Macilento – feel free to use either name.  And yes, I have enough connections back in Italy to acquire the brooms.  My diplomatic status allows me to personally import whatever I like with few questions asked, so getting them here will not be a problem.”  Ron grinned and handed Harry a folded piece of parchment.  

“Great.  We can go meet the guy doing the buying, then.  Er…he’s at a safe location, but he’s a bit paranoid about security, since he’s had about three houses destroyed in the past six months.  It should be alright though, this is one that he goes to in-between real houses where security is pretty restricted.  Would you mind, Ambassador, showing me your left forearm, just as a precaution?”  Harry perched an eyebrow, admiring his friends’ paranoia and concerns about safety – especially when Neville had nearly invited home Bellatrix Lestrange at the last party he’d attended – and pulled back his sleeve, revealing an arm free of the Dark Mark.

Ron let out a breath Harry hadn’t known he was holding.  “Great!  Just read that and we can Floo over.”  Harry read the tiny scrap of parchment, where an untidy scrawl similar to his own had scribbled, Sirius’ pad is Number 12 Grimmauld Place, London – bring the sexy knickers.  Harry stifled a chuckle, which Ron mistook as an insult from the last part of the note.

“Er, sorry about that,” He said, snatching it back.  “Sirius usually hands those out to girls – I’m sure your knickers are fine, Ambassador sir.”  Harry stared at Ron awkwardly for a moment before ignoring his comment.

“I hadn’t realized I’d be meeting the infamous Sirius Black.  I might have brought a copy of Witch Weekly.”  Harry said, continuing on as though Ron hadn’t commented on his knickers.   

Ron grinned and said, “He’s obsessed with the award, from what I hear.  Come on, then, we’ll head through Tom’s Floo.”

“Is there a reason we are not Apparating, Mr. Weasley?”  Ron’s ears reddened slightly.

“Er, well…that is, I never was much good with Apparating.  And if I tried to Side-Along you too…better to Floo, is all.”  Harry let no sign of it show on Giacomo’s face, but he had become more and more disappointed with his childhood friend.  He was nearly frustrated with how complacent Ron seemed to be – he had a lackluster job that was fairly meaningless, a wife whose only redeeming factor seemed to be that she was a pureblood, and didn’t even know how to properly Apparate.  He wondered if he would have come out similarly, if he had stayed at Hogwarts.

Despite his worries, he managed to stay mostly upright after his Floo trip, and caught himself roughly on the mantle so that he didn’t tumble out of the fireplace – the loud smack of his meaty palm seemed to alert Ron, who cringed.

“Are you alright there, Mr. Ambassador sir?  Bit of a rough landing…” Harry shook off his concern with a quip about holding his liquor poorly – in truth, he’d only had half a pint – that Ron smirked away.

“Now, sorry about the mess, but this is Grimmauld Place.”  Harry stepped out of the fireplace and into a rather sizable townhouse – it had likely been multiple townhouses at one point, such was its size.  The décor was the most unusual that Harry had ever witnessed, and only a schizophrenic could call the glaring styles compatible.  

Fine goblin-wrought iron sconces lined the wall, holding flickering orbs of light that appeared to be near the end of their enchanted lives.  The chandelier in the main greeting room, which was a part of the entrance hall like most estates with wizard inhabitants, was similarly wrought and themed.  The walls, however, were painted in light, bright, or cheerful colors – including the kitchen, which seemed to be a vomit-inducing mixture of bright red and neon yellow.  The entrance hall itself was eggshell, which made the dark, polished hardwood planks seem conspicuous.

If Harry hadn’t known heard of the history of the Black family – the snootiest of the Purebloods with connections throughout all of Britain – and known how Sirius would have balked at the traditional décor of the estate and attempted to redecorate, he would have been at his wits’ end trying to justify the juxtaposed color schemes.

The mess Ron had mentioned was the parlor, to the right of Harry and Ron.  The reason for the mess happened to be a young boy of perhaps five, with bright green hair and a massive grin, waving a wand and running past the recently arrived guests.

A woman Harry recognized, and indeed knew all too well, with her slightly tamed but still bushy brown hair and the same look on her face as when she’d been telling him and Ron off a decade ago, stormed past a moment later.

“Teddy Lupin!”  She called in an upset, motherly fashion, “Your mother might think you charming the walls green is hilarious and encourage it.  Sirius might think you charming ME green is funnier yet.  But if you ever go into my workroom and cast spells again, I don’t care about your mother, I’ll charm your hands right off and you won’t be casting spells with anyone’s stolen wand.  Do I make myself clear, young man?”

Teddy looked down as he bit his lower lip and nodded in agreement.  Satisfied, Hermione nodded, turned on her heel, and went back through the house, removing green and blue splotches from the walls as she moved through the rooms with a sigh.

The young boy jabbed his wand at her back one last time, and as she walked past, pausing slightly to nod at Harry while making sure to keep her face downturned – demonstrating the typical deference to Harry’s superior status – Hermione’s face and hair turned bright blue.  Harry managed to suppress a grin as he nodded cordially at her in return.

When she left the room, little Teddy came up to the two visitors and interrogated them.

“I know Ronnie, but who’re you?”  He asked after a brief high five from Ron.

“My name is Giacomo Macilento.  You must be a very special boy, with hair like that.  And so talented with a wand, too.”  The boy grinned widely, revealing a few missing teeth.

“My name’s Teddy Lupin.  And it’s Harry Potter Day, so I get to look like him with bright green hair and black eyes – Uncle Sirius tells me all his stories!  Bye!”  Teddy zoomed off through the house, and Ron reddened.

“Sorry about that, Ambassador…he’s a good kid though, bit rambunctious.”  Ron called out for Sirius, and they waited, so Harry asked the question that had popped into his mind.

“Have I missed a holiday, Mr. Weasley?”  Ron nodded and looked a bit somber.

“No, it’s not something you’d know about.  A very good friend of ours was declared dead, ten years ago today.  Every year a number of us have gotten together for a dinner – you know, to remember him.  You’ve probably heard of him, though.  He used to be really famous – Harry Potter?  The Boy-who-lived?”  Ron said, no doubt feeling strange explaining such a personal loss to a near stranger.

“Ah…perhaps it rings a bell, yes.  There was much ado about a boy in the Triwizard Tournament about a decade ago, wasn’t there?”  Ron’s face hardened a bit and he nodded solemnly.

“Yes, of course you’d have heard about that.  That was how Harry died.”  Sirius had emerged from a room finally, so Harry made his last comment to his friend.  He was garbed in a finely tailored but fairly plain robe, similar to Harry’s guise as Giacomo.

“Well, I heard those Tournaments could be dangerous.  Mr. Black, I presume?”  Sirius shook Harry’s hand excitedly.

“Ambassador Macilento, I’ve heard so many good things about you.  Ron, your sister’s on the Floo.  I dunno how she heard you were here, but…well, you know how she gets when you consort with the wrong folks.”  Sirius said with a roll of his eyes.  He was much more sedate than when Harry had previously seen him.

“Bugger.  By the way, Sirius, Cedric and Fleur and her sister aren’t coming tonight, obviously, since they don’t know that this place exists.  They send their best, though.”  Sirius nodded, and Ron went into the room from which Sirius had emerged, presumably to stick his head in the fire.

“So I’ve heard you’re interested in my country’s brooms, Mr. Black,”  Harry said, broaching his business – he had never even considered interacting with his former friends like this, and the nostalgia was an unwelcome feeling.

“Right down to business, eh?  Well, let’s head out of the entry hall at least, Ambassador.  Welcome to Grimmauld Place, the Black family townhouse.  Much as I try to live elsewhere, and I’ve gone through about two dozen houses in nine years – I seem to have a string of bad luck.  Grimmauld Place is a bit ugly, but it’s big and serviceable…I swear it plots against me, though – it seemed so much bigger a few years ago, it’s like a wing is missing or something…Oh, excuse me – would you care for some tea?  A few biscuits, maybe?”  Sirius asked with just the slightest glance at the Italian’s portly belly.  Harry smiled and accepted the offer.

“A fine family mansion you have here, Mr. Black.  I must say, though, the protection on it – yes, I recognized the Fidelius charm – is a bit unusual.  In fact, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of its use to protect a home like this…most would find it rather restrictive, I imagine.”  Harry commented lightly.

“That’s not the only safeguard on the house – my dad, before he died, got pretty paranoid and spent a fortune putting every protection money could buy on this place.  These past few months have been the most time I’ve ever spent here, and I’ve told a bunch of people the secret just because I’ve been living here now.  A few angry witches haven’t burnt it down yet, though, Ambassador – I’m sure I’ll be fine.”  Sirius, of course, could not know how very nearly he had taken a disguised Bellatrix Lestrange home with him at the previous Ministry Ball.  Giacomo could not either, since Harry had attended the gala as Henri Desjardins.  He smiled at Sirius’ reply and changed the subject.

“I am curious though, Mr. Black, since I was led to believe the Ministry restrictions forbid competing on foreign brooms.”  Harry asked conversationally as Sirius led them to the kitchen.  A woman Harry had never met, but from his research assumed was Remus’ wife Tonks, was chewing idly on pretzels holding the latest copy of Transfiguration Today, while Hermione – who had apparently discovered Teddy’s prank and was no longer blue – was pouring over a mess of parchment rolls strewn all over the floor.

“Well, this witch here would be the one to ask about the specifics of it.  Ambassador Macilento, this is Hermione Granger.”  Hermione got up off the floor to greet Harry with a handshake, but the wizard decided to mess with his friend’s head just a bit and planted a light kiss on the back of her hand.

“Charmed, madam.  I’ve heard of Mr. Black’s legendary charm and taste in witches, but I never expected to see an example of it.”  Hermione’s eyes narrowed for a moment before widening comically in realization of what he was suggesting.

“Wh-I never!  I would never!  Sirius?!”  She protested.  Harry smiled broadly and looked at Sirius, who was snickering along with Tonks.

“My apologies, then, my dear.  Now, Mr. Black was saying how you were responsible for finding some sort of loophole in the Ministry’s restriction of brooms?”  Hermione had settled herself back down on the floor, after looking disgustedly at Sirius and Tonks.

“Oh yes, the law is rather terribly worded – it basically states that illegally imported brooms cannot be used in play.  Seeing as how you as an Ambassador can import Italian brooms legally, those legally imported brooms can be used perfectly well.”  

Harry was almost surprised – this was careless even by Ministry standards, but nodded and turned to Sirius.  “Well then, Mr. Black, I believe we can do business together.  Which team’s stadium should I send the brooms on to?  I can’t recall which team it is that your family owned…”

“Oh, my family actually never owned a team – I bought one myself.  The Cannons are going to go to the finals, with those new brooms.  I can’t wait to see the look on Lucius’ face when we crush the Magpies!”  Sirius said proudly.  Harry almost snorted; somehow, he knew Ron’s enthusiasm for his favorite team was behind Sirius’ purchase.

“The Cannons?  Forgive me, Mr. Black, but even if the rest of the league was riding Cleansweep 4’s, I don’t think the Cannons could make the finals.  I’ll get you your brooms, but I can’t help but feel that they’re going to waste.”  Harry said mockingly.  Hermione laughed at this – apparently she had similar feelings.

“Hey!  I’ll have you know they’ve been doing loads better since I bought them – they were ranked fifth last season!”  Sirius objected.

“Well, miracles do happen.  Don’t worry Mr. Black, even with these fine new brooms, I’m sure they’ll be back at the bottom this season.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m afraid I’ve a terrible amount of paperwork to be done to get them here.  It was a pleasure to meet you all.  Ms. Tonks, I believe?  Your son was delightful – I thought his Harry Potter impression was most accurate.  Ms. Granger, Mr. Black.”  Harry allowed Sirius to lead him to the door.

“Really Ginny, don’t pull that shite with me – the only thing in danger is your reputation at those damned parties, and I’ll consort with whomever I want!  Go move to Egypt with mum and dad and Bill, if you’re so worried!”  Harry overheard Ron screaming into the Floo.  Sirius had a bored look on his face – he’d apparently heard the argument between siblings before.

“Give Mr. Weasley my regards, Mr. Black.”  Harry said.  Nodding farewell to Sirius one more time, Harry turned on his heel and Apparated to the Gamp manor.

He immediately took out a bottle of Firewhiskey and poured himself a generous glass, polished it off.  He helped himself to another before sitting in a comfortable chair, staring at a fire.

For the first time, he’d experienced a longing to return to life; to scream, “I’m Harry!”

Just as he knew Sirius and Ron were doing, Harry pulled out a bottle of whiskey as he reverted his own gaunt, haggard features with a few spells.  He took a swig and idly wondered, as he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the mantle, if his friends would have even recognized him now.  After a few more swigs of the whiskey, he realized that it didn’t matter.

The world had no place for Harry Potter any more.  Only a handful of witches and wizards even remembered his name.

His revenge might go unattributed, but perhaps it was better that way.