II

The lights of Hogsmeade were all but extinguished as midnight drew closer. The Three Broomsticks and other shops lined along the main road remained lit but Mulciber was not concerned with that. Where he was heading remained shrouded almost entirely in darkness. Only the pale moon's full visage gave light to the surrounding area and that suited Mulciber just fine.

He was a rather tall fellow, almost six feet, six inches, which was strange for an English wizard. Then again, Mulciber was not usual in the slightest. As the man rounded the bend into a cul-de-sac, the cascading light of the moon hit him just perfectly, making him visible. He wore a dark-grey suit with a stiff, white collar that made seeing him in low-light difficult, a blue-bow tie, rimless eyeglasses on a thin silver cord and there was a large frilly, blue, silk handkerchief that was ready to fall out, stuffed haphazardly in his left breast pocket.

His eyes were cold and his face was anything but pleasant; a somewhat cruel mouth chewed aggressively at something and large, flared nostrils breathed in the crisp air of the July night. Despite the aura of coldness he exuded, he had many desirable traits. He was a fiercely loyal man, if a bit naïve, and his prowess with mind magic was perhaps only surpassed by Albus Dumbledore or Harry Potter.

To those looking for prestige, he belonged to an Old Family, which his father had made certain he would never forget. Thus was instilled the usual rhetoric that came with being a Pureblood. The honors, the code of conduct - all the traditions.

Mulciber believed every word of it.

He was unlike most traditionalists in that regard, he thought viciously as he swished his wand and slammed it rather aggressively over the top of himself. He disappeared from view almost instantaneously. The gravel crunched beneath his now obscured person as he crept towards the middle house in the cul-de-sac. A noise nearby made him hesitate; there was no fear in him however. He stood perfectly still, his very next exhale held at the throat.

He checked… only some rubbish.

He breathed, gulping in air and he continued forward, as quietly as possible. He reached the side of the house a moment later and he double-checked the entrance to the backyard, making certain there was nothing that would alert anyone to his presence. He doubted the family of the clandestine home could afford such protections but Mulciber's chief mannerism was thoroughness. Seeing that all was well, he cast a charm that deafened the noise he would make opening the gate and slipped quietly in.

To most traditionalists, his staunch practice in making certain everything he did followed the edicts was to be commended. Mulciber had little inkling that most of those same traditionalists mocked him in private. The very same people that delivered the rhetoric believed little of it. It was but a façade for most, while less than savory practices took place behind the scenes. Hypocrisy at its finest but Mulciber did not know it.

He saw only rule-breakers and heretics and assumed they would receive their punishment in due time.

It was almost a religion to him.

To others who believed tradition equated directly to blood supremacy, they saw in Mulciber a sexless, tight-fisted, weather-beaten, damnably cold-eyed, old ex-Death Eater. An anachronistic simpleton and a nuisance to civilization that belonged in Azkaban.

He did not see it that way, of course.

He peered into the window and saw his target sleeping peacefully.

He thought his actions made civilization better. Stronger. More dignified.

He closed his eyes and his large nostrils flared as he breathed deeply. He chanted a little mantra to himself. With Dignity.

What he was about to do was hardly dignified by any reasonable person's standards but his mind could not conceive such a notion.

It would never believe that. No. What he was going to do would make the Wizarding World a better place.

Through his actions, he thought, as his cold eyes opened and hardened, the Wizarding World would be a better place. He turned and stared at the inhabitant inside.

The sides of his rather cruel mouth turned slightly upward as he lifted his wand to eye level.

With religious abandon, he went to work.

---

The Wizarding district of Edinburgh was a town in and of itself. Hidden from Muggle sight, it was situated in the North Constituency and lay between the Midlothian village of Rosslyn and the Edinburgh suburb of Balerno. The witches and wizards of The District (as it was more fondly called) were a dignified bunch who believed very importantly in magical rights and the traditions that came along with them. It came as no surprise then that few Muggleborns moved there, opting instead to live in Hogsmeade or Wizarding Liverpool or even London. This meant that The District favored the SMRP heavily and in fact had voted for them in every general election dating back to 1703.

The District was also well planned in its construct and had many stone-paved roads that quartered off commercial and industrial from residential. Of all the roads however, there was a single main one that ran from the Northern Portal into Edinburgh, all the way south to district's end. It was this road that the most prestigious of buildings lined; it was this road that every witch or wizard dreamed of being apart of. It was this road that ended with The Braemar.

The Braemar Estate was the largest piece of land owned by any one individual in The District - five hundred acres, isolated from the hustle and bustle. To most wizards and witches, it was a landmark, a place of majesty and beauty. It harkened back to the Golden Age of Scottish Wizardry, a time of elegance and of genteel people and an era in which few wars took place. To others, it was an ostentatious display of wealth and power that could be put to better use.

Regardless, all parties agreed on one thing: to own Braemar was stature.

Beyond the gatehouse, guarded around the clock by hooded sentinels, lay rolling foothills that stretched in every direction, trees that croaked with ancientness and the greenest grass in all of Scotland, spelled to never fade. Here and there were what appeared unused watchtowers, but those who understood Braemar knew it to be a clever deception. Nightly, one could walk out onto the grounds, put an ear to the wind and listen to the shrill cries of persons long gone, who never gave up the beat, sworn even in death to keep a vigilant watch. In the northwest, a dovecot turned Owlery bustled with the comings and goings of mail-carriers around the clock, all managed by the forty house-elves tasked with caring for Braemar.

It all palled in comparison to the centerpiece however - the estate house, a grand building of stone, mortar and magic that adorned many a magical postcard in the north. The mammoth structure was almost a castle in some regards. It was a single, precision-cut stone path that led up to the building, cutting a swath through the trees that encircled it. So many trees, both tall and ancient, but the building rose above the evergreens and oaks, reigning supreme over them. Vines of all types and magical mosses grew up and down the entrance, and above on the archway, inlaid was a simple coat of arms, depicting two griffins, upright, clutching a single stave.

Beyond that was the building itself, a worn gray, with a watchtower built into it in the far south and a raised tower in the north that bore the Flag of Magical Britain at its zenith. Seven spires claimed residence over the building and a single wooden door, directly in the center, led inward.

It was here in Braemar, early the next morning that the owner - one Harry Potter - slept uneasily.

After a night of socializing with close friends, the now twenty-three year old had gone to bed in the north tower with a headache. Sleep came easily enough and for much of the night he slept peacefully.

That changed quickly, however, and the young man was soon plagued with nightmares.

He had moved uneasily in his bed for some time, tossing and turning all over the place, a habit he would not be fond of. It was as the nightmare got progressively worse that a man in a dark cloak visited him in the hellscape that had once been a pleasant dream of a landslide election. Barely visible, the man held a candle close to his chest.

Deeply voiced chants came next, rocking the landscape in his mind. Inhumane in nature, their words unintelligible, they struck discord and brought malice.

Red flames shot up from the ground and licked at a cauldron that belched forth an acrid smell that Harry could almost taste. Frantic visions flickered; an ember of light - hope - faded and was extinguished. Vague wonderings took him; green lights struck pillars of stone long forgotten.

And a scream.

A terrible, haunting, foreboding scream reverberated within the confines of his mind, warning him, warning him of….

A loud knock came and Harry inhaled quickly, the nightmare fleeing him as uncertainty of his surroundings took him as he stirred. It lingered only for a second as part of him realized he was in Edinburgh, due in London in a few short hours.

Another part, his curious nature, desperately tried to hold on to the dream with little success.

He yawned while squinting in the dark.

“Sir,” squeaked a voice and Harry only 'mmm'd; he rubbed his slightly sore forehead as the sound of curtains being drawn echoed through the large room. He opened and closed his eyes rapidly once more, adjusting to the early morning light. Curious, he thought, as he rubbed his hand over a very peculiar, lightning-bolt shaped scar that sat above his right eyebrow. Shrugging it off, he found his glasses quickly and put them on, all the while he adjusted himself so that he was propped up against the headboard.

He glanced around the now well-lit room. White walls, golden curtains and paintings of antiquity - all home to him.

His eyes strayed to a clock and they lingered.

It was rather early to be woken up.

He turned his attention the creature that stood before the main window, a rather normal looking house-elf whose only distinguishing feature was the nice coat he wore with the Shield of Braemar stitched in the front. Harry thought of all he had to do that day and nothing registered requiring such an early awakening.

Curious.

“Have you news or anything of interest?” he finally spoke, his voice distinctly proper, his English impeccable.

The house-elf bowed and said, “Yes, Master.” The thing moved its left hand and Harry did indeed see something of interest - a piece of paper. Harry nodded and the creature moved forward, placing the item on the nightstand near his bed before returning to his spot in front of the window. Harry thanked the creature while retrieving the paper. He brought it before him, adjusting his glasses before reading.

It was a note from one of the campaign advisors and it was very vague.

“Sources have revealed an incident has occurred that will matter greatly in the coming hours and days,” he read aloud, musing over the meaning of such a sentence. Usually when one didn't reveal much, it meant it was essential that the opposition party either not know that they knew or that it was something from within the party that couldn't be made public. Thus, the ambiguity of such a letter was required in case owls were intercepted. It caused worry however, as the former situation tended to be positive for their efforts and the latter… well, the latter tended to cost elections.

He continued, “A meeting has been called. 5:30 A.M. Tentatively at the Braemar pending Party Leader approval. All staff members are to report,” and Harry scoffed before looking at the house-elf for a moment and remarking, “Always at my home, of course. Why do we even have a headquarters in Liverpool?” He finished reading the letter and ran a hand through his hair before looking back at the house-elf.

“Was there anything else?”

“Master Cedric has sent word, he has,” said the creature, his manner of speaking distinctly odd as was custom among house-elves, “Said he would arrive at five, he has, Master - said I should tell you he knows what's going on, he does.”

“Yes, well that's good. Nothing else?” the creature shook his head in the negative, “Good. Very well; dictate this then…” and the house-elf snapped his fingers, summoning a quill and parchment. The creature looked intently at Harry, who thought only of what he would say for a second. “The meeting shall be held as scheduled and at the Braemar Estate. Party Leader has approved. Breakfast will be served afterwards; accommodations shall be provided if necessary. Stop.” The house-elf scribbled 'necessary' and then looked up at Harry again.

“Have one of the house-elves send that out to all the staff members; return after you are done.”

A loud crack and the house-elf disappeared.

Harry put the note on the nightstand and folded his hands, waiting. It wasn't long before the house-elf returned and bowed once more; Harry looked directly at the creature with a commanding glance. “Have the house prepared and have the kitchen cook up additional food - enough for the entire staff,” and he stopped for a moment, rubbing his head, “Better make a bit more than that, actually - Lord Appleby is rather fond of his breakfast and I very much doubt anyone wants to hear that man complain so early in the morning.”

“And make certain the conference room hasn't moved to the third floor again,” he added and with that, he dismissed the creature with a wave of his hand.

Harry stayed in bed for a moment, staring out the main window and onto the barely lit grounds as he pondered. He didn't like what his instincts were telling him about the incident; he didn't think anything negative had happened to affect the party but at the same time, he believed something grave had occurred. Why else would Cedric be showing up before the meeting? It was an unsettling feeling, he realized and at the same time, a part of him thought it silly. One doesn't feel these things, his rational mind told him, chalking the tension up to a rough night of sleep.

Concluding that all would be told at the meeting, he swung his feet over the bed and got up.

---

Minister Cornelius Fudge could, at best, be compared to a snake oil salesman. He carried himself like a well-meaning, genial fool whose incompetence could only be eclipsed by his poor taste in clothing. But deep down, underneath the façade designed to garner sympathy, was a true-bred politician capable of swinging both votes and funding in his party's direction. As he arrived in the older and more rundown parts of Hogsmeade, his dark eyes scoured every detail, every person and every inch before him, forecasting his reputation for being well-informed of everything that happened in his country.

The Head of Magical Law Enforcement followed shortly behind the Minister and as both rounded the bend and into the most decrepit part of Hogsmeade, they passed between seven Aurors clothed from head to toe in battle garb. The message was clear: nobody enters orleaves without the Minister's permission.

“What did the parents have to say?” groused the Minister, his voice rather annoyed.

“Not much, Sir,” came the thick reply of the Head, a Scot. “They're distraught of course, very distraught but they know nothing.”

“How can they not know anything? Didn't they teach her a damn thing?” he blustered, fumbling for words as the seriousness of the situation took him, “How does a little girl end up this far away from her home, at midnight, mind you, on the night of a full moon,” and he grabbed the Scotsman and shook him, “The parents have to be to blame, do you understand that? Their carelessness… their ineptitude as parents will not cost me votes,” he practically seethed.

“There are other alternatives, Sir,” the man replied, finally loose of the man's steel grip. “But they haven't checked out yet. Some in the Auror Division suspect foul play. There's no evidence as of yet, however…” and he paused as the Minister closed his eyes and scraped his fingers back and forth over his forehead. “We can't blame the parents, Sir. They've checked out as alright folk. What we need to be more concerned about is why one of them was out here last night. The wards for Hogsmeade used to extend even here… it isn't good that they've been forced to recede.”

“They'll blame me of course,” the Minister sighed, ignoring the Head of Department's concerns, “They'll blame me for the attack… and-and they'll spin the whole damn thing so I look like a bloody fool,” he practically cried. His emotion fluctuated again and his thoughts turned to the Opposition Party Leader. That insufferable… that… that perfectly charming snake in the grass.

He could see Mr. Potter standing before a large crowd decrying him as a threat to the security of the children…. Oh how he'd love to….

He thought back to the attack. Why they even gave rights to those… those things. Those menaces.

Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore gave them rights.

When all went wrong, blame Dumbledore. He seemed to pickup a little. Yes. It was Dumbledore's fault, never mind the fact it was Cornelius who made the decision to listen to the old man. That didn't matter. It was Dumbledore's fault.

---

Back at the Braemar, Harry walked to the bathroom, a house-elf popping in and fixing the bed in his wake. He took a cold, ten minute shower and then toweled off before grabbing a bathrobe. Standing in front of the vanity, he looked into the mirror above it. Green eyes stared back at him as he began shaving. The mirror remarked every so often that his eyes were very lovely indeed, was custom. Harry wasn't in the mood however and gave the contraption a stern glance, quieting it instantly.

He brushed his teeth, attempted to calm his hair (with little success) and opted to continue wearing his glasses as a third house-elf cracked in behind him.

Harry looked into the mirror, making eye contact with creature and smiled before telling him that he'd prefer something light today. “No under robe, thank you. Make the over robe a navy blue and make sure nothing is floating across it this time. Not very fond of the Dumbledore-look really - and last time they were hidden until it was too late. Took Narcissa by surprise, I'm afraid.” The house-elf tried to apologize but Harry just gave the thing a glance before continuing, “Same colored slacks and tie, white shirt, beige vest.”

The house-elf popped off and returned a moment with the clothes and two small boxes in hand. The thing placed the boxes on the vanity and handed the clothes to Harry before disappearing. Harry dressed and soon opened one of the boxes. He took the silver pin that was inside and placed it on the right side of his collar as was required. The Pin of a Lord Chancellor of History. The other contained a medal, the Order of Merlin, which he wore on a necklace under his shirt.

Determined everything was perfect, he nodded before exiting his room.

He walked down the corridor and to the grand staircase that led down into the lobby. He stood atop the flight, taking in the view momentarily. A grand chandelier hung above the lobby, turning of its own volition. It floated without the aid of a cable and was comprised of a thousand shards that gave off light. Below it was a room with years upon years of history soaked into every inch of it.

Along the walls, house-elves crept, opening curtains and bustling back and forth with food, drinks and the like. A naïve witch or wizard might wonder why house-elves were being seen in the company of purebloods but that was due to their ignorance of the several schools of thought concerning house-elves. Some preferred one of the more popular methods of dealing with house-elves - the D'Heilt System. In it, house-elves were to never be seen around company, were given poor attire and several days off per month.

Harry on the other hand, preferred the Vespertinian Method. Under such a system, the creatures were permitted to be seen around guests, so long as they stayed close to the walls, except when commanded a task that required moving. They additionally received fancy clothes and on the down side, if one actually cared for the creatures, were given no days off.

It was all in how you worked the creature. House-elves loved praise and clothing, so long as the latter was never directly handed to them, otherwise that would set them free - something few, if any, wanted.

Give a creature poor clothes and little chance to receive attention for their work and they needed days off - they worked harder however, as they attempted to fulfill their wants by doing more.

Do the opposite, the house-elves worked well enough and because they were constantly receiving attention and had excellent clothing, they never needed downtime and could work for years at a time without a single day off.

Either one would work well for a house the size of Braemar but Harry chose the latter as it wasn't often he entertained guests; it was his home to get away from people and enjoy peace.

“Harry,” shouted a voice, snapping him from his thoughts and he sighed, reevaluating such a notion. Most of the time, then, he conceded. With the urgency and the necessity to hold the meeting as quickly as possible, all bets were off for peace. It didn't really matter where he'd taken residence - it was a possible chance for his political team to capitalize and that was all that mattered to them.

“Cedric,” Harry greeted, spotting the man with soot trailing behind him. He descended down the stairs and joining up with the slightly older man, he remarked, “I see that you're sober; how'd you manage?”

Cedric smiled. “Well, it was your birthday party, need I remind you. Half-reckoned you'd serve butterbeer. Where'd you head off to anyway… and I don't buy that 'I've taken ill' line either. You were off, practicing in front of a mirror, am I right?”

Harry was amused. “You've mistaken me with Lordling Draco, again, I am afraid,” he responded and they both shared a laugh. “No, I did have a headache… turned in early.” He struggled for a moment with whether he should tell Cedric about the rather peculiar nightmare… but upon second thought, he regarded that such an action would be foolish.

They both began to walk towards the conference room. Sounds of clicking shoes along the tiles, the popping and coming of the house-elves and mutterings all added to create a rather unique atmosphere not often seen at the Braemar. The house-elves worked hard to remedy the situation as they commanded stairs that usually moved at this hour in the morning to stand still and zapped portraits who were trying to cause mischief. The conference room was found and returned to its ground level position; apparently it had swapped with the greenhouse, much to the chagrin of some of the more vocal plants.

“So is the meeting still on for 5:30?” Cedric asked, to which Harry nodded.

“Yes, I confirmed only a little while ago. I imagine we'll start late if the house-elves have trouble with the owls this early in the morning. Speaking of which, you sent notice that you knew what was going on?” and Harry gave the man a pointed looking.

“Indeed,” Cedric said, sighing, distressing Harry slightly, though he did not show it. “I'll have you know I was in bed enjoying -”

Harry's eyes widened, miffed. “I don't need to know,” he interrupted, giving him a shrewd glance as they arrived at the conference room. “Trust me when I say that.”

“Trust me when I say this,” Cedric countered, with a Cheshire cat's grin, “The very telling of such a story… why it would leave you breathless and in awe.”

“Yes, why of course,” Harry conceded, surprising Cedric. Harry stopped short of opening the door and looked the man over. The playful banter told him all he needed to know about the situation - it was the former, not the later; there was no danger to the SMRP. All was well.

And he smiled.

Cedric was perhaps his only friend, in retrospect. Few others had the patience to deal with someone as difficult as Harry on any level other than worship; even fewer had the intellect. Harry rather valued such a companionship and so he played along, opening the door for him before adding, “I am rather fond of fiction, after all.”

A laugh was shared as they crossed the threshold into the wide, opulent room that held a single, long table and many chairs. The house-elves in the room bowed and greeted Harry with mostly 'Sir'.

They sat quickly, Cedric informing him that it'd be all over the Wireless by now. Harry ordered a house-elf to bring a set and soon they listened in….

---

“It's all over the Wireless now,” Mulciber stated plainly, watching as Fenrir Greyback attempted to charm the various blood splatters that took residence in his mangy coat off.

“Of course, of course,” Fenrir rasped and he noticed Mulciber's stare. The werewolf grinned wickedly, “It's always the blood of children that's hardest to get off. So delicious,” he sang to himself.

“Right,” Mulciber conceded, not interested in the least.

A fluttering of wings caught both their attention and the werewolf growled uneasily as his eyes darted to the intruder. A tawny owl flew through the open window near their position. It headed towards Mulciber and the man made short work of the letter. His nostrils flared and he gave a grim smile.

All was well.

He turned to the werewolf. “Mr. Potter has convened a meeting at the Braemar, it seems. All has gone according to plan,” and he pointed his wand at the creature.

The werewolf's eyes glittered, confused.

“Your service has been most helpful, werewolf,” and with two very simple words and more malice than one man should be capable of, the beast fell to the floor in a heap. Mulciber cast another hex that incinerated the body and moved to apparate. He didn't want to be late after all, and the job was done.

That was all that mattered to Mulciber.