Chapter 79 Teenage Stupidity

Harry James Potter stared out the window for the umpteenth time. He cursed for the umpteenth time as well as he let his mind run over all of the information he had absorbed, of every piece of information in his possession regarding Voldemort, the Death Eaters, Severus Snape, The Blaze, the Azkaban Rebellion. Spring had come and gone. Summer was almost upon, and the April Fool's Day had been yesterday. It had been a quiet one, with the Darkness that threatened to engulf them hanging low over the collective head of Magical Britain.

But in all fairness, the same cloud of darkness also hung low over the rest of the country: The muggles had been the victims of countless attacks. The squib population had been decimated; the Ministry of Magic was a shell of its former power, really only in control of London and its outlying areas. The rest of the country had been left to fend for itself. The Ministry was fully defensive, reacting to every disaster and to every attack, unable to take the fight to the enemy.

But that was only half the picture. The other half was promising in its own way: The Legion safehouses set up the length of the country were now beacons in the darkness. Indeed, they were so heavily warded and protected that they were rendered all but impenetrable to attack. The Death Eaters had tried on more than one occasion to breach the defenses and had failed. However, the Legion had been just as reactive as the Ministry with no information to act upon.

The only bright spot in the whole mess, as far as Harry could see was that the British government was not taking any of this lying down: A state of national emergency had been declared, the military deployed in force and they had proven their worth in a fight, demonstrating the power of firearms, light armored vehicles, and aerial superiority, proving that technology could at the very least match whatever magic could do: Spells had to hit their target. Bullets had to have a "name" on them – so to speak – but grenades, explosives, and shrapnel were addressed "To whom it may concern." If anything the muggles were doing a remarkable job of bleeding down the ranks of the Effingus. It was not lost on anyone that the so-called "terrorists" were capable of doing incredible damage with "just pieces of wood," something Harry had no doubt was raising all kinds of red flags within the Muggle government, but that was really nothing he was even remotely interested in concerning himself with. After all, if the likes of Snape could get away with so much in the wizarding world, there was no telling what the creature had gotten away within the muggle world, not to mention what the rest of his ilk were getting away…

That set Harry's mind wandering over the memories he had pillaged from Severus Snape: He had proof that the greasy git had never ever repented, nor had he ever been on the side of the Light. His actions at The Burrow proved that if nothing else. Add to that the number of murders the… thing… had carried out, to say nothing of the countless muggles he had tortured. Harry shook his head and rolled behind a hastily conjured brick wall that intercepted the trio of cutting curses the training dummies on the far side of the Room of Requirement had sent at him. The Effingus were not unlimited as they had feared. Indeed the Death Eaters could not risk producing many more without destroying the very artifice that created, and quite possibly sustained the copies, or perhaps clones were a more accurate word to describe the simple-minded vessels. He had, of course, made a copy of the relevant memories and passed them to the Department of Mysteries… the only department where the Death Eaters did not have any influence in.

He considered that thought for a few moments longer than usual. The charms and wards around the courtroom were supposed to be the equivalent of having a Fidilius Charm in place. Strange how so many marked Death Eaters had been able to literally waltz into the middle of a trial. As far as Harry was concerned it was not a matter of "if," but a matter of when the Ministry would fall to Voldemort. It has already occurred to them that the Ministry could be staffed by nothing but Death Eaters, those under Imperius, or more simply Effingus, meaning that Voldemort already controlled the wizarding government through his puppets, of whom no doubt Cornelius Fudge was either a lackey or willing collaborator.

And then there was the situation surrounding Neville Longbottom: Everyone knew precisely what the scion and heir to the House of Longbottom had done in the confines of Dungeon seven, though there had been no proof of his actions. Indeed, there was no trace of anyone or anything but Neville when he emerged from an empty classroom, three and a half days after he had entered. The ministry investigation had shown extensive use of high-powered combat magic, but there were no bodies, no blood, no unforgivable or otherwise dark curses on Neville's wand.

It was only Neville's guilt that had ultimately made him make a private confession to Harry, offering his wand and himself for judgment. Harry's judgment had been quick and to the point: Legillimency and several memory charms on Neville, before erasing the knowledge of that from his own memory: One of the few advantages of having spent hundreds of hours mastering the discipline.

Thoughts of Legillimency sent his mind wandered down an almost equally well-traveled path: Voldemort's Horcruxes. The diary was destroyed in his second year. The Locket was destroyed during the summer in Grimmauld Place. The Cup: destroyed in a covert operation into Gringotts that should have not succeeded under any circumstances. Harry had wondered about that on numerous occasions, but was not one to question Lady Luck, especially when she decided to go his way instead of against him. There was also the "hidden" Horcrux which had once called the inside of his head home: Destroyed or rather removed in a very one-sided bargain with Lady Death. Four down, and thanks to Lady Death three more to go. He found himself wondering just how to go about the last three: That thrice-damned snake Nagini, Marvolo Gaunt's Ring, and The Diadem of Ravenclaw. He paused for a split second and then remembered where he was and ducked as the pair of Reductor curses flew overhead. He chided himself for letting his thoughts wander, even if it was during a low-level training drill: Why was he leaving the Diadem alone? It was in the Room of Requirement after all… and given that he was standing in the Room of Requirement...

He ended the training regimen with thought and Rowena, he could practically taste her incredibly smug amusement that was tantamount to her saying, "I was wondering when you would get round to it." He replied with an equally cheeky, off-the-cuff remark along the lines of wondering when her maternal instincts would get around to reminding him of the fact that he was practically standing on top of one. Though they both shared a good laugh, Harry's sense of humor evaporated when he saw the state of the so-called "Room of Hidden Things," which appeared whenever a student had something that they needed to hide. Given the age of Hogwarts, there was a lot of… junk to wade through especially since his friends were, by and large, stuck in class or dealing with another ridiculous homework assignment and his summoning charm failed to produce results, just like in Gringotts. He blinked.

"Rowena, would the effect of setting this junk on fire?" he smiled at the answer and raised his wand, "Plurious Incendio Grata!" and promptly put his back to the door as the first dozen fireballs began to burn away the piles of junk and garbage. He kept up a steady barrage, incinerating everything. No doubt, Voldemort would have put protections in place to ensure that his Horcrux would not be harmed by so simple a spell, meaning that whatever survived the blaze, would have to be the Horcrux. The process would take a few hours, and sure enough, people began turning up as the ghosts of the castle passed discreet messages for those available to join Harry in his thankless "housekeeping" task.

Suffice to say that they found the diadem, though only after a four-hour burning spree as it was the only object left intact. Luna however did point out that there were a lot of people who were probably going to come looking for their precious hidden thing and not find it. Harry had shrugged, as had a number of the others. A few lost possessions, versus the fate of the wizarding, and by extension the muggle world: A fair trade in his book.

There was no doubt that this was the Diadem that Death had explained to him was one of the Horcruxes of Voldemort. The only known relic of Rowena Ravenclaw was in a word: Beautiful. The eagle-like head looked off to the right, the plumage of its chest rendered in fine detail. The wings of the Diadem were curved and swept back, imbedded with dozens of small diamond-like stones that ran along the outer edges of the artifact. The intricacy of the spokes that filled the frame was astonishing with what appeared to be scrimshaw or etchings of intricate design woven into each other across the metal lattice. The blue sapphire was the unchallenged centerpiece, outshining the two smaller diamonds that hung beneath the deep blue jewel.

However, its status as the "Lost Diadem of Ravenclaw" was perfectly justified as Harry leveled his wand and cast the Fyndfire Curse. It came as no surprise as the curse slammed into a shield that kept the flames of hell six inches from the artifact. With a frown, he channeled more power into the spell, only to make minimal progress. "A… little… a lot of help here!"

The others added their own spells to the mix: Twice more the fyndfire curse slammed into the shielded Horcux, making slow progress to burn away the shield surrounding the artifact. Without hesitation, Rowena drew upon her own magic, channeling her own power into Harry, doubling then tripling the ferocity of his Fyndfire curse that continued to literally claw its way, a fraction of a millimeter at a time. Luna frowned, having blasted the cursed object twice with high-power piercing hexes, "It draws upon the latent magic in the air to strength itself!"

"Then let's fix that," replied Neville, "Penitenzigate!" The Goblin shield breaker smashed into the shield and there was a small explosion as the first layer of protective enchantments set off a cascade of feedback that burned through the remaining layers of shielding. The room and the castle itself shook under the shockwave, throwing them all off their feet.

"Heh," said Neville sheepishly, lying on his back, "That seemed like a good idea at the time." Maybe we should have tried Basilisk venom first?"

"Who cares?" growled Harry as he adopted a two-handed grip on his wand, "We end this thing. Now!"

The protections broken, the quartet of Fyndfire Curses scorched then began to char the metal of the Diadem. The gemstones seemed to wilt and then melt under the intense heat as a near-silent shriek of unadulterated evil was vomited forth before silence reigned. The only remains of the Diadem were a patch of fire-blackened floor together with a near minuscule pile of ash that was vanished with a flick of a wand.

There were smiled all around, at the destruction of yet another Horcrux. That left only two that his Core group, his own inner circle as it was known about: Marvolo Gaunt's ring, and the damned snake. "We better get going," said Luna, "There's no way that earthquake went unnoticed." They were gone within moments, narrowly missing Albus Dumbledore and Minerva McGonagall leading three prefects up the corridor. None of them noticed a thing as the group leaned against the wall, covered by invisibility spells as they split up and headed in opposite directions.

All but Fleur: She spared a glance over her shoulder and then slid into an alcove to watch the Headmaster's group trot right past the blank stretch of wall where the door to the Room of Requirement would have appeared. She smiled and made her way through the Castle, into the second-floor bathroom, and down to The Residence. From there, she would Floo her way home. She could not help but smile as she found herself thinking of Potter Manor as home.

In London however, events were taking a turn for the worse. Lord Voldemort had realized that his ultimate weapon - the Effingus would not be enough to conquer the country. Indeed, what was once acceptable losses were now no longer acceptable, even amongst the mindless automaton-like ranks. True he had swelled his ranks with several thousand new fighters, but it had taken little effort to put his backup plan in place and that was now about to bear fruit of the most satisfying kind: Victory. True that many of his original goals remained unchanged: Harry James Potter must die, as must the meddling old muggle-loving fool of a headmaster. But once he had the country, hunting down two men would be a far simpler task, especially with the entire country hunting only two men. It would be a matter of time.

He sat at the head of a long table, surrounded by those Death Eaters whom he felt were the most worthy of the least distrust for he knew that to trust even one of his subordinates fully would be a mistake he would in all likelihood not survive… even if he could not truly die another fourteen years as a spirit had little appeal to him. He sighed inwardly as he thought fondly of Bella. She had been the only Death Eater who he had trusted, especially since she had provided him with certain forms of relief and pleasure that many of his Death Eaters were unable to do. He sighed as he looked towards the door of his bedroom. The muggles always broke within hours and were never able to satiate his desire… he would have to arrange for a new... plaything to be delivered to his chambers. Soon.

He looked around the room and then out of the window before dragging his attention back to the gathered Death Eaters, "Does my plan progress?" he asked.

"Yes Master," came the subservient reply from Walden Macnair, "The fall of Azkaban and the bolstering of our ranks has had the desired effect. Much of Eastern Europe will support the necessary measures when you deem the time to be right."

"What of the Russian Problem?" he asked coldly.

There was hesitation but Macnair knew that hesitation would only make things worse for him, "The Russian continue to resist our overtures and they have taken unprecedented steps to secure their borders: They have raised their war wards and enforced conscription: They have swelled the ranks of their Internal Security Division, and law enforcement divisions to World War 2 levels. My…our…your operatives," he corrected hurriedly, "report that the Russians are ready to go to war with most if not all of Eastern Europe at the slightest of provocation."

The Dark Lord nodded, "The Russian problem is a problem for another occasion. Send word to the Russian Ministry of Magic: So long as they look to their own borders and internal security, they will have nothing to fear from Lord Voldemort. My interest remains the British Isles… for now."

"Yes, Lord." Macnair kept his eyes firmly on the floor at the feet of the Dark Lord, but could not mistake the shadows rippling on the wall, which made clear that Voldemort was stroking Nagini's head, and probably contemplating whether to feed him to the Giant Snake. The yew wand rose and Macnair tensed, anticipating a great deal of pain.

Though there was a fire roaring in the grate, along with a lit chandelier, the entire room was still crouched in shadow but there was enough light to see, and Macnair saw the hand and wand of his Lord rise, pointed towards him. He tensed in anticipation and could not help the sigh of relief as the merest tendril of magic brushed past him. His near inaudible sigh of relief brought a rictus of a smile to the face of Lord Voldemort as the door to his bedroom opened. Nagini, coiled alongside the Dark Lord raised her head to meet her master's hand as he affectionately stroked the creature and spoke to his familiar.

The gathered Death Eaters shuddered ever so slightly, still disconcerted by the Dark Lord's use of parseltongue. Nagini hissed something in response and slithered across the floor towards the bedroom, eager to feed. Voldemort turned his gaze towards another of his Death Eaters, "Lucius, what of our European neighbors?" his distaste was evident in his last word.

He had suffered greatly at the hands of his Master in the aftermath of his rescue, but he knew that despite his punishment, Lord Voldemort would not forsake him, especially since the stratagem had required him to be alive. The switch had been executed flawlessly in the minutes before he would have been force-fed Veritaserum. But the Lord Malfoy seated at the table was not the same man he was before, at least not entirely. Many months at the tender mercies of the Dementors had wrought both physical harm and psychological damage. Indeed, the cane was no longer an affection, but a necessity… and there was the fact that his hair was actually a shocking white instead of its traditionally blond.

"My Lord," replied Malfoy Senior, "The French, having witnessed the demonstration of your power, will cooperate. Furthermore, their minister is one who shares similar beliefs to our own, and as such, I do not believe much, if any force will be required. The Germans are another matter."

"Continue." There was a shrill scream from the bedroom and internally, Voldemort smiled as the scream of fear became a glass-shattering cry of agony.

Malfoy nodded subserviently, "My Lord. The Germans are fully aware of your overtures to the French and given the shared history of both nations, he is disinclined to even consider a proposal."

"Have him removed," Voldemort commanded imperially, "Implicate Fudge and by extension the English Ministry. Such action will benefit our cause should an assassination attempt succeed or fail." Malfoy nodded, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the floor at his master's feet, "Play your part in this Lucius, and you shall be rewarded." The hooded gaze made clear that failure would be met with a fate far worse than being a Dementor's plaything.

In the aftermath of the Azkaban debacle, the Wizengamot was in an uproar. Fudge occupied the position of Chief Warlock Fudge, a retinue of Aurors were stationed throughout the chamber, "Members of the Wizengamot!" his voice boomed, "I call upon the members of this august body to vote upon Executive Order 66! I give you my promise, that it will secure the future of our society, and secure the ascendancy of Magical Britain!

More than half of the gathered members rose in thunderous applause as the Minister shouted, basking in the ovation, "Today! We forget a new order! A new government! One to last a thousand years!" The chamber itself shook with the crowd's approval, "Unity of purpose! Without discord!" Now nearly the entire body of witches and wizards on their feet, in a near-unanimous show of support for the Minister, "It is time for us! For the people of Magical Britain to seize the opportunity! To shape our destiny! I call for an immediate vote upon Executive Order 66!"

The silence in the wake of the minister's call was as deafening as the applause, and one woman chose this moment to rise. She had remained seated. She had not applauded. "Minister," her voice belied her years, "This legislation would give you the power to rule by decree. Surely this is against the very nature, and founding principles of our magical government. Since times forgot since the age of Merlin and Arthur Pendragon has the magical world has been ruled by a council, the magical council, the predecessor to the Wizengamot. I for one, will not stand idly by…"

Fudge nodded. It was almost imperceptible but the Auror saw the gesture and acted at once, raising his wand with blinding speed, "Avada Kedevera!" His aim was perfect and she crumpled to the floor. Dead.

"There shall be no disunity! No disloyalty!" Fudge cried, "The future of our nation requires us to be of one mind! We must act as one! All in favor of the passage of Executive Order 66 into law? All opposed?"

Fudge smiled a vicious smile that was almost at odds with the Minister everyone knew, "It is with pleasure that I announce the formation of the Ministerial Inquisition." The crowd rose to their feet once more, clapping and this time, cheering at the declaration, "The MI will have access to the full might, resources, and power of the Ministry! They shall lead the charge in the formation of our new society that will be guided and shall be shaped into a beacon for the rest of the magical world to follow. "It is my greatest pleasure to appoint Delores Umbridge to the position of Lord Inquisitor, to ensure the protection and reformation of our nation!"

Thunderous applause sounded the death knell of democracy, while just over a thousand kilometers away in Munich, the heart of magical Germany, a team of what would shortly be identified as British born and trained witches and wizards would be killed attempting to assassinate the German Minister for Magic igniting a short fuse that would lead to international condemnation of Wizarding Britain – exactly as Lord Voldemort planned.