Chapter 614: Blood for Blood
"Take a look at this!"
The voice was low and raspy, as if it had been forced through a throat raw with
emotion.
"How could they possibly have escaped Azkaban—?"
It was Professor McGonagall's voice; Sean could hear it clearly through the
walls of the manor. He sat up in bed and summoned his Magic Hand Mirror. An
emergency bulletin was flashing across the glass:
[MINISTRY NEWS FLASH]
The Ministry of Magic announced a localized breakout from Azkaban late last
night. Minister Cornelius Fudge, speaking from his office, confirmed that
several high-security prisoners have escaped. He has informed the Muggle Prime
Minister of the gravity of the situation.
"Let them come!" said Rufus Scrimgeour, Head of the Auror Office. "For every man
they take from Azkaban, they shall leave one of their own behind. The dignity of
the Ministry is not to be trifled with. Should they attempt another strike, we
shall catch them all in a single net!"
Compared to the previous administration's habits of deception and cowardice, the
current Ministry was at least brave enough to look the Death Eaters in the eye.
Sean stared at the black text, noting the official Daily Prophet seal at the
edge. He wasn't surprised. The mirror's surface rippled, and Sirius Black's
invigorated face appeared.
"Mr. Green! Just as you predicted—he came. He actually came! The Azkaban guards
were useless, but fortunately, there were no casualties among the staff. We
managed to tag several of them with Tracking Charms..."
Sirius delivered the report at a frantic pace.
"And Voldemort?" Sean asked.
"Ha!" Sirius barked a laugh, then quickly turned serious. "He's in a bad way.
Very bad. We stayed at a distance from the main engagement, but we saw the end.
He had to be dragged away by his followers like a dead dog."
"Headmaster Dumbledore isn't faring much better..."
Remus Lupin appeared in the frame, his voice laced with concern.
"At least Albus walked out on his own two feet," Sirius countered, wiping soot
from his brow. "He wasn't hauled off like a sack of dragon dung."
"The Headmaster is injured?" Sean asked sharply.
"He was hit by several of Voldemort's more... creative curses," Remus said
somberly.
"Don't let it rattle you, Remus," Sirius cut in. "We've taken our fair share of
hexes tonight too. This is a war, old friend. In a war, one must be prepared to
bleed."
Sirius let out a cough. Sean took the opportunity to examine them. Sirius's
robes were shredded, a section of his hair was singed, and his left arm hung
limp at his side, but his eyes were burning with a manic excitement. Remus
looked exhausted and gaunt, leaning heavily on a cane, his face marked by
several jagged magical scars.
"Thanks to your Fairy Tale Biscuits, we were able to slip away once the Aurors
arrived," Sirius continued. "We even managed to snag a straggler. Where do you
want him, Mr. Green?"
Sirius tossed his mirror into the air, allowing it to hover. The angle shifted,
revealing a bound and gagged wizard struggling on the ground. He was snarling
behind the cloth, his features twisted in a mask of fury.
Amycus Carrow.
Sean recognized the Death Eater. In the original timeline, this man would have
been the last Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.
Since the DADA curse hasn't affected my third year, Sean mused, is it currently
overdrawing its power from the future?
"Mr. Black, Mr. Lupin... please, just 'Green' will do," Sean said calmly. "Drop
Carrow back at Azkaban. Voldemort won't be returning there for a long time."
If Dumbledore was going to be using Azkaban as an ambush point, it was the
safest prison in the world for the Light side.
"Gentlemen, you need to coordinate with Scrimgeour. I've already contacted St.
Mungo's; they have private rooms waiting for you. Take a holiday. They won't
dare move again for a while."
"We can't do that!" Sirius insisted, his tone respectful but firm. "We can still
fight, sir! We can fight anywhere! We have to smother their plans in the cradle!
We can't let these animals roam free in the wizarding world, especially not when
we have a lead—"
"Mr. Black," Sean interrupted.
His voice was level, almost conversational, but it carried an authority that
made both men go quiet.
"Preserve yourselves. We are not like them—we are not an infinite tide of filth.
The number of wizards capable of standing toe-to-toe with Voldemort and his
inner circle is small, and most of them are currently on this call. Rest.
Recover. There is much more to be done before the end."
Sirius looked at Remus, who gave a small, tired shake of his head. Sirius
slumped his shoulders, yielding to the boy's logic in a heartbeat.
"As you wish, sir," Sirius said.
The mirror went dark. Downstairs, Sean heard the heavy footsteps of Professor
McGonagall and Grandpa Marcus as they hurried through the hall. Sean stared at
his wand, his mind already calculating the next move.
Hogwarts. The Dungeons.
The fire in the hearth was pinned low, casting a sickly emerald glow over
Severus Snape's tight, concentrated face. Albus Dumbledore sat in a hard wooden
chair. His robes were a ruin of silk and wool, and half of his silver beard had
been scorched black.
His left arm was resting on the table. From beneath his skin, ten distinct
plumes of colored mist were slowly seeping out. Deep purple, murky green, dark
crimson—they writhed like living parasites.
Snape's wand was moving with surgical precision, hovering over the brightest of
the curses as he muttered a series of complex counter-charms.
A plume of black vapor let out a microscopic shriek as it was drawn out and
funneled into a crystal phial filled with silver-blue liquid.
"The seventh one," Snape said, his voice as cold as the dungeon floor. "You
should thank Merlin these curses were designed to compete with one another. Had
they been cast with a single intent, you'd be a corpse. If you do this again—"
"I won't stop, Severus," Dumbledore said. His voice was calm, but his blue eyes
were burning with a terrifying brilliance. "In fact, if I hadn't needed you to
drain this filth, I would have chased him all the way back to Albania."
Snape's wand hand faltered for a fraction of a second. "That was the fourth
time. You cornered the Dark Lord in Azkaban, in front of his own Dementors, and
nearly ended him. Do you have any idea how many Death Eaters he brought with
him? Nearly the entire Inner Circle."
Dumbledore nodded, a look of slight regret crossing his face. "A shame he
escaped as a wisp of smoke. But his new body is shattered. It will take him
months to recover enough to even walk. That is better than I hoped for."
"And the curses on your soul?" Snape hissed, his anger finally breaking through.
"More than half of these were cast by the Dark Lord himself. You fought like a
man who had no intention of coming home."
Dumbledore was silent for a moment. Then, he smiled. It wasn't the weary, heavy
smile of the last decade; it held a lightness—a youthful sense of absolution.
"In the past, I didn't dare," the Headmaster whispered. "In the past, I had to
calculate every risk. I had to worry that if I fell, there would be no one left
to guard Hogwarts, no one to stay a step ahead of Tom. But things are different
now."
He reached into his robes and produced a small badge. It shimmered with a warm,
golden aura—the emblem of the youngest participant in the International Alchemy
Conference.
"The Future," Dumbledore said softly. "I call him that sometimes. You've watched
him grow, Severus. He won't follow Tom's path, and he won't repeat my errors. I
have left everything to him."
Snape's lips moved, but no sound came out. His mind was a whirlpool of
conflicting emotions. Whenever the boy was mentioned, his legendary composure
seemed to evaporate.
"So, when I realized Tom was at Azkaban to free his followers, I knew I could
finally let go," Dumbledore's voice was steady, but it burned with intensity. "I
could pour every drop of my magic, every ounce of my rage, into the strike. I
didn't need to save anything for the retreat. I can hunt him, break him, and
tear his world apart. Because even if I fall with him, the Future will still be
standing.
"Think of what he has done lately, Severus. I am merely providing an eye for an
eye. Blood for blood."
The dungeon went quiet for a long time. As the final curse was extracted,
Dumbledore let out a sharp, pained hiss. The dark veins on his arm finally
vanished. He coughed harshly, but the color returned to his face quickly. He was
out of danger.
Snape stowed his wand and turned toward his shelves, his back rigid. "...You've
changed, Albus. What are you trying to tell me?"
Dumbledore pulled on his mended robes and walked toward the door. Before pushing
it open, he looked back.
"The world has changed, Severus. I have changed, and so have you. I am an old
man, and I am cleaning up my mistakes because my time is short. But the future
belongs to him—and to you. I need you to watch over him. Watch over all of
them."
He stepped into the corridor, his stride firmer than it had been in years.
How is the Headmaster?
Sean pondered the question as he failed his thirteenth attempt at a complex
soul-transformation. He knew Dumbledore would be waiting at Azkaban, and he had
positioned Remus and Sirius as backup.
After the battle, he had finally secured a definitive trail on the Inner Circle.
Next came the purge.
Bellatrix Lestrange, Barty Crouch Jr., Antonin Dolohov, Fenrir Greyback,
Augustus Rookwood, Alecto Carrow...
They were monsters who lived for terror. Sean knew that while Voldemort was
recovering, it was the perfect time to prune his wings.
Remus and Sirius wouldn't be the primary strikers for this. Sean intended to
handle it himself. It was a reckless, insane thought—if McGonagall or Snape
found out, he'd be warded inside the castle until he was eighty.
But Sean was nothing if not meticulous. He would strike only when the situation
was controlled. The upcoming Quidditch World Cup would provide the perfect
cover.
But first, he had to master Apparition.
"Things are getting worse. Those dunderheads at the Ministry... they actually
rejected my application for reinstatement!"
Grandpa Marcus's voice was muffled, but Sean heard it clearly from his room on
the second floor. Since embracing Grindelwald's theories, Sean's senses had
undergone a "Magical Awakening." When he wanted to hear something, the world now
provided the resonance. It was like a permanent, low-level Sonorus charm.
"They're right to reject you. You're ancient, Marcus," McGonagall whispered
back.
"I've still got the kick of a hippogriff!" Marcus grumbled.
Their footsteps drew closer.
"Sean? Are you in there? Your friends are arriving tomorrow!" Marcus shouted,
his tone shifting instantly to one of grandfatherly cheer as he knocked.
Snowy hooted and dropped a stack of letters onto the desk. Sean recognized the
seals of the "Hope Cottage" group immediately.
"I'm here, Grandpa," Sean said, opening the door. "Snowy just brought the
confirmation."
"Some things are better said in person! How can I see the joy on your face
through a mirror? I've told Minerva a dozen times to stop being so stiff with
you. You're a child, Sean! Act like it!"
McGonagall ignored her relative, but her eyes were soft.
"Grandpa Marcus... do you have some time?" Sean asked. He remembered the man's
legendary proficiency with instantaneous travel. "I want to learn Apparition."
"I'll do it—" "I'll handle that—"
Both Marcus and Minerva spoke at once. They shared a look of immediate, sharp
rivalry. Marcus wore his annoyance openly; Minerva simply gave a short "Hmph"
and adjusted her glasses.
Sean watched Professor McGonagall. In the villa, away from the students, she was
much more... expressive. It was the only place she allowed her guard to drop.
"I ABSOLUTELY REFUSE!" Marcus shouted, pointing a finger at his niece. "You're
too soft on him! I'll teach the boy proper field Apparition!"