A Dream Comes to Nothing

There was yet to be any movement from either side where they had installed their forces on the border between France and Belgium, an irksome, yet expected continuation of the stalemate for Gellert.

Other than a few skirmishes and the continued persistence of The Serpent to make a nuisance of himself almost daily, Gellert was as frustrated as he was content.

Something would have to give eventually, and when it did, he would take advantage of whatever situation emerged.

Still, The Serpent's presence remained to be a pressing concern.

In the last week alone, the man had killed a score of his followers in the trenches, each time mocking Gellert further by displaying that thrice-damned symbol he had adopted.

The ICW fighting force had followed suit with their insults and jeering. Not that much more could be expected from an uncouth rabble, but these incidents were affecting the morale of his own men.

The sooner things began to happen, the better.

Gellert checked the clock on his wall and frowned.

Hans was supposed to have arrived almost an hour ago, and it wasn't like the man to be so late.

The German knew that tardiness was not something Gellert tolerated.

It wasn't until he was becoming quite beside himself that Gaulitier arrived, breathless and as unhappy as Gellert.

The behemoth was trembling with fury, cursing in his native tongue, and though Gellert wanted to chastise the man, he knew Hans was not one to get himself in such a state without good reason.

"What has happened?" he asked calmly.

Gaulitier clenched his fists a few times before taking a deep breath.

"The Hit-Wizards took three of my men in Madrid. They've been sniffing around for the past couple of weeks from what I've been told."

"The Hit-Wizards?" Gellert murmured. "They must be operating again."

"Too right they are," Gaulitier growled. "Killing their leader didn't do much, did it?"

Gellert frowned thoughtfully.

"We do not know enough to make assumptions where they're concerned, but it they are paying close attention to you, perhaps we can use it as a means to gain something for ourselves."

"What do you have in mind?" Hans asked curiously.

"I think it is in our best interests that we have a conversation with your pursuers. I'd like you to prepare a warm welcome for when they return, and believe me, Hans, they will. I'd like you to put them in a position where I can greet them personally. With a little persuasion, I'm sure we can glean enough from them to put an end to their operation once more."

Gaulitier nodded eagerly.

"It will be done," he declared, "and it will be even better if it is The Serpent."

Gellert shook his head.

"No, he is unlikely to fall into any trap. The man is too canny for that, but his peers may not be so. See it done, Hans, and I will pay a visit to Mr Sato. I must check in with him anyway."

"Sato?"

"Who better to give us a better insight into the workings of the ICW than the former Supreme Mugwump?"

Gaulitier's eyes widened in excitement before he all but skipped from the room, and Gellert snorted amusedly.

Hans was quite easy to placate.

The promise of violence always did the trick, and though Gellert found such primal things to be quite distasteful unless used necessarily, men like Gaulitier were useful to keep around.

(Break)

There was something different about Charlus Potter.

Harry couldn't be certain what it was, but the man had changed. He seemed to be taller than he remembered, stronger, and even his eyes that little brighter. These changes weren't natural, Harry was sure of that, so what had happened?

"Have you been messing with ritualistic magic?" he asked bluntly.

Charlus choked on his butterbeer, his gaze shooting furtively around the room before he gestured for Harry to be quiet.

"Not exactly," he denied. "It's family magic."

"Family magic?" Harry questioned with a frown.

Charlus shushed him, once more looking around the bar area of The Three Broomsticks to ensure no one was listening in on their conversation.

"Most pureblood families have spells that are known only to them or a particular branch of magic they excel in," he explained. "The Crouch's are famous for their ability in learning almost any language, the Blacks for their curses, and so on."

"And the Potters have their own?"

Charlus nodded.

"I can't go into detail, but ours is old magic, passed onto us from before we carried the name we do now."

It took little deduction on Harry's part to realise who Charlus was referring to.

The Peverells.

He knew of the Black Family magic but had never given any thought to the possibility that the Potters might have their own.

A part of him felt more than a little put out that it had never been mentioned to him.

"But it involves a ritual of sorts?"

"Since it is you, I can confirm that much, but nothing else, so don't ask. Think about what the Peverells did for the people of Godric's Hollow, and knowing you, you'll work out more than I am allowed to tell you."

Harry frowned thoughtfully.

If the Potters were gifted spells or any other magic from the Peverells, then why hadn't he seen William Potter use it.

"But your dad…"

"Didn't dedicate as much time to it as I did," Charlus explained. "He practiced some of the spells, but nothing else. He was much too invested in Transfiguration."

Harry nodded his understanding.

Other than Dumbledore, and maybe Minerva, William Potter was perhaps the most knowledgeable person he'd met when it came to his preferred branch of magic.

Still feeling a little bitter about not knowing of his family magic, Harry changed the subject.

"Are you still certain that this is what you want to do?"

Charlus nodded.

"I have to, Harry, you know that."

"I do," Harry sighed, "and what about your mum?"

"She's no happier about it than she was, but I think she understands."

Harry hadn't expected Angelica to be happy about Charlus's decision. What mother would be?

For a moment, he wondered what his own mother would think of some of the choices he'd made but shook his head of those thoughts.

He knew so little about Lily Potter that he couldn't begin to fathom what her opinion was on anything.

"Are you alright?" Charlus asked, a look of concern on his face. "You disappeared from the room there for a minute."

"I'm fine," Harry said dismissively. "So, tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," Charlus confirmed. "I'm packed and ready."

Harry wasn't so sure about the latter.

No one was ever ready for war until they had experienced what it was to be in a battle.

As much as he liked and respected Charlus, the man hadn't dealt with much adversity in his life, and certainly nothing that had prepared him for what was to come.

(Break)

It filled Gabriel with pride to see just how many British men were willing to put their lives on the line in the fight against Grindelwald. Although he knew many were here having been caught up in the outrage that followed the death of William Potter, he was still proud even if he did miss his friend deeply.

They had become that, he and William, in a way that could only be forged on the battlefield.

They had fought side by side, had bonded over the exhilaration and unavoidable emptiness that death on such a scale brought, and Gabriel had come to cherish the man's counsel, his company, and input when he was puzzled by something.

He missed William Potter and wouldn't forget what he'd shared with his friend.

"Look sharp you sods," he barked at some passing men that had just signed up, each looking rather smug.

They wouldn't for much longer, not when the realised that fighting a war was perhaps the most difficult thing they would ever do.

A trench full of soldiers was crowded, but that was misleading. Although one would be surrounded by his comrades, being at war was the loneliest thing that could be experienced in many ways.

It was well and good keeping your wits about you during the day when you were busy or sharing a laugh with your friends. Even when the fighting broke out, your mind was kept occupied.

But the laughter and the fighting were infrequent and only for short spells.

Much of the time, you were stuck with your own thoughts, and that was when your mettle was truly tested.

In the night when the wind was blowing, and every other sound convinced you that your throat was about to be slit by an enemy that had crept into your trench, that was when you knew the kind of man you were.

"Moody, you'd best deal with this," the voice of Ovis Braithwaite, a fellow auror interrupted his musings.

With a frown, Gabriel followed, his chest tightening slightly at the sight of William's son.

His friend spoke of Charlus every day with a fondness that left Gabriel with no doubt that William thought his son to be the greatest achievement of his life.

"What're you doing lad?" he sighed as he approached.

"I'm here to sign up," Charlus answered simply. "So is he."

Gabriel's gaze flickered to the man that had accompanied William's boy and a ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips.

The late and former Lord Potter had been utterly convinced that Evans would never sign up, yet here he was.

"Is this true?" Gabriel asked.

Evans nodded, his eyes darting around the atrium of the Ministry in a show of vigilance any Moody would be proud of.

"And you, lad?"

"Yes," Charlus said firmly.

Gabriel offered the young man a sad smile.

"Your father wouldn't want you here."

"My father Is dead."

"Aye, that he is," Gabriel murmured sadly, "and it would be a poor way for me to thank him by letting you in."

"You will either let me in or I will take matters into my own hands," Charlus growled as he stepped forward, his demeanour leaving Gabriel taken aback. "Do you think I'd be safer with just him, or a fighting unit of men?" he added, jerking a thumb in Harry's direction.

Gabriel could feel the start of a headache coming on.

"Damn it," he grumbled. "Alright lad, but you won't be going anywhere until I decide you're ready. Your father would be waiting for me at the side of the devil if I let anything happen to you. For the next two weeks at least, I will be kicking your arse all over the training room here, you too Evans, and if I'm not satisfied, I'll bloody well lock you in Azkaban to keep you safe if I have to. That's the deal, take it or leave it."

Charlus nodded immediately.

"Fine, but when I prove myself to you, I don't want any excuses," he warned, offering the auror his hand.

Somewhat reluctantly, Gabriel accepted the proffered limb.

"What about you, Evans?"

"Same deal?" the young man asked.

"Aye."

"I don't see why not," he agreed. "It would be interesting to see if I could escape from Azkaban if nothing else."

Gabriel let out a bark of laughter, though he didn't miss the look of genuine curiosity Evans wore.

Was the man mad, or did he think he could actually escape?

Not likely.

No one had ever managed it. Evans might be talented from what he'd seen and heard from William, but Azkaban was amongst the most feared prisons for a reason.

"Come off it, Harry, they won't let you keep your wand, and you can't cast a patronus without it," Charlus snorted.

Evans shrugged, and Gabriel eyed him speculatively.

If he could cast a corporeal patronus then he certainly had a gift in charms, amongst whatever else he was capable of.

Defeating a witch like Cassiopeia Black in duel, and quite soundly was a feat in itself.

Gabriel suspected there was much more to Harry Evans than met they eye.

He carried himself with quiet confidence, and his footsteps were as light as a predator's; unnaturally so for a man who was allegedly nothing more than an investor.

Gabriel had met people from all walks of life throughout his years as an auror and spending so much time around dangerous men gave one an eye for spotting them.

Evans was such a man, though he hid it well behind a mask of politeness, sarcasm, and wit.

Moody would be watching him closely for no other reason than he was curious about the younger man.

He was no criminal, of that he was certain, but there was much more to him than he let on.

"I want you both here at five am tomorrow," he informed the duo. "Do not be late."

Evans accepted the instruction easily with a nod, and the Potter boy followed after frowning unhappily.

Gabriel would see what both were made of soon enough, the thought bringing a grin to his lips.

There was nothing like whipping men into shape, especially when he had a gut feeling they wouldn't prove to be a bitter disappointment.

(Break)

"You are looking no worse for wear after your imprisonment, Mr Sato," Gellert commented, noting the man was no longer pale and emaciated as he had been the night he was liberated from his cell in France.

"I found that prison doesn't quite agree with me, Mr Grindelwald," the Japanese man replied, helping himself to a rice dish he had been eating when Gellert arrived. "I am an old man that has become accustomed to a certain level of comfort."

Gellert chuckled.

"And a prideful one, yes?"

Sato's chewing slowed as he sobered, nodding darkly.

"Those responsible for my imprisonment will pay dearly. The Minister was most upset with how I was treated. It will take little effort on my part to secure his support for you."

"That fills me with joy," Gellert replied with a smile. "As I'm sure you're aware, we find ourselves in a most unfortunate stalemate with the ICW forces. The sooner it is remedied, the sooner our plans can proceed."

"Of course," Sato acknowledged with a slight bow. "I will speak with the Minister as soon as possible."

"Excellent!" Gellert declared, "and I am pleased you are suffering no lasting effects."

"I must be healthy if I am to ensure those that wronged me pay for their impertinence," Sato muttered.

"The Serpent, was it not?"

Sato hummed irritably and cursed in his native tongue.

"He got the better of me once, it won't happen again."

Gellert had his doubts, but he would not voice them to the man that would be so graciously assisting him.

"He will get what is coming to him," Gellert echoed the sentiment, "but let us not focus on him for now. I have other matters I wish to discuss with you."

"Such as?" Sato asked curiously.

"The ICW," Gellert sighed. "You were the Supreme Mugwump for a number of years. Is there anything you can tell me about how it operates? Anything you have on the Hit-Wizards would be most useful."

"The Hit-Wizards? Well, they fall under the command of the Head of the Department of Justice. He is a power unto himself. Federov, his name is."

Gellert shook his head.

"Federov is dead."

Sato smirked.

"Good," he said happily, "but they will have replaced him with someone else, maybe The Serpent."

"No, I think not," Gellert murmured. "He is too busy to fill that role."

"Then it could be anyone," Sato sighed, "not that it matters. The department will be run as it always has. The only weakness to it is the personnel files. If you get them, you can eliminate the Hit-Wizards in their entirety."

"Federov did not have them," Gellert explained.

"Then they are likely lost to you," Sato replied, "but, a set of files must exist for the reference of the Head of Department. The one's Federov kept may have vanished, but a new set would have been crated if the Hit-Wizards are operating once more."

Gellert nodded thoughtfully, already tying the loose ends of his plan up.

"So, I must get to the Head of Department."

"Indeed," Sato confirmed. "If you do not know them by name, then the only way so will be by accessing the ICW headquarters, and that is no easy task."

"How do the Hit-Wizards do it?"

"They are given very special portkeys that grant them access. They must be activated by the Hit-Wizard they are given to. If they're not, the person attempting to use it will find themselves deposited into a volcano in Asia, the portkey being destroyed with them."

"That is quite ingenious," Gellert praised, "but if I was to catch one alive?"

"Then you could perhaps force their hand," Sato conceded.

To Gellert, it was a perfect and unmissable opportunity.

Hans would secure the needed Hit-Wizards, and Gellert would put them to use.

"You have given me much to consider, Mr Sato," he offered respectfully. "I do look forward to your country entering the war," he added as he stood.

"Soon," Sato promised. "What of Miss Black, did she survive her ordeal?"

"Thanks to you," Gellert answered. "A very nasty business indeed, and one she was fortunate to emerge on the other side from, even if it was to the most tragic news."

"Tragic news?"

"Her brother was killed in Paris, and her father passed on only days later."

"A difficult time for her," Sato commented.

"She still mourns for them both. They're now buried in the grounds of the home we use with suitable tributes. Her other brother, the new Lord Black refused to have anything to do with them and even had the gall to threaten me with some quite colourful language."

Sato shook his head.

"Please do pass on my condolences."

"I shall," Gellert assured the man. "Cassie is very grateful for what you did. She was truly fortunate that you are most adept at identifying poisons."

"It is a skill that all men of power should possess. You never know when someone may wish to see you dead, and poison is the most clandestine of methods. Still, I am still puzzled by how she ingested it. It is not like she would have consumed anything given to her by an enemy."

"She did not," Gellert confirmed. "Her attacker incorporated the poison into a fog of sorts killing the men that went along with Cassiopeia to deal with the Flamels."

"Do you know who the attacker was?"

Gellert nodded.

"He is the nephew of the Flamels, a man of the name Harry Evans. Quite the gifted wizard."

"He must be to cast such a spell," Sato mused aloud.

"Another that will be dealt with in due course," Gellert said dismissively. "Soon you say?" he asked.

"Soon, Gellert," Sato promised. "The war will soon shift in your favour."

Gellert smiled and bid his companion farewell with a grateful nod.

Soon couldn't come soon enough, but so long as things on the border between Belgium and France remained as they were, Gellert would make do.

Patience was something he'd had to become accustomed to.

"For the greater good," he muttered.

(Break)

"Come on you lazy bastards, get your legs pumping!" Moody called.

"The man is bloody mental," Charlus wheezed. "A complete nutter."

"It must run in the family," Harry snorted.

Charlus was struggling with the physical aspect of, as Moody described, 'being put through his paces.' To Harry, this was nothing new.

He'd been working himself in to the ground day in and day out for years now.

"How are you not tired?" Charlus choked.

"I guess I'm just made of stronger stuff than you," Harry quipped.

Charlus shook his head.

"You're just as mad as him," he accused, nodding towards a smiling Gabriel Moody.

"Well, it could save your life one day."

"What, running?"

Harry nodded.

"Sometimes it's smarter to run than let your pride get you killed."

"I suppose there's something in that."

There was.

Harry had run from fights, more so when he had been younger and not as well equipped to deal with the men that had wanted him dead. There was no shame on living to fight another day, or as was the case for him, living to run away from Voldemort when he inevitably made another attempt on his life.

Oh, how things had changed.

"Alright, that will do," Moody relented. "Take a couple of minutes, and then we'll see what you can do with your wands."

"Thank Merlin," Charlus sighed, "I think he's trying to kill us before we get anywhere near the fighting."

Harry shook his head.

"No, he's trying to make sure we don't die."

"Either would be fine with me," Moody chuckled. "If you die in here, you had no business going there," he added, walking away to set up some training dummies.

"He bloody meant that," Charlus grumbled.

Harry grinned as he nodded his agreement.

If Gabriel Moody was anything like Alastor, they were in for a difficult couple of weeks.

"Get yourselves up!" the auror snapped. "You, Potter, take that dummy out. I don't care how, but I want it dead."

Charlus nodded, unleashing a cutting curse after a few seconds of pondering the many options at his disposal.

"Not bad," Gabriel declared, investigation the damage closely, "but are you as accurate when the target is moving, when you're in the heat of battle, and when others are trying to kill you?"

By the time he had finished speaking, the two were almost nose to nose with one another.

"Maybe," Charlus answered thoughtfully.

"Maybe isn't good enough," Moody growled. "There can be no doubt with the spells you cast. If there is a chance your enemy will survive, then it is the wrong spell. The last thing you want is someone you thought you'd killed already having a second chance at you. Now, try again."

This time Charlus fired a blasting curse at the dummy, blowing a gaping hole in the torso.

"Better than a cutting curse," Moody acknowledged, "but still has its' drawbacks. It's too easy to block for anyone worth their salt. Evans, your turn."

"Avada Kedavra," Harry incanted without hesitation, levelling his wand towards the dummy.

"Are you bloody mad?" Charlus gasped, taking Harry by the wrist to prevent him casting anymore spells. "You'll end up in Azkaban!"

"It's alright lad," Moody comforted. "When you're in a fight for your life, you'd best be prepared to do what it takes to make sure you come of it still breathing. On the battlefield, our laws don't count for much."

Charlus was certainly taken aback, but he nodded his understanding, everything feeling just that little more real.

From when Professor Nott had taught his class about the severity of using one of the unforgivables, he had never considered do so.

He'd heard tales of how terrible Azkaban was, and Charlus had no intention of ever seeing the inside of one of the cells on the cursed island.

"Of course, relying on a single spell is never advisable, even one as certain as the killing curse," Moody spoke once more. "It is useful, but more often than not, you will be faced with more than one foe. Show me some of the famed Potter magic."

Harry looked on expectantly as Charlus complied, his eyes almost glowing as he began to cast his magic.

With a groan, chunks of the wooden floor began splintering away, fissures opening towards the three training dummies that Moody had set up.

Whipping his wand upwards, the wood that had been torn away began spinning and Charlus transfigured them into metal before they penetrated the dummies.

All three, were they to be men, would be dead, and in quite the violent manner.

Moody clapped jubilantly as he assessed the damage, pulling a few of the projectiles free.

"Damned good work, Potter," he praised, vanishing the rest of the metal before repairing the floor and dummies. "Now you, Evans."

Usually, Harry would put to use the vast amount of parselmagic he had learned from the library he had taken from the chamber, but to maintain his anonymity, he decided to delve into some of the practices he had acquired from Nicholas's collection.

Some of the older books he'd perused had proven to be quite the boon.

Nodding to himself, he blew into the end of the closed fist he made with his left hand before opening it.

A spark shot into the air and Harry nimbly banished it towards the three dummies.

With a final wave of his wand, a loud screeching filled the room and the spark detonated, blowing a crater into the floor, and eviscerating the dummies.

All that remained of them was a few dismembered limbs. The rest had been reduced to unrecognisable chunks of what would have been human remains.

Charlus shook his head at Harry whilst Moody looked at him in shock before grinning.

"You know, you're quite terrifying, Harry," the former deadpanned. "What the hell was that."

"I just implemented an old theory of magic."

"An old theory?" Charlus asked with a raised eyebrow.

Harry nodded.

"The theory goes that every part of a witch or wizard contains magical traces, and even the smallest trace can be used to create an effect. I just put it into practice."

"You made an explosion with your breath!"

"Well, my saliva actually," Harry corrected. "Whenever you breathe, there are saliva particles contained in it."

Moody chuckled.

"What else can you use, lad?"

"With practice, in theory, you can use almost any part of yourself, but saliva, blood, and hair work best from what I've experimented with."

"It's like I said, you're terrifying," Charlus reiterated. "If you've spent so much time working on these odd theories that have little substance, how much have you spent on stuff that is well-established."

"More than enough," Harry replied cryptically.

"Well, I look forward to seeing it," Moody declared. "For now, the pair of you can bugger off, but I want you back here at five am tomorrow to continue with our work. Don't be late," he finished warningly, dismissing them with a wave of his hand.

Harry and Charlus took their leave of the training room they would be spending the next dozen or so days in under the watchful eye of Gabriel Moody."

"What do you think of him?" Charlus asked.

"Moody? He's alright," Harry said thoughtfully. "I've met worse people."

Charlus nodded his agreement.

"He grows on you quite quickly, but don't think he won't kick your arse if you give him half a chance. The Moody's aren't known much for their friendliness, and if he plans to have us with him during a fight, he'll do whatever he thinks is necessary to make sure we're ready for it. A bunch of nutters the whole family."

Having met two members of the infamous family, Harry wholeheartedly agreed.

Gabriel wasn't as paranoid as Alastor, not yet at least, but the resemblance in demeanour, humour and looks to a degree was uncanny.

"Then I suppose the next couple of weeks will be interesting."

"You have no idea," Charlus snorted. "No idea at all."

(Break)

"They certainly were eager to capitalise on their success," Gellert commented, eying the three Hit-Wizards that Hans had captured.

Having been relieved of their wands, they found themselves bound to chairs and in quite the unfavourable position.

Gaulitier nodded, his nostrils flaring.

"Two of my men were killed apprehending them."

Gellert tutted disappointedly at the nervous trio.

"Well, we can't have that, can we?" he asked rhetorically. "Never mind, you have the perfect opportunity to assist Mr Gaulitier here as recompense for your slight against him. Where are they?"

Hans held up the three Hit-Wizard licences and Gellert nodded before removing three sets of magical handcuffs of his own design.

"Who have you chosen to join us?" the latter asked.

"Me," a voice answered from the corner of the room. "Hello, Gellert."

He smiled at the woman who was evidently doing much better than she had been since waking up from her poisoning.

"Are you sure you're ready for this?"

"I am," Cassiopeia answered.

Gellert offered her a warm smile before handing her and Hans a set of handcuffs each.

"Then choose your escort," he instructed.

When both had handcuffed themselves to one of the prisoners, Gellert did so with the final one, tapping each set with his wand.

"Now, gentlemen," he addressed them politely. "These restraints are very special indeed, shall I tell you why?"

The Hit-Wizard that was bound to Hans cursed at Gellert in Greek and found out for himself one of the reasons the cuffs were unique.

The man screamed in agony as he collapsed to his knees.

"Quite the ingenious addition, don't you think?"

The Greek whimpered as he shook his head.

"Oh, don't be like that my dear boy," Gellert crooned. "Hans, stand him up."

"You heard him," Hans growled, "get up!"

The man stopped crying immediately, his eyes glazing over as he complied.

"And there is the second function," Gellert declared proudly. "It makes the prisoner much more compliant with the wishes of the captive," he explained.

Cassiopeia and Hans nodded appreciatively.

"Now, shall we take a trip to the ICW headquarters?"

(Break)

Ghost, or Brian Mitchell has his mother had named him, had hoped that he would one day succeed Ivan Federov, just not in the circumstances he had nor into the conflict the world was embroiled in.

He'd envisioned retiring as a Hit-Wizard to be offered his current position as Federov graciously stepped aside.

He rubbed his eyes tiredly.

The days were long, thankless, and with his department being all but side-lined from the war, seemingly pointless.

Most of the criminals that were wanted were nowhere to be seen, their known haunts bereft of their presence. Ghost was no fool, and knew they'd likely thrown their lot in with Grindelwald.

Still, it gave him and his colleagues the opportunity to do their part for the war effort, as minimal as it felt.

It was nearing midnight when he yawned, no longer able to make sense of the reports that had been left on his desk.

With a shake of his head, he restacked them with the intention of returning to them in the morning, only to frown as he heard a commotion in the hallway outside followed by a scream that was cut off suddenly.

Ghost drew his wand as he felt a series of wards activate around him, the security measures of the building.

He couldn't apparate, and his heart sunk when his portkey would not work.

He was trapped.

Nodding to himself, he prepared as best he could with the precious amount of time he had as several footsteps hurried towards him.

After only a moment, his door was flung open and the corpse of the receptionist was deposited onto the floor, but that wasn't what caught Ghost's attention.

The six people that entered were bound in twos, all recognisable faces, and none he was pleased to see in this situation.

"You must be Ghost," Grindelwald greeted him politely. "Your friends here have told me much about you."

The was no smugness in his voice for his feat of breaking into the headquarters nor in his expression.

He merely spoke matter-of-factly.

The Hit-Wizards he'd captured said nothing, staring blankly ahead as though they were under the Imperius Curse.

They likely were and would be no help to him.

"That would be me," Ghost confirmed.

Grindelwald nodded.

"I assume you already know who I am? Of course you do, you hide your fear well, but I can sense it. Now, I had hoped you would comply and then your death could have been a painless one, but I can already see that you won't. Perhaps you should consider giving me what I want, it will save so much bother for us all."

"No chance."

"Hans, please show Mr Ghost here what happens when he refuses to comply with my requests."

Gaulitier.

The sight of the man sickened Ghost.

He was wanted for more crimes than could be counted, murder and rape amongst them.

Hans Gaulitier was a monster, something he demonstrated by biting one of the ears off the prisoner handcuffed to him.

The Hit-Wizard howled in agony and Gaulitier spat the lump of flesh onto the carpet, his lips dripping with blood as he grinned.

"There are many more painful and grotesque things that can be done to them before we begin with you, Mr Ghost," Grindelwald warned, his mask of politeness slipping.

Ghost's gaze swept over his subordinates.

They had been foolish to allow themselves to be captured.

Ghost found himself in a difficult position, but he knew what he was expected to do, though he would take no joy in it.

With a sudden flick of his wand the office door exploded, and the shards of wood buried themselves deeply into the back of the three Hit-Wizards who had no means of defending themselves.

Grindelwald, Gaulitier, and the woman that accompanied them, Cassiopeia Black he believed, had manged to shield themselves, though not their prisoners.

The captives writhed in agony on floor, and in the briefest of seconds Ghost had before the shields would be drop, he cast a trio of rupturing curses.

The Hit-Wizards fell silent, and Grindelwald looked towards him in displeasure.

"Such a waste of life," he commented, only for his own wand to be put to use.

Ghost found himself on the defensive immediately, dodging and shielding for all his life was worth.

Evidently, it meant nothing to his attackers, all three firing a variety of spells at him that he would be unable to avoid for any length of time.

His office was quite the spacious room, but none could hope to match this trio all at once.

Each alone would be a challenge for any and it was no surprise to Ghost when a spell removed his leg from just below the knee.

Having been sent sprawling, all he could do was stare at the stump, the blood-blow surprisingly steady for such a grievous wound.

Without even realising it, he'd been relieved of his wand too and found himself staring down the shaft of three others, the limp arms of the dead Hit-Wizards still dangling from their restraints, the rest face-down and unmoving.

Not a clean death for them by any means, but they wouldn't be subjected to further torture.

"Find the files," Grindelwald instructed the hulking Gaulitier who nodded, cleaving through the arm of his captive with a cutting spell before he began rifling through the drawers and filing cabinets, the hand and forearm he'd just separated hanging morbidly from his own.

Ghost felt sick.

Whether it was from the gruesome sight or what was happening, he couldn't be certain, but he was now powerless to stop it.

Perhaps he should have focused his efforts on destroying the most vitally sensitive of paperwork?

It mattered not.

Grindelwald would have gotten the information he sought one way or the other.

If nothing else, he'd spared his men the indignity and suffering of the Dark Lord's attentions.

"You put up quite a fight," Grindelwald praised.

Ghost shook his head as he chuckled humourlessly.

"If it was good enough, the three of you would be dead."

"Indeed," Grindelwald acknowledged, "but there is no shame in dying fighting for what you believe in. Are there any loved ones you wish a message to reach?"

Ghost stared at the man suspiciously.

"No, I'd rather they were just left alone."

Grindelwald nodded.

"So long as they don't oppose me, I have no reason to seek them out," he replied.

Oddly, Ghost believed him.

"Found them!" Gaulitier declared triumphantly.

Grindelwald all but snatched the stack of files from the German before rifling through them, seemingly looking for something specific as he murmured to himself.

"Ah, here it is, The Serpent."

His expression of excitement dropped when he realised how sparse the file was and Ghost felt a sense of victory fill him.

"Where is the information pertaining to him?" Grindelwald demanded.

"The Serpent?" Ghost asked insolently. "Well, the originals files are gone so I had to recreate them. The Serpent, the clever bastard he is, refused to give any information. What you see there is all I have."

Grindelwald's jaw tightened in anger, but it was Cassiopeia Black that seized Ghost by the front of his robes.

"Is Harry Evans The Serpent?" she questioned harshly.

"Who?" Ghost replied confusedly.

"Evans!" Black snapped.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Her eyes locked onto his and he felt her presence in his mind.

If he knew who The Serpent was, Ghost would have put up a fight to prevent her stealing the information, but he knew nothing of the sort.

"He's telling the truth," Black whispered in disbelief. "He doesn't know."

"Then we wasted our time!" Gaulitier growled.

Grindelwald shook his head.

"Not entirely," he mused aloud, returning the files to him. "Find them and kill them all. At the very least, we won't have to deal with them interfering anymore."

Gaulitier grinned the same way a child would who'd been given the key to a sweet shop and once more, Ghost felt his heart sink into his stomach.

The men and women who had served the department would be killed. Grindelwald would see to that.

"As for you, Mr Ghost, I do not wish to remain here any longer than necessary. How do you wish to die?"

Ghost was taken aback by the question.

"In bed with my wife when I'm an old man?" he asked hopefully.

Grindelwald chuckled.

"I'm afraid that is not an option, but for you, I will make it quick."

Before Ghost could respond, he felt an intense pressure grip him round the throat, and with the loss of blood he'd already experienced, it didn't take long before the darkness took him.

He perished there and then in his office, his final thoughts being of his wife and the men and women of the ICW that would suffer when Hans Gaulitier found them.

And find them he would, of that, Ghost had been in no doubt.