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WEEKLY VOLDIE*

*Everything A Decent Death Eater Needs To Know About Britain's Most Belovedly Feared Dark-Lord-Who-Definitely-Isn't-Back

as reported to you by Harry J. Potter, the Boy-Who-Knows

Chapter I: VOLDIE* IN THE MAKING

Hermione was panicking.

She loved Harry Potter, truly, she did. He was her best and closest friend. But although the boy was a total sweetheart and usually meant well, he also managed to cause the deadliest of troubles without even trying. It felt like only yesterday that she had talked Harry out of adopting Slytherin's poor, misunderstood monster—and yes, she had been forced to write an actual eulogy for the ruddy snake that had petrified her and made her miss her end-of-year exams in the end—and she steadfast refused to acknowledge their third year.

As far as Hermione was concerned, there was no third year.

But she was getting off-track. The point was, Harry created chaos wherever he went and whether he meant to do so or not. Unfortunately, after four years of being relatively mild-mannered and willing to foil any dark schemes that went too far out of control, Hermione feared that Harry had been finally pushed too far. Considering he had spent the summer locked away with his unpleasant relatives and made no secret of his growing frustration with Professor Dumbledore, Mrs. Weasley, and a few of the order members he'd gotten to know, not to mention the ridiculous trial Minister Fudge had put him through, well.

Let's just say Hermione had reason to assume that Harry wasn't just looking for trouble, but ready to grab the first sight of it with both hands and snog the life out of it. Not that she could blame him. (Dear lord, she hoped he wouldn't stumble upon Malfoy first. The guy was a prejudiced git but he deserved a fair warning.)

The Daily Prophet's damn campaign against Harry had really only added fuel to an already out-of-control cackling fire.

No, Hermione had seen the glint in Harry's eyes these last few days, whenever he thought no one was watching him. And The Smirk™.

A smirking Harry was a recipe for disaster. The kind that got trains blown up and Ministries levelled to the ground. And Hermione just knew somehow she would end up getting dragged into it. Not that she minded hitting the Ministry with a couple of harsh truths over their collective head per se, but it was the principle of the thing.

You don't go around setting everything on fire and building something new from the ashes just because the world isn't to your liking. You especially don't do so whilst the threat of expulsion is still a very real possibility.

Ron, of course, had bought Harry's sad 'I just need a little space, mate, it's a bit much right now,' spiel this morning. Because Ron—for all his good qualities when he wasn't being a stubborn prat—was terribly naive when it came to Harry's secret aspiration to become a Dark Lord. Granted, it had taken Hermione herself a while to catch on—that Luna Lovegood of all people had to clue her in really was unforgivable—and some days she wasn't entirely sure if Harry himself was even aware of the ultimate goal his more underhanded machinations would lead to—Harry could be quite charmingly oblivious, the sweetheart—but that was no excuse. Ron was a smart guy with a more than decent grasp on tactical thinking. It was just too bad that the poor guy had a blind spot several Quidditch pitches wide, centred directly around Harry's less advertised character traits.

Which was why it fell to Hermione to ensure that Harry didn't suddenly decide to get even and take over the world while her back was turned.

As such, Hermione understandably panicked when she lost track of her best friend on the Hogwarts' Express.

Thankfully, being Harry Potter's best friend for close to five years meant that she was used to it. Whether it be staying alive in a bathroom, watching her best friend almost kill himself multiple times on that trice-cursed Quidditch pitch—or, as Hermione referred to it, the tragic end of foolish choices—, figuring out the logistics of time travel and its practical applications in her day to day life, aiding in the escape of two wanted fugitives or trying to beat some sense into Ron through sheer force of will—the past couple of years had done an excellent job of preparing her for the madness that was Harry Potter's life.

This had the happy side-effect of allowing Hermione to panic much more efficiently than most people her age would probably manage. If there was anything she wasn't lacking, it was, after all, practice.

It was therefore a determined Hermione Granger who strode down the hallway and methodically checked the compartments she came across with a steady grip on her wand and a determined curl of her lips, proclaiming to the world that she was ready for anything.

Well, almost anything, she amended silently, and quickly shut the compartment door behind her with a grimace that didn't quite hide her flushed cheeks. It seems Ginny has indeed gotten over her crush on Harry. Who knew?

She'd let Harry know—tactfully and without disclosing any of the more private details, naturally—but it wasn't like he had noticed said crush in the first place. In fact, Hermione still wasn't convinced he was aware that he'd been on a date during the Yule ball. She would have thought it impossible, but Harry's obliviousness had caught her by surprise before.

Like that time back in the third-year-that-wasn't, when Seamus had flirted with Harry and Harry hadn't noticed. Or the two hundred and fourteen incidents since, when Seamus had flirted with Harry and Harry hadn't noticed.

Just thinking about it made Hermione roll her eyes hard enough to hurt.

She'd have clued Harry in by now, if only because even Ron had caught on and she felt bad for Seamus' dignity, but the fact of the matter was that Seamus—with his penchant for causing explosions and his obsession to learn how to turn water into rum—would be exactly the sort of well-meaning idiot who would shamelessly enable Harry in his Harry-ness.

Hogwarts would never survive it.

Hermione still regularly had nightmares of Harry ending up with one of the Weasley twins—and on one, memorable, very apocalyptic occasion, both of them—she refused to pave the way towards total destruction.

No, Seamus was on his own.

Putting the matter out of her mind for the time being, Hermione continued her search for Harry He-Who-Would-Undoubtedly-End-The-World-Or-Otherwise-Get-Into-Unimaginable-Trouble-If-She-Didn't-Find-Him-Soon Potter.

Ten minutes later Hermione had interrupted no less than fifteen heartfelt reunions—some more enthusiastic than others, honestly, she didn't need to see so much of her fellow students—and still hadn't found either hide or hair of the missing Boy-Who-Lived.

It wasn't an understatement to say that Hermione had gone way beyond panicking by this point.

I have to be rational about this, she sternly reminded herself and sent a deadly glare at her traitorously trembling hands. It's not like he could have blown up the train or anything. Would, I mean. It's not like Harry would blow up the train. And I've already passed Malfoy two compartments back- Did I remember to warn him? I just know I shouldn't have given Harry that book about 'Sexuality in the Modern Wizarding World'. What was I thinking? And then Ron left him alone with Sirius for almost half an hour! Doesn't he realise how much Harry can achieve in half an hou—

It was in this moment that Hermione's increasingly horrified, internal rant was interrupted by the mind-numbingly terrifying sight before her.

Distracted by her own mental ramblings as she was, Hermione had thrown the closest compartment door open with more enthusiasm than strictly necessary. She deeply regretted this now because as much as she'd believed she had seen it all by now, Harry lived to prove her wrong time and again.

The sight that greeted her in the aforementioned compartment was worse than the combination of the Weasley twins and Harry Potter, worse than discovering Susan's apparently adventurous side, and far, far worse than anything Draco Malfoy had been up to since second year. There had been no signs, no warnings, nothing that could have prepared Hermione for this.

Because there, on the floor of the otherwise empty compartment was the stuff Hermione's worst nightmares were made of: Harry sat on a spread out cloak, braiding Luna Lovegood's long hair, apparently in the middle of a humorous conversation. Both Harry and Luna had turned around at her unsubtle entrance and were now looking up at Hermione with big, innocent eyes.

She didn't scream but it was a close thing.

"Harry!" Hermione squeaked after a moment, too high and too loud but at least not entirely hysterical. She was reasonably proud of her achievement. Then, after an awkwardly long pause: "There you are."

Harry stared. "Yes," he said slowly, almost uncertain, after a moment. "We got on the train together, didn't we?"

He didn't sound too sure about it now. Then again, with the way he looked at her, he might suspect her to be a Moody plant. After last year—and her behaviour just now—Hermione couldn't blame him.

Just because Harry might accidentally turn into a Dark Lord if left to his own devices, didn't mean she should let her own imagination get away from her like that. Especially since that was something she tended to criticise in Luna. Besides they were on the Hogwarts Express and it was Luna. Really, what could have happened?

"Yes, we did." Hermione smiled reassuringly at Harry, who still looked wary. "What I meant to say was: What are you doing?"

It was the right thing to ask. Harry positively lit up at the question, and as Hermione turned around to close the door behind her, she couldn't stop a soft smile from forming on her own lips in response. It truly was a rare feat to see Harry so happy—had been even before the end of the Triwizard Tournament—and she was glad to see that side of him again.

Even if it tended to end with a severe headache and life-threatening incidents for the rest of them.

"Oh, I was just telling Luna that I'm looking for a new hobby," Harry told her readily. "Spending so much time at the Dursleys made me realise that I don't actually do all that much. Well, besides Quidditch, but that's not always an option. And I think 'annoying Dark Lords' should at least count as a part-time job." He shot her a cheeky grin at that, which Hermione answered with an eye-roll that was way too affectionate for her comfort.

"Anyway, Luna suggested I try my hand at writing."

Hermione blinked, countless evenings spent listening to Harry whine over having to complete one essay or another in the common room flashing through her mind. "Writing?"

Harry grinned wryly as though he knew exactly what she was thinking. "Yeah. I might not like doing my homework the way you do, Hermione, but I spent a lot of time these last few weeks catching up on the news." His eyes darkened a bit and Hermione mentally winced as she remembered some of the harsher articles she had come across. "And I think I'd like to be a reporter."

"A reporter," Hermione repeated, stunned. "You."

"Yeah. What better way to avoid getting stalked than being the stalker, you know?" Harry smiled, a little embarrassed and a lot satisfied.

…that was an ominous statement if Hermione had ever heard one. It also sounded suspiciously like the kind of turn-about argument Luna liked to evoke to confuse people into agreeing with her. Damn it. If she lost Harry to Lovegood's scheming there would be no Wizarding World left to worry about a Dark Lord conquering it. Which would, of course, be one way to solve that problem.

"So," Harry continued happily, "Luna has kindly offered to show me how to become a proper reporter. She is an undercover agent posing as a Hogwarts' student, did you know that?"

He appeared undaunted by the glowering glare Hermione bestowed upon the younger Ravenclaw. Oh, Hermione had a bad feeling about this.

"Undercover agent?" She regretted the question immediately.

"Actually, I am a minion pretending to be an undercover agent posing as a fourth year Hogwarts' student," Luna proclaimed cheerfully. "But until my Lord recognises his followers' true potential, I have to settle for uncovering the truth behind the drunken rainides' bi-monthly meetings on the third floor. My father suspects Professor Dumbledore is hiding star powder in the school again. It's been known to attract rainides during mating season."

To that Hermione honestly had nothing to say. But from Harry's visible intrigue at the statement alone, she knew she couldn't let the conversation continue in that direction. Not even Merlin himself knew what Harry was capable of when prodded and encouraged by Luna Lovegood. Hermione feared for them all, she truly did.

"So, what has Luna taught you?" Hermione hastily asked. With a bit of genuine curiosity even. Maybe Harry would find a hobby that wouldn't cause her premature heart failure one of these days.

Inwardly, Hermione snorted. Yeah. That would happen.

"Just the basics so far, I'm only just starting." Harry shrugged, but gestured towards a brand new notebook, well-used to Hermione's inquisitive nature.

"The foundation is the most important part of any building," Luna chided.

Hermione ignored Harry's abashed agreement and opened the notebook on the first page. Unsurprisingly, Harry had noted Luna's advice down with far more care than any of his assignments had ever received. Hermione would scold him if she wasn't secretly amused by the increasingly inventive insults Professor Snape came up with for Harry's notorious 'chicken scrawl'.

The Basic Rules of Reporting as told by Luna Lovegood

- Write about what you know well

- Write about what you're passionate about

- Write about what you want to share with others

- Write about what's relevant to other people

- Write about what others don't

"Huh." Hermione tilted her head in consideration. "That actually doesn't sound too bad."

By which she meant it might not get Harry or the rest of Hogwarts killed by dinner time today. Always a plus.

Luna blinked up at her with huge, blue eyes. "Thank you," she said with a soft smile.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at the blonde girl, but she had already turned back towards her class book. Which she was reading upside down.

"Right?" Harry beamed. "And it gave me an idea. If the official papers don't report the truth, I'll just make my own."

Ron sometimes joked that Harry had a You-Know-Who sense that told him when Voldemort was close or planning something particularly bad. Hermione had yet to see any conclusive proof of such a thing but if Harry did indeed have it, then Hermione had an equally finely-tuned Harry sense that told her when her best friend was about to do something insane.

Said Harry sense was currently going crazy. Hermione felt like her stomach had suddenly dropped to her feet.

"Er-"

She honestly couldn't think of a reason why. Harry had definitely had worse ideas—like playing catch with a dragon—and really, how bad could it be? Starting a student paper certainly wasn't the worst thing. Dumbledore might even be on board with it. So why did Hermione feel this intense sensation of impending doom as she listened to her friend's pla—

Harry's delighted grin slowly twisted into The Smirk™.

"I was thinking of calling it 'WEEKLY VOLDIE*'."

Oh bloody hell.

Chapter Text

Draco was suspicious.

They had been back at Hogwarts for a week now, and so far Potter had done exactly nothing. Draco prided himself on understanding Potter’s moods—they tended to be a good indication of just how badly a situation was about to blow up in all of their faces and as a Slytherin, not to mention a Malfoy, Draco preferred advanced warnings and contingency plans over having to fight his way out of a Dumbledore-controlled school.

Besides Potter was his rival and Malfoys—and Blacks for that matter, he was after all his mother’s son—were possessive of what they considered their own. It was only polite to pay attention.

At least that had been his excuse on their first day back. By now it had devolved from reasonable attentiveness to a matter of survival.

Because an entire week had passed and nothing had happened.

Draco didn’t know what he had expected. But it had definitely involved loudmouthed, foolish insistences that the Dark Lord was really back, as well as a lot of entertaining fights with Professor Umbridge, what with Potter being a Gryffindor and all. It was the natural state of things. The Dark Lord, his father, the Minister, Draco and everyone else schemed and Potter fought them tooth and nail every step of the way, with nothing but righteous stubbornness to back him up.

Bloody Gryffindor that he was, he had the annoying habit of emerging victorious from said schemes—or, at the very least, manoeuvred them into a stalemate—but Draco didn’t like to think about that too often. He still hadn’t forgiven Potter for winning the House Cup in their first year when he hadn’t deserved it, damn it.

But that wasn’t important right now. What was important was this: Potter wasn’t quiet. Potter wasn’t subservient. And Potter especially wasn’t apathetic.

Draco knew Potter. Maybe not as well as Granger and Weasel did—it wasn’t like he attended woe-is-me slumber parties with the Boy-Who-Lived, where they spent the whole night chatting about fluffy feelings and how hard it was to be the personification of goodness or whatever it was that Gryffindors did in their free time—but he had a working understanding of the Boy Wonder’s way of thinking.

Potter did not yield.

That was the kind of thing you eventually picked up on when you watched the guy for four years. Of course, him standing against a fully-trained Death Eater as a first year—though Draco still wasn’t clear on what exactly happened, even the upper years hadn’t known any details, only that it had apparently involved a powerful, magical artefact—was also a big clue.

Draco had told his father as much, but he honestly wasn’t sure if Lucius had understood just how unmovable an object Potter could be when the mood struck him. Not that it really mattered. The whole campaign the Ministry was leading wasn’t focused on changing Potter’s mind. It was meant to discredit him and keep other people from believing in him. If it shut him up, well, that was just an added bonus.

Only it shouldn’t have shut him up. Potter wasn’t the type to let anyone tell him what to do. Especially not when it concerned something so heroically important. Didn’t anyone remember their Imperio lessons from last year?

Sure, maybe Potter had simply grown up over the summer and realised that he couldn’t keep running head first through walls for the rest of his life because that wasn’t how the real world worked. (Except, of course, that the real world seemed pretty eager to adapt to Potter's needs whenever it suited him, and no, Draco wasn’t bitter about that at all.)

And yeah, Potter could have learned to keep his temper under control. Maybe. With Granger around to keep him in check. Miracles did happen—the Dark Lord had returned, after all.

But what his woefully ignorant classmates kept conveniently forgetting was that it wasn’t just the Dark Lord’s return the Ministry was denying. There had been a casualty. Draco hadn’t cared much for Diggory—though losing a pureblood wizard was always a shame, even when it was a Hufflepuff—and, as far as he knew, Potter hadn’t been close with the other contestants either. But he’d watched Diggory get killed, from what little Draco had been able to piece together.

Attacking Potter was one thing. Attacking those around him, even postmortem, was an entirely different matter.

Everything Draco knew about Potter—which was a lot (and no, that wasn't creepy, it was called 'staying informed', Zabini had no idea what he was talking about)—said that the Boy Hero wouldn’t stand for it.

And yet.

A whole week had passed, and Potter had done nothing. Defence against the Dark Arts had passed and Potter had done nothing. Professor Umbridge had gone out of her way to rile Potter up, to discredit him, Dumbledore, Diggory, and every creature in existence besides.

She’d referred to Lupin as a worthless, mangy werewolf and Potter hadn’t even twitched.

No, instead of snapping and rising to Umbridge’s obvious bait like he should have, Potter had kept his head down. He’d pulled out the assigned book and read the assigned chapters and generally hadn't so much as twitched a toe out of line.

Draco had been sorely tempted to check him for Polyjuice. Who knew? Maybe the rumour mill was right for once and Harry Potter didn't even exist. Maybe Dumbledore did indeed have an entire army of well-trained soldiers, who were playing the role of Harry Potter as part of their basic infiltration training because the real Potter heir had died the night the Dark Lord had attacked them. It made as much sense as anything.

Because there was no way Potter was okay what was happening, within and outside of Hogwarts' walls. And if that wasn’t alarming enough, Potter had been reading the Daily Prophet every morning, not with gritted teeth but with an amused smile on his lips.

If that didn’t spell trouble in every language known to magic-kind, Draco didn’t know what did.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Draco proclaimed ominously as he entered the Great Hall along with Crabbe, Goyle and Pansy on Saturday morning. Zabini preferred to sleep in on the weekends and no one really cared what Nott got up to as long as he didn’t blow up their dorm again.

None of his companions showed much of a reaction to his statement, but Draco decided to forgive them for the oversight. In their defence, he had said the exact same thing every day thus far.

In his defence, he’d meant it every time.

“I’m telling you, Potter is up to something,” Draco insisted as his gaze swept searchingly along the Gryffindor table. 

The infamous Golden Trio hadn't arrived yet, but that didn’t mean anything. It was a sign of Goyle’s boundless loyalty that he didn’t roll his eyes at his announcement like Draco knew he wanted to from the dismissive twitch of his left hand. Goyle was decent like that.

Crabbe, on the other hand, was a sarcastic asshole and the only reason the rest of the world hadn’t noticed yet was that Draco usually silenced him before they left the common room. Of course, Crabbe had learnt to break that charm sometime early in their first year, and Draco had been waiting for his revenge ever since. So far nothing had happened.

Considering that Crabbe’s vengeance tended to become more vicious the longer he waited to enact it, that wasn’t exactly a comfort.

“Yes, Draco,” Pansy said drolly. “I’m sure Potter has spent the entire summer scheming how he can make you miserable and is now only drawing out the execution of his undoubtedly diabolic plan to drive you mad with paranoia. It’s a good thing you weren't fooled by his clueless, inept Gryffindor act these past few years and are thus the only one who sees it coming.”

“You know, I liked you better when you agreed with everything I said.” Draco shot the girl a dark glare. “Wherever did the sweet witch that worshipped the grounds I walked on go?”

“She realised that being your girlfriend meant she would still come second to Potter and got over it.”  Pansy sent him a sugary smile that fooled absolutely no one and strode towards their usual seats, leaving Draco spluttering in disbelief behind her.

Crabbe snorted in amusement.

Draco reflexively hit him with a silencing charm, then stalked after Pansy, grumbling under his breath all the way. It was too damn early to deal with these impossible people.

Pansy didn’t even deign to look at him when he sat down. Bristling, it took Draco a moment to push through his indignation and realise that she wasn’t just pretending to ignore him. Her gaze remained fixed down on her plate, her entire face frozen in a blank expression. Her wide eyes and pale cheeks told a different story though.

Following her gaze, Draco choked on what was either air or his own tongue. He wouldn’t know and didn’t have the mental capacity to care. The fact that none of his classmates commented on his lack of composure drove home just how serious the situation was.

There, stuck to his plate—and what appeared to be every other student’s plate, dear Merlin, what had Potter done—were three sheets of paper. The first page was titled ‘WEEKLY VOLDIE*’ in bold, glittering letters.

“Oh shit,” Draco choked out in horror, shock, disbelief.

“Language,” Pansy shot back reflexively, her voice deadpan.

She stared at the pages on her plate like they were a signed death warrant. Which, given that the Dark Lord used to execute anyone who dared to speak his name—Dumbledore and lately Potter being the obvious exceptions—it might well be.

“Oh fucking shit.”

Draco shouldn’t read it. He really, really shouldn’t. Whatever Potter deigned to plaster over the entire Great Hall couldn’t be good. Especially not if it involved the Dark Lord in any shape or form. Ergo Draco really shouldn’t read it.

Oh, who was he kidding?

Bloody Potter.

WEEKLY VOLDIE*

The first ever publication to keep you up to date on everything Dark and Lordy

Everything You Need To Know About ‘WEEKLY VOLDIE*’

written by H. J. Potter

My dear readers,

It is with great pleasure that I introduce you to WEEKLY VOLDIE*, Magical Britain’s new weekly newspaper focused solely on the great VOLDIE* himself, faithfully delivered to you straight from one of Great Britain’s oldest, most powerful, magical strongholds.

Whether you are a proud servant, forever loyal to your master, limited in your interactions with him by the unfortunate political climate, an eager Junior Dead Muncher unsure how to best serve your preferred Lord or a blinded and confused soul, who has not yet realised how they can best support the Dark: Do not worry! We, the founders of WEEKLY VOLDIE*, will gladly provide you with all the information you need to make an informed decision and figure out the actions that will best serve VOLDIE* in the future.

Until this day, there has been a shameful lack of unbiased reports on VOLDIE*’s moves, his plans and his goals. Indeed not even the most recent incident of infighting in his ranks has become public knowledge! I ask you, my fellow witches and wizards, how is even the most faithful of servants supposed to further VOLDIE*’s goals if they are not aware what current master plan their leader means to enact? Why, they might accidentally ruin years of careful planning, simply by killing the wrong fifteen-year-old Hogwarts student!

To remedy this outrageous oversight, WEEKLY VOLDIE* will gladly keep you up-to-date on everything regarding VOLDIE*’s current and future actions, new developments within the Dark Forces, and other bits and pieces the Dark-inclined and the otherwise curious desperately need to know.

For VOLDIE*.

[Page 1]

IS WEEKLY VOLDIE* FOR YOU? FILL OUT THIS QUIZ TO FIND OUT

Are you unsure whether WEEKLY VOLDIE* is relevant to your interests? If you are not yet sure how you feel about VOLDIE* and/or the Dark or are currently stuck in History or DADA and wish to do something productive with your time, we recommend you fill out the following quiz to help you figure out whether you should subscribe to WEEKLY VOLDIE* or not.

Please answer each question honestly and without too much thought. It will help get you the most accurate result. Once you are finished, check the symbol behind each answer you’ve marked and count which symbol you have chosen the most. Then read the results for said symbol and you have your answer.

1. Are you and/or have you ever been a Supporter of the Dark Lord?
   [ ] Yes [*]
   [ ] Yes, but I was under the Imperius [—]
   [ ] No, but I want to be [+]
   [ ] No [≈]
2. What other newspapers do you read regularly?
   [ ] Daily Prophet [*]
   [ ] Witch Weekly [+]
   [ ] The Quibbler [≈]
   [ ] None or something else [—]
3. What is your stance on the Dark?
   [ ] I really don’t care. [—]
   [ ] I despise everything the Dark stands for. [≈]
   [ ] I believe the Dark bears watching. [+]
   [ ] I am a proud Servant of the Dark. [*]

[Page 2]

YOUR RESULTS:

The majority of your answers was a type [*]: You are a proud and dedicated supporter of the Dark. WEEKLY VOLDIE* is exactly the paper that has been missing in your life. The questionnaire is a mere formality, you have already filled out the subscription form.

The majority of your answers was a type [+]: You are leaning towards the Dark. Your curious nature and inability to resist gossip keeps you from pulling back, even if you don’t always agree with their political views. You will not be able to resist reading WEEKLY VOLDIE* over your friends’ or fellow students’ shoulder—so you might as well fill out the subscription now and save yourself the trouble.

The majority of your answers was a type [—]: You don’t care about the Dark at all and pride yourself on your non-involvement in any conflict. Since you also don’t have anything against the Dark, it can’t hurt to subscribe to WEEKLY VOLDIE* and see where the road takes you. If you have a loyal friend close by, they might even fill out the subscription for you, so you don’t have to put in the effort yourself.

The majority of your answers was a type [≈]: You are a fanatic opponent of anything Dark. Just reading the name of our paper had you reflexively reaching for your wand. Of course you subscribe to WEEKLY VOLDIE*—after all you keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

You do not have a clear majority for a type of answers: You are likely suffering from a very cluttered, contrary mind and should probably seek out a mind healer or just go ahead and join the Dark. Subscribe to WEEKLY VOLDIE*. Your crazy fits in nicely.

SUBSCRIPTION FORM

If you want to receive any future issues of WEEKLY VOLDIE*, please fill out the following form:

1. Name:
2. Preferred delivery
   [ ] Hogwarts
   [ ] Owl post
   [ ] Mail box
   [ ] Other:

[Page 3]

“You realise what this means, don’t you?” Zabini asked casually over his copy of WEEKLY VOLDIE*.

Draco’s head snapped up in surprise. “Where did you come from?”

Zabini raised an unimpressed eyebrow. To be fair, Zabini was rarely impressed. As evidenced by his complete lack of reaction to current events.

“You’ve been staring at the paper for twenty minutes now, Malfoy,” was his dry response. A quick Tempus proved Zabini right.

“As I was saying,” Zabini continued as though they were talking about Professor Snape’s latest assignment. “We’ll have to find a way to keep Nott from finding out about this.”

Draco’s eyes widened. He’d been so busy trying to figure out how Potter would survive the next twenty-four hours—never mind the week, really, how did Scarhead manage to piss off every single authority in his life at once—that the repercussions his actions would have for Draco personally hadn’t even occurred to him yet. Handling Crabbe was one thing, but Nott?

Nott, who, upon learning that Potter had successfully smuggled a dragon into Hogwarts, had decided to blackmail Potter into getting him to share custody over the damn death trap—which was why Draco hadn’t had Crabbe and Goyle as back-up that night back in their first year, someone had to make sure Nott didn’t escape the common room before the threat was neutralised. Nott, who was legitimately insane, quite possibly thanks to his father’s liberal use of the Cruciatus. Who would take one look at this- this- nightmare made of paper and happily sell his soul for it?

Pansy, always the practical one, vanished her copy of the damned wanna-be newspaper. It shivered once, twice, and then promptly multiplied into four more copies. Because of course Potter had taken precautions. The moron couldn’t figure out that adding crushed batwings before the dried dandelions would cause an explosive chain reaction, but when it came to protecting stupid jokes that would legitimately get him killed, suddenly he was a magical prodigy.

Draco didn’t slam his head against the table because he was a Malfoy and Malfoys didn’t lose their composure. Especially not in public. But it was a close thing. Particularly with the empty subscription form right there. In front of him. Mocking him.

“We’re doomed.”

Right on cue Crabbe, who had evidently broken the silencing charm again, started chuckling. Which did nothing if not prove Draco's point.

Chapter Text

Colin was excited.

Granted, anyone vaguely familiar with Colin—which were more students than one might expect, thanks to his enthusiastic personality and his secret mission to find a way into the common room of every house to get a complete set of pictures before he graduated—would tell you that 'excited' was a perpetual state of being for the fourth year Gryffindor student. There were also various rumours involving drugs, a serious potion addiction, and a couple of far more nefarious theories in circulation, all of them eager to explain Colin Creevey's penchant for happy enthusiasm.

The truth behind the many whispered rumours—his existence being a product of an Unspeakable experiment involving Pepper-Up potions, a lock of Snape's hair, and multiple cheering charms being one of the more reasonable ideas—was simple: Colin Creevey adored magic.

Unlike many of his peers, Colin didn't think he would ever truly grow used to it. Magic was always fascinating, always surprising, always one-uping the latest miracle he had seen. There was always something more. Another physical impossibility happening before his very eyes. Colin couldn't understand how anyone could not be in awe of it. How they could just sit there and treat it as their due, when magic was so magnificent. So far beyond them all.

And then there was Harry Potter.

Despite his bubbling nature, Colin was far from the overwhelmed eleven year old he'd been in his first year. He was neither blind, deaf nor oblivious, and knew perfectly well what others thought of his 'awkward-but-hilarious-to-watch-hero-worshipping' as Ginny had so kindly put it.

He was aware that his year mates ridiculed him for it, that there were jokes cracked behind his back—and, on a few occasions, to his face—about his obsessive fanboying and other, less flattering terms. Not that Colin was the only student enamoured with the older Gryffindor, but then rumours didn't much care for hypocrisy. But despite the hype and the constant whispers, Colin wasn't sure if any of the others really got it.

Harry Potter was the Boy-Who-Lived, and Colin adored him for it. As did many people.

But to most of them—even Ginny, for all that she tried very hard not to—he was a hero. The prince charming of their favourite childhood fairytale. To adults he was the child that had saved them when all hope appeared lost. The one who finally put an end to the unstoppable terror haunting them.

And Colin was self-aware enough to know that he wasn't that special. That he adored Harry for the same reasons everyone else did: because he was Harry Potter. Because he clapped you on the shoulder and told you to keep your chin up like you mattered. Because he saved the day, and the school, and the world in his free time and made it seem easy. Because he survived the Killing Curse.

Colin had only known about magic for a few days the first time he had heard of Harry Potter, when he'd learned of the miracle this boy had accomplished before he was old enough to walk. And yes, Harry had been kind—if a little out of his depth—when Colin had first met him. And he had slain the monster that had petrified Colin, lived up to a reputation he wasn't meant to reach, never mind surpass, in the end. But that wasn't when it had started.

Harry did the impossible whenever he pleased. He broke all the rules, even those of magic itself, when they didn't suit him. He was everything this incredible world should be, every hope and dream—because Harry was living, breathing proof that nothing was impossible.

To Colin Harry Potter was magic.

And the notion of distrusting Harry, of turning his back on him, of believing in the slander the Prophet was spewing was as foreign to him as the thought that magic had rules that could not be broken.

Because Harry had lived when he shouldn't have. Over and over again. And Colin believed in him.

So Colin was understandably put out when he discovered that he was part of a small minority. A possibility that hadn't even occurred him—because, sure, the Minister was being an incompetent, flailing fool, but from what some of his pureblood year mates had told him, that wasn't a surprise, so why on earth should his idiocy taint Hogwarts? Beautiful, wonderful Hogwarts, which was second only to magic and Harry Potter on Colin's list of most awesome things imaginable?

Except it had.

Tainted Hogwarts, that was.

There was simply no way Professor Umbridge could be called anything but a taint. An ugly, bright pink blot of sludge that was set on ruining two of the best things in Colin's life.

Colin scowled down at his breakfast at the reminder—an action that in itself should have served as a warning to the clueless inhabitants of the castle, not that anyone noticed the Gryffindor's unusually dark mood. His excitable nature was one of Colin's most resilient character traits, though definitely not the only one. As proven by the mere fact that the magical world hadn't managed to disillusion and destroy his sense of wonder yet.

Not that Snape hadn't tried.

Umbridge though. Umbridge wasn't like Snape. Snape was vicious, an utter bastard, constantly belittling Colin and putting him down, and quite possibly the most ridiculously biased teacher he had ever met. But there was something about Umbridge that rubbed Colin the wrong way. He couldn't put his finger on what it was, but out of his two least favorite professors at Hogwarts, Colin knew which one he would rather trust with his back turned.

And it wasn't the ever-so sugary former undersecretary of the Minister, that was for sure.

It should therefore come as a surprise to absolutely no one who had payed Colin even the barest hint of attention to learn that he had been ecstatic to come down to Great Hall last week to discover the first edition of a new newspaper on his plate and Umbridge in the middle of what could only be described as a mental breakdown.

Well. Sadly that latter part had mostly just happened in Colin's fantasy. But still.

Colin had been having the time of his life, snickering over his idol's latest work of genius—and some part of him knew that, as a muggleborn, he probably shouldn't take this much delight in WEEKLY VOLDIE*, but Voldemort had never been real to him the way it was to most of the magically-raised students, and so it was easy to take the joke in the spirit it had been offered—when Umbridge finally discovered what had caused such a stir among the students.

A moment that more than few students had been eagerly looking forward to. Colin might be in the minority when it came to his stance on Harry, but Umbridge wasn't well-liked among the students, no matter what their stance on Harry was. Watching the simpering expression freeze on her face had been therapeutic. As had been her incredulity when she had cast an overpowered vanishing charm—hemming about protecting the poor, impressionable children all the while—only for the house tables to be suddenly covered in multiplying issues of WEEKLY VOLDIE*.

Colin smirked just thinking about the unpleasant woman's increasingly furious attempts to get rid off the papers. Until eventually—far too soon—Professor Dumbledore had taken pity on Umbridge—or possibly felt obligated to spare his students from being buried alive underneath the increasing amounts of parchment—and had ordered everyone to please hand all their copies over to the closest professor for inspection.

Naturally, quite a few copies had left the Great Hall despite Umbridge's best attempts. Colin himself had made sure to save two copies. One to frame over his bed and one to hand to any curious late riser who had missed the commotion.

Umbridge had raised quite a stink about the whole affair, but although Harry had been dragged off to the Headmaster's office, nothing more than a few detentions had come out of it. Colin would have loved to witness whatever conversation had taken place. Sadly, neither Harry nor Professor Dumbledore seemed to be in a sharing mood, and even Colin wasn't suicidal enough to approach Professor McGonagall to ask about the whole affair.

As a matter of fact, Colin—and every other student with a shred of self-preservation—made it a point to avoid the formidable Head of Gryffindor. The woman was not pleased with the current situation, that was for sure.

"Did I miss it?" Darren, his dormmate, asked as he slid into the open seat to Colin's right. Being a halfblood himself and having spent ample time in the muggle world, Darren had been the first friend Colin had made at Hogwarts. Of course, sharing a dorm had also helped.

"Nope." Colin grinned, though it was getting harder by the minute to hold on to his fast-waning patience.

"Good." Darren sighed in relief and finally took the time to gather his shoulder-length, dark red hair up into his trademark high ponytail. It never failed to make Professor McGonagall purse her lips in displeasure.

Once convinced that he was now appropriately dressed for pleasant company—which he never was, not that Colin cared—Darren promptly whacked him not-so-gently over the head. "You know, if we were the sort of best friends to exchange friendship bracelets, I'd be offended by you forgetting to wake me up when I told you five times I don't want to miss the show again."

Colin rubbed his aching head with a half-sheepish, half-guilty smile and pointedly didn't look at the thin strip of leather wrapped around his right wrist. He never took it off.

"I'm sorry?" he tried hopefully.

Darren scoffed. "You're lucky I don't mind your lack of common sense concerning all things Harry Potter. That doesn't mean you have to forget about me every time he does something crazy."

"I'm sorry," Colin repeated with honest regret.

"I mean, it's Harry Potter. He always does something crazy—and I'm not talking about You-Know-Who, Cols, get that glare off your face—it's the truth. You may worship the ground he walks on, but Potter is a fucking menace whether he's insane or not and you know it."

"I'm sorry," Colin said. It was the only response he could think of. Sometimes when Darren went off like this, it was best to let him run out of steam.

"Really, it's a miracle the Weasley twins haven't built him a shrine somewhere already, one would think they'd enjoy Potter's antics more than anyo-" Darren narrowed his eyes when he caught sight of the guilty look on Colin's face. "…you're kidding, right? They don't actually have a shrine somewhere, right?! Colin? Colin!"

Colin thanked Merlin, Morgana, the founders and every pantheon he could think of when Darren's suspicious look was temporarily diverted by a sudden 'POP' that echoed through the Great Hall. Pushing the matter of the Weasley twins and their terrifying ways of appreciating Harry aside for the time being, Colin focused instead on his no longer empty plate.

After all, it had been a week since the first edition of WEEKLY VOLDIE* had gone out and, like all the other students present, Colin had been impatiently waiting for the next issue. It wasn't every day that you got to witness the results of Harry Potter's special brand of madness up close and personal.

With an unholy smirk that held little of the excitable, young boy new to magic and a hell of a lot of the still excitable, slightly older boy who had gotten into multiple fights with those stupid, prejudiced, asshole Hufflepuffs who kept mocking Harry for supposedly cheating last year, Colin reached for the newest issue that had magically appeared in front of him.

He fucking loved magic.

WEEKLY VOLDIE*

The publication of the Dark, the Evil, and the regularly Malicious

VOLDIE*'s Unexpected Return: Where Is He Now?
written by H. J. Potter

No doubt, my dear readers, you have already heard rumours of the sudden return of VOLDIE* to the lands of Magical Britain after nearly thirteen years of self-imposed exile in the charming woods of Albania. Yet, despite the stir his unexpected arrival has caused—after having been recognised walking in a fetchingly grave mood over his own yard by yours truly—VOLDIE* has proven himself to still be the elusive, camera-shy Dark Lord we so fondly remember.

But is VOLDIE*'s continued absence from polite society really the deliberate choice it first appeared to be?

Until recently, VOLDIE*'s lack of public appearances was easily explained, for when have we ever known VOLDIE* to run head first into confrontations like some common Gryffindor? But the more time passes, the more insistent we must ask ourselves: Is VOLDIE*'s silence a statement against our Ministry's pandering towards the weak and uninformed or is something more sinister at work?

A close confidant suggests that VOLDIE*'s health has been plummeting in the last fourteen years and is only just now beginning to stabilise again. I am sure I am not the only one who is relieved to hear this unnamed source's assurance that the greatest danger has passed, and that VOLDIE*'s strength is growing by the day. Indeed, the whacky British climate and the high concentration of wilful blindness our beloved community is known for seems to be doing wonders for his recovery.

We can undoubtedly expect VOLDIE*'s public rejoining into our esteemed society within the next year or two. In the meantime, this reporter believes that we should all follow the courageous example our honourable Ministry has set and not acknowledge VOLDIE*'s return in any shape or form.

I think that I speak for all of us when I say that I am proud to follow a government willing to go to such lengths to protect its citizens' privacy and reputation. The world needs more people as kind and considerate as our dear Minister.

For now, we may rest easy in the knowledge that, despite his notable absence, our beloved VOLDIE* brings out the best in all of us.

VOLDIE*'s mood barometer: Above the fury of a frustratingly helpless spirit stuck possessing small animals, but below the contentment of a vain human taking pride in his reflection. We recommend strict avoidance and studious deference when encountering VOLDIE* in close proximity of reflective surfaces, mirrors or attractive people.

[page 1]

TOPS & FLOPS OF THE WEEK

VOLDIE*'S  TOPS

• Has successfully crucioed every single Dead Muncher available (read: not in prison, on the run or undercover at Hogwarts)
• Has endured Wormtail's presence for 29 minutes at a time
• Has thought up 13 creative ways to kill a rat (completely unrelated to TOP No. 2, this reporter is sure of it)
• Has slept for nine hours straight
• Has kept down broth and bread four days in a row (resurrection is hell on the digestive system)
• Has not committed suicide out of boredom
• Has not given into the temptation to burn down his current residence

VOLDIE*'S  FLOPS

• Has not killed Harry Potter
• Has not killed any other people
• Has not managed to grow back his hair
• Has not killed any muggles
• Has not gotten Dumbledore kicked out of Hogwarts
• Has not cleaned up his current residence in a week, seriously

The official stats

• Crucios used this week: 34
• Imperios used this week: 4
• Avada Kedavras used this week: 0
• Other spells used this week: 26
• Attempts to kill Harry Potter this week: 0
• Laws broken this week: 7 [not counting usage of the Unforgivables]
• Dead Munchers recruited this week: 0
• Plans successfully executed this week: 0
• Plans cruelly foiled this week: 0 

VOLDIE*'s official status: currently on hiatus

[page 2]

3 Ways To Get Back Into VOLDIE*'s Good Graces
written by Har E. Pott-Erbrat

You have served VOLDIE* proudly, but a moment of weakness and doubt caused you to lose faith in the Dark Cause? You panicked when faced with a prison sentence and let your highly-valued Slytherin sense of self-preservation get the best of you? Are you desperately scrambling for a way to regain VOLDIE*'s favour, after having cruelly abandoned him?

Worry no more, for this reporter has found the answer to your problem! Try out these three tricks and secure your place among VOLDIE*'s Most Faithful before you know it:

Tip 1: Buy muggle rat poison and spread it all over VOLDIE*'s grounds.

By doing this, you not only demonstrate your eagerness to make VOLDIE*'s life easier even when he doesn't explicitly demand it of you, you also take care of one of the menial tasks VOLDIE* should not have to lower himself to do. (And don't worry about Wormtail. Muggle poison is, after all, inherently inferior and cannot possibly harm a wizard. Not even one as pathetic as him.)

Tip 2: Bring his snake a snack. Preferably a rat.

As someone not gifted with the enlightening understanding of Parseltongue you may not have realised it yet, but Nagini—VOLDIE*'s most cherished companion—is constantly hungry and keeps nagging VOLDIE* because of it. Spare him the constant admonishment and your presence will surely be received more favourably in the future.

Besides, let's be honest: it's never a bad idea to get on the good side of a nine-feet-long-and-growing, very poisonous snake with a not irrelevant taste for bloodshed. Just saying.

Tip 3: Gift VOLDIE* robes of the finest materials.

The observant among you may have already noticed that heightened senses are among the benefits VOLDIE has reaped during his revitalising travels. Therefore he will undoubtedly appreciate being gifted robes made of the softest materials known to wixen-kin. Thanks to the oppressive political climate the average Dark wix suffers from currently, VOLDIE* can hardly go on a shopping trip himself, can he?

If you have any other tried and tested methods to help VOLDIE* on his way to greatness, please do not hesitate to contact us via owl. We at WEEKLY VOLDIE* wish you the best of luck.

May your grovelling be worthy of VOLDIE*!

[page 3]

DO YOU HAVE A FUTURE AS A DEAD MUNCHER? TAKE THIS QUIZ AND FIND OUT

Are you unsure whether becoming a Dead Muncher is truly the path you are meant to take? Fill out the following quiz to help you figure out if a career as one of VOLDIE*'s most belovedly-feared henchpeople is for you.

Please answer each question honestly and without too much thought. It will help get you the most accurate result. Once you are finished, check the symbol behind each answer you've marked and count which symbol you have chosen the most. Then read the results for said symbol and you have your answer.

1. Are you or were you a member of the proud house of Slytherin at Hogwarts?
[] Yes [*]
[] No, but I can convincingly pretend otherwise [—]
[] No [!]
[] Who cares? [?]

2. How Dark are you?
[] As Bellatrix Black as my robes [?]
[] Crucio is my tickling charm [—]
[] As Dark as VOLDIE* needs me to be [*]
[] On par with Snape's sense of humour [!]

3. How badass are you?
[] My ass is fantastic, thank you very much [?]
[] I swim in the Black Lake in January for fun [—]
[] You don't talk about the fight club [*]
[] These ridiculous responses are sending my sense of self-preservation into a panic attack [!]

4. How intelligent are you?
[] I am a very intellectual person [!]
[] Not as smart as VOLDIE* [*]
[] Well, I'm filling out this quiz, so mediocre at best [?]
[] I know a lot, and know where to look up even more [—]

WEEKLY JOKE

Q: Which ingredient should not be included in a complex experimental rebirth ritual?
A: A worm tail

[page 4]

YOUR RESULTS:

The majority of your answers was a type [*]: You are made to become a Dead Muncher. But then, you know that already, don't you? You possess the proper amount of dedication and deference whilst still retaining the ability to think for yourself and show initiative. VOLDIE* will be pleased by your service. What are you waiting for?

The majority of your answers was a type [—]: You are on the right track, but you still have some work to do before you're ready to enter VOLDIE*'s service—he only deserves the best, after all. Your eagerness to prove yourself makes up for a lot, and your willingness to push yourself will get you far. But although confidence and independence are good character traits to have, you tend to take them a little too far. Remember that you wish to serve VOLDIE*, not become VOLDIE*. And do not forget that VOLDIE* knows best. Keep that in mind, and you will be a worthwhile addition to the Dead Munchers before long.

The majority of your answers was a type [!]: You have a healthy sense of self-awareness and tend to prefer honesty towards yourself and others. While the former will help you complete the good work of a Dead Muncher successfully, the latter does have the unfortunate side-effect of earning you a one-way ticket to Azkaban sooner rather than later. We recommend that you work on that. Do not despair, one is never too old to become a decent liar.

The majority of your answers was a type [?]: You have a sense of humour and are not afraid to show it. While your admirable courage would have no doubt made the Sorting Hat consider Gryffindor as an option—no doubt your most shameful secret—this, sadly, only confirms what you already know deep within yourself: you aren't cut out to be a Dead Muncher and should you go ahead with the stubbornness those bloody Gryffindors are known for, it shouldn't surprise you to learn that your service, while appreciated, would be a short one. As a true supporter of the Dark, you would be of more use as a silent ally, supporting VOLDIE*'s work from afar. But do not let that discourage you! Every step, no matter how small or non-violent, into the right direction is still progress!

You do not have a clear majority for a type of answers: You are suffering from a very indecisive, contrary state of mind. As mind healers are not an option, we recommend you go ahead and sign up for the Dead Munchers. You will find many like-minded individuals among them, and what didn't harm them too much should work for you as well.

[page 5]

LETTERS FROM READERS

Editor's note: We from WEEKLY VOLDIE* do not take responsibility for the content of our readers' letters, nor do said letters reflect our own views and opinions.

Y'know, this settles one debate for sure: Harry, you're bloody insane. Keep up the good work, mate.
— D. Thomas

This is an outrage. You-Know-Who's name should not be used carelessly. He may be dead, but the suffering and destruction he caused was real and should not be made light of. This 'newspaper' is a disgrace to every witch and wizard who died fighting him.
— K. Boot

WHAT IN MERLIN'S SOOTY UNDERPANTS IS WRONG WITH YOU?!
— D. Malfoy*

We bow before you, oh heir of the greatest foursome to ever grace the halls of Hogwarts with its presence.
— Neither Gred nor Forge Weasley

Mr Potter,
I don't know what to do with this, but whatever your definition of "keeping your head down" may be, I suggest you revise it presently.
— M. McGonagall

Hey, do you think we should add a dating column? Even V- needs to get laid, right?
— Definitely unsigned

Cease this nonsense immediately, Potter.
— S. Snape*

*Names added by the editor to provide clarifying context.

[page 6]

"Hem, hem."

Parvati rolled her eyes. Being known widely as the less academically inclined Patil sister sucked. Being among the brash Gryffindors could get annoying—mostly because people seemed surprised at even the weakest, half-hearted attempts at subterfuge she exhibited. Being underestimated was nothing new to Parvati, and rationally she was aware that it was one of her biggest advantages.

That didn't make it suck any less.

So she was a woman. So she was the second born. Of a pair of twins, no less. So she was a lion instead of a more refined claw. So her grades were acceptable instead of exceptional. So she cared for boys far more than for books and fancy magics.

Parvati had never been ashamed of who she was. She wasn't going to start any time soon.

That being said, it was rare for her status as the brash, the useless, the spare to be useful. Parvati tried not to be resentful—she loved her sister and Padma had never made her feel like she was anything less than half her soul—but. There was no point in prettying up an ugly truth. And to think, all the times Padma used to complain that Lockhard hadn't taught them anything…

Lately though Parvati had found refuge in her 'unfortunate'—though never outright labeled as such—status more often than not.

She wasn't the Patil heiress. As such her political views were of little consequence, as long as she wasn't heard too frequently. Her spiteful criticism of the Prophet's reports was tolerable, for what young witch did not indulge in the occasional bout of pettiness? Her decision to hex Ravenclaw sixth year Gerald 'Always knew Potter was cracked in the head, you know' Torfin into the next bloody week—Who knew an exfoliation charm could make someone scream like that? Really, were all men such sensitive, little wusses?—easily explained and justified with steadfast house pride and unwavering loyalty.

There was a freedom in being second that Padma couldn't afford to indulge—not until the negotiations with Lord Berringthon were finished. Parvati would be more sympathetic if she didn't know exactly how involved their father kept Padma in the contract negotiations—and that Padma was quite satisfied with the results thus far. After all, out of the two of them, Padma was the one who didn't believe in marrying for love.

Not that this had stopped Padma from covering for her when Torfin raised a stink about the incident. Or from pretending to be Parvati to get her own standing on current matters across very clearly to her house mates without actually outright saying anything at all.

Her sister would have made a wonderful Slytherin, Parvati thought with warm admiration and a bit more jealousy than she was willing to admit to.

"Hem, hem."

The point, however, was that Parvati could comfortably nibble on a piece of bacon whilst reading the newest issue of WEEKLY VOLDIE* smack in the middle of the Great Hall with a smirk on her lips that would have made Torfin turn around and run for it. Which, in all honestly, only caused her smirk to widen. Served the weak-minded bastard right.

She could enjoy Harry's newest madness out in the open, without anyone looking at her twice. Of course, with the ruckus the Weasley twins were making—and those two really needed to get a move on, Harry wouldn't remain single forever, especially not after he had lectured two puce-faced third years for two hours on the matters of homosexuality, tolerance, the beauty of bisexuality, and how he would rip off their pricks, slowly, and feed them to the thestrals if he ever caught them bullying someone for their sexuality again—that was hardly a new development.

Maybe she should give the boys a push in the right direction. Approaching the twins was always a risk, but Lavender had complained about their lack of 'projects' this year. Hm.

Parvati tapped her chin. Another thing to consider. But first—

"Hem, hem."

Now that was a sound that should never be enhanced with a Sonorus charm, Parvati thought uncharitable. Still, she had finished WEEKLY VOLDIE* and already filled out the quiz—though she wasn't entirely sure what to think about the fact that she would apparently make a good Death Eater as long as she became a little less independent—so there was no harm in turning towards the teachers' table and paying attention to Professor Umbridge.

Well, no more harm than paying attention to any poisonous, prejudiced, hateful person caused, at least.

Now that Parvati thought about it, that didn't sound very comforting. She was pretty sure those nasty hexes her mother had taught her were meant exactly for the type of person Umbridge was. And wasn't that just a sad statement, both regarding the standards at the Ministry and those at Hogwarts.

Professor Umbridge stood in front of the table, facing the students with an expression of disappointment that made the tips of Parvati's fingers itch.

"Now, now, children, pay attention to your betters."

Parvati had endured the unpleasantness that was four years of potions lessons from Professor Snape in a shared class with Slytherins, but not once had she wanted to spit into a teacher's face so damn bad. This woman had a way of raising her hackles with just a few words in a far too sugary-sweet voice.

Parvati held no love for Professor Snape—though if he were to put a little more effort into his personal hygiene, she could definitely see the appeal Lav always went on about—but she was counting on him losing his patience and poisoning Umbridge's tea soon. Maybe she should lock the two of them into a classroom. Speed the process up a bit, so to speak.

An elbow was driven non too gently into Parvati's side. She turned to send Lavender a glare, but her best friend simply mouthed: "You were doing it again," causing Parvati to quickly wipe the devilishly scheming look off her face. Not before Seamus carefully nudged away from her though.

A wise guy, that one.

Professor Umbridge was still talking, but Parvati had given up on listening after that first sentence. She wouldn't do anyone a favour if she lost it and started hexing that woman the way her mother had taught her to. Well, actually she would do a lot of people a favour, but she was still a Patil and her parents' lenience only went so far.

She was regretting that show of self-restraint more, the longer the vile woman talked. Bla bla bla the Ministry says bla bla WEEKLY VOLDIE* isn't just a prank gone wrong but the equivalent of committing treason bla bla the Ministry knows bla bla.

By the end of her speech, there wasn't a single student in the Great Hall that didn't look pissed off, offended, or had drifted off completely. It was almost impressive.

There was a mad scramble once Umbridge announced that everyone had to hand in their issue of WEEKLY VOLDIE*—apparently the magazine was against school policy now, because the Ministry was nothing if not diligent in trying to erase the V-word from people's minds, to the point where it was embarrassing—as people used the crowd to smuggle their copies out. At least the teachers hadn't tried to vanish them again.

A loud bang from Umbridge's wand and a squeaked "In an orderly fashion, now, and that will be 40 points from Gryffindor, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw,"—because the professor was nothing if not subtle—did absolutely nothing to calm down the chaos. Neither did Professors McGonagall, Snape and Dumbledore, who seemed quite content to let Umbridge handle the situation. Or fail to handle it, as the case might be.

Parvati considered her copy for a long moment, before she finally lined up with Lavender, Seamus and Dean to hand it over without complaint. She had seen the look on Harry's face when he had stumbled back into the common room yesterday evening after his detention.

There would be another issue of WEEKLY VOLDIE* in a week's time, of that Parvati had no doubt. She also hadn't failed to notice that Harry had disappeared with Lovegood and Colin Creevey of all people a few moments earlier. There really was no telling what sort of chaos those three could cause if they put their minds to it.

Parvati found herself looking forward to it.

Chapter Text

Martin Cortez was amused.

This was, by itself, not a particularly alarming occurrence. His colleagues would be quick to brush his good mood off as yet another sign of his lacking experience and youth, safe perhaps for a few well-meaning, teasing comments. Martin was only twenty-seven after all, the youngest among their group. Too young, a few of his co-workers whispered where they thought he couldn’t hear, though he did his best not to take the words to heart. It wasn’t like their work was challenging or difficult, but it was hard, and for all his easy smiles and cheerful disposition, Martin could understand their concern.

Azkaban, after all, was no place for the faint-hearted.

Of course, his old classmates would have been much more wary of Martin’s unexpected good humor in spite of the dreary surroundings than his colleagues were. But then those same classmates had ample opportunities to learn that Martin’s sense of humor was much more twisted than most would give a Hufflepuff credit for. 

Ah, the beauty of stereotypes. Everyone complained about them, sure, but when had that ever stopped people from using other’s expectations to their advantage?

Martin himself had made it somewhat of a habit to make the very most of his Hogwarts house. It was always so enjoyable, the way people relaxed just the slightest bit when they learned you were a Hufflepuff. How they let their guard down just a little more than they would otherwise have. For what did they have to fear from the hardworking and the ever loyal? 

Martin smirked.

It could be annoying on occasion—the off-handed "Are you sure you’re a real Hufflepuff?" comments when he handed in a subpar report or went home early, the sharp "A cunning Hufflepuff? Is that even legal?" remarks when he happened to display a trait his house wasn’t known for—but Martin was self-aware enough to recognize that he was just as liable to fall for the same traps. For all his mocking, he’d been caught off-guard same as everyone else when proud Gryffindor Venezuela Rictor had tricked Marcy Dedalus into revealing the existence of her squib brother in an admirable display of twisted word games no one had suspected from the unassuming halfblood.

That had been a good day indeed.

"What’s got you in such a good mood, boy?" Elberecht Werrington wasn’t the worst superior one could end up with, but he had been the head of the human guards of Azkaban for over two decades and it showed. Gruff, harsh and with little patience for social niceties, Werrington could be accused of many things. Coddling his men, the newbies or even the rare visitor, wasn’t one of them. But he kept them alive and soulful, which was probably the point.

Martin, for one, appreciated the man’s priorities. Even if he was unbearable before his morning cup of the dreadful sludge they called coffee. Martin, having downed potions with a better aftertaste, much preferred a good cuppa himself, but to each their own.

"Just my sister’s kid. She sent me these, probably thought I’d get a kick out of it." 

Settling for a half-truth, Martin gestured towards the bunch of crumpled papers the little brat had sent him via owl. An owl that had made it very clear that it appreciated its forced visit to the fearsome prison even less than Minister Fudge on his yearly check-ups. Not that Martin could blame the bird. 

Azkaban itself was fine, and so was guarding prisoners—even if it wasn’t what one might call a very exciting job. But the constant presence of the dementors hung over the island like a thick cloud of colorless despair. And though the soul-sucking creatures were unable to enter the quarters of the guards for obvious reasons, their proximity was always noticeable. A lingering sense of exhaustion and hopelessness, lingering on even the brightest of days. 

There was a reason why so many of the guards ended up addicted to calming potions and liquid happiness before their first year ended. Few of the regular guards stayed longer than three years before they either requested a reassignment or were not-so-gently urged to do so.

Werrington grumbled something that might or might not have been an actual word, not that Martin would waste energy on trying to decipher it. Not before his boss had downed another cup of coffee, at least. It helped that he was still occupied with the paper his niece had sent him.

Alexiosa—poor dear went by Isa, not that Martin blamed her. He appreciated the proud traditions of his family as much as anyone, but when it came to names the Wizarding World really could take a leaf out of the Muggle world’s book as far as he was concerned. There lies power in a name, please. There was power in muggleborns too and you didn’t see the old Lords falling over themselves to get their hands on them, did you?—had his wicked sense of humor and a cutting attitude to match, much to his sister’s exasperation. It wasn’t the first time that the brat had sent Martin something odd she thought he might find entertaining. It was, however, the first time the item in question was so openly questionable.

Not that Ministry regulations mattered much in a place like Azkaban. The guards had more important things to worry about than Fudge’s squabble with a school kid—or so everyone liked to pretend. Of course, were You-Know-Who actually back, it would be very much their problem. The alliance of the dementors was an open secret in their community, and none of them fancied fighting the creatures on their home turf, should it come to that. No, whatever everyone pretended to believe, Martin was keeping a sharp eye on the dementors. And his colleagues. And he wasn’t the only one.

It was for this very reason that Isa’s note, a cheeky 'In case you want to keep your options open', had been burned to crisps and its ashes vanished. Times of peace or not, there were certain jokes it wasn’t safe to say out loud, and wouldn’t be for many years yet.

That didn’t make them any less funny.

Werrington slammed his chipped, now empty cup onto the table.

"Enough daydreaming, Cortez. We’ve got work to do."

Rolling his eyes where his boss wouldn’t see it, Martin put the papers into the oversized pockets of his outer robe and out of his mind and made to follow Werrington out of the tiny, overheated break room. Matters of Dark and Light had been stewing for the past fourteen years, they could wait another few hours.

They had a perimeter to check.

Martin had visited many places over the course of his life. None of them had ever lived up to their reputation quite like Azkaban did. Then again, without personal experience it was hard to imagine just how much the infestation of the dementors shaped the island. Hogwarts had taught Martin a great deal about dark creatures, but few were as cursed as dementors. Even among the Dark they had no friends and few allies. Martin had no doubt that You-Know-Who had only ever used them as a weapon because it was better than having them used against his forces.

The cells in Azkaban were small. Not that it mattered much, prisoners usually weren’t in a shape to move after the first few months at the latest. The long, winded floors were dirty, cold and unkept. Nothing to be done against the unforgiving wind and stench of moss, piss and sweat.

Trotting down the corridors, keeping a watchful distance to the bars and taking stock of the state of the inmates was at once exhausting and mind-numbingly boring. Busy work, one of the visiting aurors had called it once uncharitably, and, for all that he was tempted to trip the asshole into a dementor, Martin privately couldn’t help but agree. Couldn’t help but think that maybe he would have preferred wet work instead, if it would only get him off this Merlin-forsaken island. Alas, it was not meant to be.

They took the usual route, starting with the lowest floor and steadily working their way up towards the higher security cases. In a different environment, the high-security cases might have been locked away deep down in the stony cellars that rather reminded Martin of a tomb, but with the dementors being airborne creatures—and the guards having no interest to being locked into close quarters with them if at all avoidable—Azkaban handled things the other way around.

The walk passed in silence for the most part. Werrington occasionally named a prisoner they would have to keep a close eye on—even after months of training Martin didn’t see half the signs Werrington easily picked out. Really, it was freaky the way that man seemed to predict which one’s declining health would lead to an early death and which one would hold on for another decade out of sheer spite. Surprisingly or maybe not, most of the high-security prisoners fell into the latter category. Of course if they had held on for the last fourteen years, there really was no reason to assume they wouldn’t continue to do so.

Martin wondered what the point was. Most of them were mad beyond reason. At this point, death would be a mercy, not a punishment. But then, maybe that was precisely the point.

"Thirty-two won’t last the week," Werrington commented off-handedly.

Martin blinked. Then scrambled for the forms he was required to carry around because few things on Azkaban caused as much paper work as an inmate’s death.

"What’s that?" Werrington stared at the definitely-not-Ministry-ordered-standard-forms in his hand, proclaiming 'WEEKLY VOLDIE*' in bold lettering. "That the letter from your niece?"

Martin couldn’t read the tone of voice, but at least his boss wasn’t screaming. People had a way of becoming down-right hysterical if You-Know-Who was mentioned at the wrong time, particularly after that Potter kid had insisted on his return.

"What can I say? Kid’s got a fucked-up sense of humor." Martin shrugged. It was true enough and the main reason Isa was his favorite among the immediate family.

Chucking the papers over his shoulder—he’d read the thing already and thought it hilarious, not that he would say so now, maybe he’d consider a subscription away from Werrington’s sharp gaze—Martin finally found the correct form and filled out the basic information on inmate thirty-two.

Werrington shook his head but didn’t comment. Neither of the two men payed attention to the pale, skeletal-thin hand that sneaked through the bars and grabbed the discarded newspaper edition.

WEEKLY VOLDIE*

The Publication of Everything Tall, Dark and Hairless

Our Ministry’s First Forays Into The Dark: A Cowardly Trap Or A Bold Declaration?
written by H. J. Potter

In recent weeks, rumors point towards a most unexpected development: Indeed, they indicate that one of our esteemed Minister’s very own people has taken a first, tentative step into the enlightening art of torture that we all share a healthy passion for. Not only this, but an unnamed witness suggests that they are deliberately targeting children, an admirable level of cruelty even our most hopeful reporter could not have predicted with any amount of confidence. 

We of WEEKLY VOLDIE* must commend the Minister for this bold declaration, particularly as the Minister’s minion in question is currently stationed at Hogwarts, a school firmly in control of the ever-so close-minded 'Light'—if this is indeed the offering of a future alliance with the Dark it appears to be. This reporter shares your excitement at the possible implications and future legislative opportunities this unexpected curveball may present. And of course our approval of this adorably klutzy, but still commendable attempt to lay the first stone for a successful reign of terror goes without saying. It takes true dedication, a strong will and the strength to turn your back on social conventions that frown upon worthwhile torture lessons as a part of the rearing of our children to build such a regime from the ground up—and we, for one, applaud the Minister for his unconventional but heartfelt statement.

Nevertheless, this bold move leaves many questions unanswered: Is our Ministry indeed finally reaching out towards the long-overlooked Dark? Will he follow through and stand strong in the face of the uproar his stance will undoubtedly cause in those of weaker minds and stomach? Or is this merely a weak attempt to gain VOLDIE*’s favor after having forsaken Him so easily all those years ago? 

Or is something more sinister at work and our long-respected Ministry is now revealing its true face in a desperate bid for power before the Dark has regained its former strength? We at WEEKLY VOLDIE* will keep an eye on the situation for you!

VOLDIE*’s mood barometer: Above the justified ire of suffering the deplorable indignity of being suffocated by a terribly unwashed turban and its accompanying garlic stench and below the sweet satisfaction of enjoying the company of at least one mediocrely capable wizard or witch. We recommend to keep a healthy distance from any rats, moles and other embarrassments of a minion that come to mind — a radius of fifteen feet at all times should suffice.

[page 1]

MOST EVILE HOT NEWS OF THE WEEK
brought to you by Harri Pott

New Outfit Options For The Well-Dressed Wicked

Twilfitt and Tattings has introduced a new selection of weekday robes this week. Inspired by the elegant, cutting style of Modern Milan and traditional battle robes of central Europe, their waist-emphasizing, knee-length cut as well as the high-buttoned collar are a must-have for any trend-savvy servant of the Dark. Furthermore, the refreshingly wide-cut sleeves allow for a wide range of wand movements outside the immediate view of possible enemies whilst still covering a Witch or Wizard’s forearms at all times. Remember, my dear readers, be it in Azkaban or Little Hangleton, there is no excuse to not be the best-dressed person in the room—or randomly chosen graveyard, as the case may be.

The Dark and Devious Dream Couple’s Challenges

Well-known socialite Magnolia Malfoi has attended the Annual Fundraiser for Magical Orphans. While her outfit was on point as expected, the understated, sky blue robes were overshadowed the glaring absence of her dashing husband, Lucious Malfoi. We are happy to confirm—despite malicious whispers—that the Dark and Devious Dream Couple’s relationship is as strong and unbreakable as always. We of WEEKLY VOLDIE* are confident that Magnolia Malfoi will continue to bear her beloved’s split attention in these tiring times with the grace and dignity befitting of her station—and, of course, look breathtaking whilst doing so.

Love Beyond the Dark?

Aurélie Bayward, daughter of Marcellus and Valerie Bayward, has repeatedly been sighted in the company of Lara and Louis Dwyer. While some sources suggest that the 'Light Lord' may once more employ most underhanded tactics to seduce stout daughters of the dark and trick them into breaking the treasured bonds of family beyond repair, close friends insist their relationship is built on genuine feelings—on both sides, no less. If there love is indeed true, this reporter can only hope that it will survive the turbulent times ahead!

[page 2]

TOPS & FLOPS OF THE WEEK

VOLDIE*’S TOPS

• Has endured Wormtail’s presence for 32 minutes at a time
• Has kept down broth and bread eleven days in a row
• Has endured Nagini’s terrifying attempt at mothering without twitching once
• Has not killed any of his loyal followers, no matter how whiny
• Has gotten new inspiration on how to achieve His Revenge™
• Has renewed his Daily Prophet subscription
• Has still not given into the temptation to burn down his current residence

VOLDIE*’S FLOPS

• Has not killed Harry Potter
• Has not killed any other people
• Has not managed to re-grow his hair
• Has not yet recognized the advantages of re-growing his hair
• Has not killed any muggles
• Has not gotten Dumbledore kicked out of Hogwarts
• Has not successfully crucio-ed every single Dead Muncher available, though admittedly not for lack of trying

The official stats

• Crucios used this week: 17
• Imperios used this week: 0
• Avada Kedavras used this week: 0
• Other spells used this week: 36
• Attempts to kill Harry Potter this week: 0
• Laws broken this week: 4 [not counting usage of the Unforgivables]
• Dead Munchers recruited this week: 0
• Plans successfully executed this week: 0
• Plans cruelly foiled this week: 0

VOLDIE*’s Official Status: hiatus still ongoing

[page 3]

3 Ways To Reach A Dead Muncher Acceptable Level Of Attractiveness (*1)
written by Hay-Jay Potterdotter

One question our dear readers—platinum blonde and otherwise—have been plagued by relentlessly is what to do when you find yourself, through no fault of your own, so attractive you simply can’t help but accidentally aggravate VOLDIE* by existing. As it is our latest issue that has raised this concern, we believe it is nothing but our duty to help you avoid this particular pitfall in the proud service of Our Dearest and Darkest.

Try out our these three tricks to correct your outer appearance and watch as VOLDIE*’s blood pressure in your mere presence once more returns to healthy, reptilian levels:

1. The most obvious and easiest way to accomplish your goal is to loose your hair. [This is especially true if you are acquainted with a brush and shampoo on a regular basis.] This can be done in a variety of ways, ranging from hexing your hair off every couple of days to using a Dark and Questionable Ritual known to curse your physical body for the rest of your life. As long as you don’t resort to plebeian Muggle means such as cutting your hair off, everything will be fine. And if you truly find yourself at a loss, VOLDIE*’s Horrifying Hairless Potion, brewed by two of our best potioneers neither of which is named Weasel, is as of now available for 10 Galleons via Owl service.
2. Another way to loose whatever physical appeal you may have at one point had is to remain in your animagus form for an unadvisable amount of time. This, admittedly, takes a great deal of dedication—though I believe I speak for all of us when I say that this is the least we can do for VOLDIE*—and takes a great deal of effort in the beginning, as it also requires you to become an animagus first. That said, a good twelve years in any given form, be it a rat or something impressive, have been shown to reliably ruin any physical appeal you may have had.
3. Finally, if you are truly desperate or simply lack the dedication that comes natural to a decent Servant of the Dark and are trying to hide this personal flaw, you may choose the road of good, old-fashioned maiming. In this case, as most wounds that are not caused by Dark curses are easily healed, you may want to employ the help of several of your fellow Dead Munchers and allow them to curse you in the next week. If you need any suggestions regarding appropriately dangerous curses, the life and continued survival of Moody Mad-Eddy may serve as some inspiration. And of course it is common curtesy to return the favor and curse your fellow minions, it would not do for them to come out looking too good—you are only thinking of their continued health and survival after all.

If you have experience with any other ways to successfully diminish physical attractiveness, please do not hesitate to contact WEEKLY VOLDIE* via owl.

May your appearance henceforth be unworthy of VOLDIE* once more!

How To Properly Monologue Like A Professional: A Tutorial (*2)
written by Har E. Pott-Erbrat

Monologuing in front of your defeated enemies [and potentially your cheering allies] is a widely acknowledged and often expected skill any Dark Lord is to employ if he wishes to be taken seriously. And while it is generally tradition that any proper minion is to be quiet and supportive during such an engaging speech, on occasion you may find yourself in a position to give such a monologue yourself—only if our beloved VOLDIE* is unavailable and has trusted you to fulfill your mission on your own, of course. It would not do to overstep.

[Seriously. Don’t.]

Like any other skill, monologuing is something to be learned through repetition. Do not be discouraged if your first attempts fail to impress your fellow Dark witches and wizards. If you continue to practice diligently and follow this step by step tutorial, your monologues will soon do justice to VOLDIE*’s cause and be the source of admiration and envy of your fellow Minions of Darkness!

Step 1: Always be sure to begin your monologue whilst the poor, misguided pawns and unrepentant fanatics of the 'Light' are still alive. They may be on their way to bleed out or otherwise suffer from grievous injuries, but unless time is of the essence you should always hold your killing blow until after you have finished your speech. There is little to be gained from raging on a dead body after all, and, really, people will eventually start to talk.

Step 2: Unless sufficiently maimed, be sure to secure the enemy before you begin your talk. Binding them with ropes should suffice, once you have disarmed them, there is nothing they can do to free themselves anyways. And really, the average Dark witch or wizard might be too polite to interrupt you, but the same sadly can not be said for the blinded, self-righteous Gryffindors you may encounter in your battles. The lack of manners these days is a tragic thing indeed, so be sure to consider a gag due consideration, even if their enforced silence may be less satisfying.

Step 3: Make sure to always be honest—unless you are relying on the survival of your foe and intend to mislead the foolhardy forces of the 'Light'. Nothing is as devastating as the brutal truth. And besides your enemy is as good as dead already, there really is no point to keep vital information to yourself once you have made it this far.

Step 4: Be open to constructive criticism. While it is true that most of your enemies are raging fools to far gone into their delusions to do anything but spit pointless insults in your face, some may offer you valid feedback on your performance. Do your best to remain calm, open-minded and listen closely. You may dismiss your advice afterwards, but remember that it does not hurt to consult people with different perspectives than your own.

Step 5: Do not be discouraged by lack of respect and admiration in the beginning, either from your colleagues or your adversaries. Give yourself time to learn and grow as a moderately-public speaker. Not everyone can be a natural VOLDIE*.

Step 6: Do not let the possible escape of your enemies during your monologue dishearten you. Consider it instead an opportunity to learn from your mistakes and be sure to put more effort into securing your adversaries the next time. Failures in this regard are expected even at a very advanced level—as VOLDIE*’s own experiences have shown, though his occasionally slow-progressing success only makes his unbroken willingness to lead the Dark all the more admirable—and while they can be an annoyance, they are not the end of the world.

Always remember, monologues may take up time and be an inconvenience to plan and prepare for on occasion, but in the end they are well worth the effort. After all, how can anyone, never mind a bigoted warrior of the 'Light', appreciate the brilliance of your scheme if you do not explain it to them? Exactly. 

May your future monologues strike fear in the hearts of your enemies—with VOLDIE*’s blessings, of course!

[page 4]

HOW WELL DO YOU KNOW OUR MOST CHERISHED VOLDIE*? TAKE THIS QUIZ AND FIND OUT

Are you truly one of VOLDIE*’s most trusted or are you just kidding yourself? Fill out the following quiz to help you figure out where your place in the Forces of the Dark truly is and how well you know VOLDIE* in the areas that truly matter.

Please answer each question honestly and without too much thought, it will help get you the most accurate result. Once you are finished, check the symbol behind each answer you’ve marked and count which symbol you have chosen the most. Then read the results for said symbol and you have your answer.

1. Was VOLDIE* a Slytherin at Hogwarts?
[ ] Yes [*]
[ ] VOLDIE* is not a Slytherin, he is the Slytherin [—]
[ ] No, VOLDIE* was always far too advance to bother with an ordinary Hogwarts education [!]
[ ] No, VOLDIE* fooled the Sorting Hat and Dumb-As-Door with a masterful performance in a House-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named [?]

2. What is VOLDIE*’s favorite color?
[ ] The yellow of Hufflepuff’s house [?]
[ ] The violet of the ceiling of the Great Hall at sunset [—]
[ ] The red of his enemies’ spilled blood [*]
[ ] The green of the Avada Kedavra [!]

3. What is VOLDIE*’s most prized skill?
[ ] To split himself into multiple VOLDIE*s [?]
[ ] Flying without a broom [—]
[ ] The Unforgiveables [!]
[ ] Parseltongue [*]

4. Who is VOLDIE*’s favorite minion?
[ ] Bella Trixie The Strange [!]
[ ] Luscious Malfoi[*]
[ ] A Serious Black [?]
[ ] The Severe Prince[—]

WEEKLY JOKE (*3)

When VOLDIE* is dunked into a blubbering potion, VOLDIE* does not get wet. The blubbering potion gets VOLDIE*.

[page 5]

YOUR RESULTS:

The majority of your answers was a type [*] : You have a solid understanding of VOLDIE*. While you do occasionally tend to let yourself get caught up in rumors and superstition instead of trusting your own instincts and observations, overall you know VOLDIE* well enough to correctly read his mood, interpret his orders and foresee his demands. This is a great foundation for a successful working relationship that will further VOLDIE*’s goals as well as the Dark Cause as a whole. Just be careful not to mix up facts with what the less observant consider common knowledge, a misunderstanding at the wrong time could have a lasting, negative impact on you as well as VOLDIE*.

The majority of your answers was a type [—] : You know VOLDIE* better than he knows himself—and definitely better than VOLDIE* would like. For all your talent and promise, your position within VOLDIE*’s honorable ranks is precarious for that alone. Of course, you already know that. As you are still alive at this point, we assume you are somewhat capable of hiding the true depth of your knowledge. Nevertheless, we urge you to be careful. Should you raise VOLDIE*’s suspicion, he may mistake you for a spy and the truth would only make matters worse. You may want to volunteer for the next longterm assignment that comes up, just to be on the safe side.

The majority of your answers was a type [!] : While your enthusiastic hero-worship is a constant source of amusement and flattery for the ever-so-devlish Dark Lord, you are well within the realms of 'trying too hard' as the muggles say. The mere fact that we ascribe a muggle term to your behavior is really all that should be said on the matter. You would do well to make use of that sense of self-preservation you supposedly possess and tone it down. Blind loyalty is all good and well, there is no reason to make a spectacle of yourself. Sooner or later, someone is going to lose their patience with you. If you genuinely wish to improve yourself, you may want to seek out an accomplished master of the mind arts and learn occlumency to help you gain control of yourself and your thoughts. Good luck!

The majority of your answers was a type [?] : Your understanding of VOLDIE* is rather limited, to say the least. It is hard to say if you have so little interest in the person behind the Dark Lord Persona or are so unobservant as to be totally lost to anything not pointed out at you. Either way, your appalling honesty on this subject is evidence of your utter lack of prudent self-control. We recommend you distance yourself from VOLDIE* immediately—physically, that is, not in terms of politics and goals. Please also keep in mind that a sense of humor, whilst entertaining, does not always guarantee a long lifespan.

You do not have a clear majority for a type of answers: Your knowledge on VOLDIE* is mediocre and your guesses are hits as often as they are misses. You may wish to keep your thoughts to yourself and simply follow the predominant position at any given time. Not all is lost however: If you put in serious effort to pay better attention in the future, you may yet get to know the real person behind the intimidating mantle of VOLDIE* and secure a clearly defined place among the Dark Forces for yourself. 

[page 6]

LETTERS FROM READERS

Editor's note: We from WEEKLY VOLDIE* do not take responsibility for the content of our readers’ letters, nor do said letters reflect our own views and opinions.

There are certain things not openly talked about, Potter, and you-know-what is one of them. Keep your silence or deal with the consequences.
— Probably a Hufflepuff*

Not sure what to think about how I apparently make a good Death Eater??? Like, Harry, how serious is this thing? Cause I really can’t be one, my Ma would skin me.
— K

Potter, are you trying to get yourself killed?
— Sent in 24 times, always unsigned

Mr Potter, you will cease to hand out this ridiculous paper immediately . Your incessant demands for attention and childish tantrums are one thing, that you are using your unseemly behavior as an excuse to poison the impressionable minds of our country’s children is another thing altogether. The Ministry will not stand for your blatant abuse of the boundless favoritism Mr Dumbledore seems to have treated you with so far. You will report to my office at 8 o’clock tonight for detention.
— Professor Dolores Umbridge, Undersecretary of Minister Fudge

This is hilarious. I almost choked but so damn worth it. Thanks, man. Seriously, I needed that.
— Seam

I understand that to your current generation, the war with You-Know-Who is little more than an abstract history session. However, I urge you to reconsider your decision to make light of one of the most devastating madmen in recent history and all the terrible crimes that were committed in his name. This project is entertaining enough, but this does not change the fact that you are making fun of a tragedy that cost hundreds of good people their lives — and many of them have relatives and friends alive that still remember their sacrifices. Instead of honoring them, you are mocking the pain, tears and blood our hard-won peace has been built on. And that is something I cannot abide.
— K. Shacklebolt

You realize that rat poison is in fact poisonous to animagi, whether it’s muggle-made or not, right?
— Lily Moon

READERS' CHOICE

Who has a greater sense of style: VOLDIE* [drawing of a dramatically billowing, black cloak with a drawn-up hood casting the face in shadows, only a pair of glowing, dark red eyes gleaming in the darkness, above the figure on the grey sky looms the glowing Dark Mark] or Dumbly [caricature of a wizened, old man with a long, white beard, an imposing staff and a long robe colored lime green robes with bright orange stripes that fade into deep purple towards the seam]?

Owl us your vote now!

[page 7]

Hermione was rattled.

Granted, this wasn’t anything new or unexpected. With Hogwarts slowly being taken over by the foolish Miss Umbridge—who really had no clue what kind of powers she was messing with, Hermione would pity her if the woman wasn’t so utterly vile—and Harry continuing his latest, Voldemort-centric madness, she wasn’t exactly running out of things to worry about. 

Not to mention, Harry’s WEEKLY VOLDIE* coup had renewed the Weasley twins’ interest in him. Hermione had seen the way they were watching him now. She’d had nightmares about that look in their eyes. And Harry, sweet, oblivious darling that he was, soaked their compliments and—shudder—suggestions up like a dried-up sponge.

It was a hollow comfort that at least she wasn’t the only one watching Fred and George with narrow eyes. Seamus and Hannah both seemed to take exception to the twins’ fascination with their favorite crush—and, really, was it too much to ask for someone normal, non-obsessive to become infatuated with Harry one of these days? He didn’t even have a love life yet, and Hermione was still on the verge of a nervous breakdown!

But all of these worries paled in comparison to the suspicious behavior Hermione had observed ever since two days ago Harry had received a scrap of a letter from what looked like a half-dead seagull. Harry was doing his best to hide it, but Hermione had been his best friend for four years filled with death-defying adventures. She knew him too well and she knew what those grins, a little too bright to count as harmless, really meant. Harry was excited.

It made Hermione all kinds of twitchy.

Ron, the steadfast loyal friend few people gave him enough credit to see, thought it was a good sign. He’d even used such phrases as 'being happy for his friend' and how 'nice' it was to see Harry come out of his shell again. Hermione would have cold-conked him with her book if Madame Pince didn’t frown on such violence in her library.

The point was, ever since Harry had received that strange letter—and that he burned it before anyone else had the chance to read it was a warning sign if there ever was one—he’d been nervously excited. He and Luna and Colin, that was. And if that wasn’t a heart-attack-inducing combination, Hermione didn’t know what was.

Those three were up to something. And as usual it fell to Hermione to figure it out before Harry brought down Hogwarts’ wards on accident, killed Umbridge on purpose or did something equally well-meaning but ultimately devastating.

Which was why she was currently stalking her friends. Well, if anyone asked, she was taking a walk with said friends, who just so happened to be unaware of her presence. Thankfully, people generally knew better than to ask Hermione anything when her hair reached this particular level of frazzled.

If only WEEKLY VOLDIE* had been a complete flop, Hermione couldn’t help but think mournfully. If only it hadn’t been the single most hilarious thing most of the bored student body had seen since school had started up again. And Umbridge’s reaction had done nothing but fuel the fire. Really, it didn’t even matter that most students didn’t believe in Voldemort’s return and thought Harry completely insane. What really mattered was that they were a bunch of teenagers locked in a castle with little to do beyond school matters and a truly dreadful woman for a teacher that everyone hated. And now that Harry had amassed a following of loyal readers, there was no way he wasn’t going to milk this for all it was worth. No matter how many detentions Umbridge dished out.

There.

With one last flick of her wand, Hermione dismantled the last of Harry’s locking charms on the door of a random, abandoned class room on the fourth floor. It had taken her the better part of the day to track them down to this place. Harry was all but invisible when he wanted to be, Luna never seemed to draw anyone’s attention and Colin could be as sneaky as he could be loud.

Being finally presented with the chance to confront her best friend about his newest questionable hobby, Hermione did what any properly raised, proud witch would do: She blew the door open with a bang and jumped into the room with her wand raised, shouting "HA!" at the top of her lungs.

An awkward moment of silence followed as three pairs of eyes stared up at her from where her suspects—ahem, friends—were seated on the floor in the middle of the room.

Hermione cleared her throat, determined not to let their apparent harmlessness fool her. She knew better than that, she wasn’t a clueless Death Eater.

"Harry James Potter!" she snapped in her sternest voice. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

Harry blinked. "Well, I always thought I looked spectacular in royal blue, no matter what the bathroom mirror says."

"You do," Luna assured him with a pat on his forearm.

"You really think so?"

Luna nodded emphatically. Harry beamed.

"Well, be that as it may," because Hermione knew better than to let them derail the conversation this early into her inquisition, thank you very much, "I would very much like to know what the three of you have been up to."

She’d expected more of Luna Lovegood’s personal brand of distraction. Or Harry’s pleading puppy eyes that he liked to employ when he was up to something he knew she wouldn’t approve of. What Hermione hadn’t expected was for Colin Creevey light up like Harry had declared him his personal hero.

"Harry’s teaching us how to cast a patronus!" His excitement was so obvious, Hermione could have sworn the very air vibrated with it.

Well. She could honestly say that whatever she had expected, this wasn’t it. With Umbrigde’s proven uselessness as a professor, Hermione had entertained a vague notion of asking Harry to tutor her and Ron—it wasn’t like they could afford not to know how to fight, what with Voldemort and Harry’s own aspirations—but with all the drama around WEEKLY VOLDIE* it had honestly slipped her mind.

"You are?"

"Sure. It’s a damn useful skill to have in general and once Voldie regains his strength, it won’t be long before the dementors flock to him," Harry stated matter-of-fact. "He’s sure of that and I don’t plan on betting on the Ministry. For anything, really."

A fair point, indeed.

"That’s—a brilliant idea!" Hermione exclaimed honestly. She couldn’t help it. She’d wanted to learn the patronus since third year—back when Harry had been pale and unresponsive and lifeless and she could do nothing—and it absolutely was a skill they should spread as much as they could. There was nothing funny or harmless about dementors. And that was before you factored a war with Voldemort into the equation.

"You really think so?" Harry asked, surprised.

"Of course! The dementors are perhaps one of the greatest threats, save for Voldemort and his Inner Circle. And if there’s anyone who can teach us, it’s you!"

"Us?"

"Yes!" Hermione clapped her hands. "Oh, I can’t wait to see Ron’s patronus, there’s a bet going on about it being a sloth, you know. Idiots, the lot of them, it’s like they haven’t seen him at all in the last few years. And Seamus and Dean will probably want to join in as well. If they didn’t, Ginny would flay them alive and they know it."

Harry pointedly cleared his throat. "Hermione? Your faith in me is appreciated, but I’d like to successfully teach that spell to at least one person before you sign me up as a junior professor if it’s all the same to you."

The amused grin belied his scolding tone. Hermione grinned impishly back. "I make no promises."

"Of course you don’t."

"Now can we go back to the lesson?" Colin asked impatiently. "We’re kind of on a deadline here."

His words pinged something on Hermione’s Harry-alert, although it was too faint to be interpreted. Before she had the chance to ask, Luna spoke up with a blasé, "Besides you may have a harder time than you think convincing other students to join in. Most of the dark and neutral families will be understandably hesitant to sign up for such lessons."

"What? Why?" Ignoring the fact that Hermione didn’t think the alliances were quite as clearly defined as to go by family name, she couldn’t imagine anyone not wanting to know how to defend yourself against a soul-sucking creature. Who wouldn’t want to be capable of that? She’d have thought even the Slytherins would be interested. Self-preservation was right up their alley, wasn’t it?

"The patronus is pure light magic, Hermione," Luna said softly. "It is the kind of magic witches and wizards with a dark or neutral core struggle to accomplish. If overdone—especially whilst they’re still young and their cores are still developing—it could permanently twist their very magic and keep them from ever reaching their true potential. It is only due to Colin’s unaffiliated magic as a muggleborn and the Lovegoods have been light-oriented for centuries that we’re here now."

A long moment of silence passed as Hermione stared at the girl, attempting to come up with a response that wouldn’t make Harry frown at her.

"Actually, I’m here because Harry asked me to," Colin piped up.

"And your dedication to becoming a proper minion is duly noted," Luna conceded.

"That," Hermione said after taking a couple of deep breaths, "is the biggest pile of bullshit I’ve heard since Professor Umbridge’s welcome speech." And that was really saying something.

Harry, on the other hand, seemed intrigued. "Is that really true?"

“Of course. In fact, I’ve long suspected that Headmaster Dumbledore and Professor Flitwick are secretly part of a conspiracy to turn the proud heirs of traditionally dark and neutral families malleable and corrupt their own magical cores with light magic they’ll never be able to cast as good as their natural inclination. Don’t you think it’s suspicious that the very first charm we learn in his class is the Lumos charm that literally makes light?”

“No!” Hermione snapped. It wasn’t. Lumos was a simple spell that wouldn’t cause any undue harm if over- or underpowered, which made it perfect to help children get a handle on how much power to put behind a charm. And there was no such thing as light, dark and neutral cores. Where did Luna even come up with this stuff?

Harry hmm-ed thoughtfully. “I’ve never heard of this conspiracy.”

“You’re the figurehead of the Light, Harry. You wouldn’t have,” Luna explained sympathetically. “It’s why your own magic isn’t as strong as it should be. You’re fighting your own nature, poisoning yourself with all that light magic you keep casting without properly balancing it out. Whatever anyone might say, the Potters haven’t been light for several generations.”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” Hermione said after a moment of disbelieving silence. “And also absolutely not true.”

“That’s what everyone thinks.” Luna nodded and reached out to pat her head. “That’s why they get away with it.”

Which sparked a twenty minute discussion that ended with a wide-eyed Colin and Harry, an unimpressed Luna and a frustrated Hermione. 

Why, oh why couldn’t Harry go back to obsessing over Malfoy? At least the worst he did was throw insults in Hermione’s face.

Chapter Text

Quiet steps shaky hands was impatient.

It had taken them longer than expected to gave their guards the slip. Not that they minded them, usually, not when sharp tongue kind eyes gave the orders. But today. Today they were on a mission. An important one too, and that didn’t happen often. Quiet steps shaky hands wasn’t the kind of person people involved in important missions if they could avoid it—so they tended to make up their own.

And this one.

This one was special. Even for them. Especially for them.

This one was—

Their hands trembled harder than usual and their heart hammered away in their chest, almost like it wanted to escape their bone and flesh prison. Quiet steps shaky hands emphasized. They often felt that way. Usually when they were in close proximity of loud voice cold heart— screamshoutpainstoppainshoutno—

They were frozen in place when the world resettled around them. Blinked. Pushed the wetness in their eyes aside in favor of piecing their thoughts back together. Like the puzzles sharp tongue kind eyes conjured for them sometimes. They didn’t always fit together well and sometimes they ruined them when they tried to make them fit but finally the yelling inside their head was quiet again.

They liked the quiet.

They liked noise too though. Especially nice noise, like chiming silver bells. Like the one they were following right now.

The hallways were always longer when they followed someone. But even though there were others about, none payed quiet steps shaky hands any mind. They were too quiet. Too good at passing by unseen.

[Their guards wouldn’t find them until they wanted them too, but sometimes they pretended, so as not to offend anyone’s pride. Pride was a dangerous thing to hurt and they didn’t like to hurt. Hurt wasn’t nice.]

They almost missed the secret door, but quiet steps shaky hands had been preparing for this for a long time. The warm haze of don’t-look-here-nothing-to-see-here-just-move-on was clingy, sticking to their head like a swarm of angry honeybees to their hive. But they took a deep breath, so deep they could feel it all the way down to their stomach, pushed through and pulled the door open.

The room was warm, lit, cozy. They liked it immediately. There were four others inside, staring at them. They didn’t like that at all. Their right hand clenched around the doorknob, otherwise it would’ve been shaking very hard. Their left one certainly was.

Quiet steps shaky hands opened their mouth. Noise was good, except no, badbadbad, bequiet, don’tmakeasound—

Closed it again. This wasn’t— They couldn’t—

"You alright?"

They snapped their head around at the sound of the question, soft and not angry at all. Met the bright green eyes of deadly lightening roaring storm.

Finally.

Breathed.

"Hello."

WEEKLY VOLDIE*

The Publication of Everything Dark and Shady 

Ignorance and Indifference: VOLDIE*’s Most Valuable Allies
written by H. J. Potter

If the muggles are to be believed, understanding what you don’t know is in itself knowledge. And while we can’t in good consciousness recommend listening to their odd notions and wisdom all that often, in this particular case they may be onto something.

We of WEEKLY VOLDIE* have to admit that most of us haven’t had the honor of being alive during the height of our most adored Darkness’ last reign. We have heard the tales of his impressive feats and magical prowess—one cannot live in Magical Britain without being regaled with our Darkest Lord’s brilliance and terribleness—but we have not lived through such glorious times. As such, we have been shamefully unaware to a certain degree of just how his VOLDIE*-ness has risen to power during the First War. 

It is now with great relief that we are beginning to understand the true magnitude of our dearest VOLDIE*’s achievements. For you see, my dear readers, as magnificent as our Darkest of the Dark is and as far as he has transcended humanity, even He does have his limits. 

This, fortunately, is where we come in. And I’m not just talking about us here at WEEKLY VOLDIE* or even the most devoted of Dead Munchers. No. For you see, even with his most efficient fighters, VOLDIE* could not have made it as far as he did without all of your support. Every single witch and wizard has done their utmost best to support our cause, if not in the open, then in silent agreement and casual inaction. It is admirable, astonishing even, how our Darkest Lord has brought us, the people of Magical Britain together. Together, we stand against those who wish to weaken and harm our beloved VOLDIE*! Together, we ensure his safety and help him regain his former strength! Together, we may one day, many years into the future, look back on these eventful times with a tearful smile, secure in the knowledge that, for all his greatness, VOLDIE* would not have come as far as he has, as fast as he has, without our help. We, together, have made this possible in the first place! Rejoice, my readers, for all too soon our continuous efforts will finally bear fruit!

Do not worry, we at WEEKLY VOLDIE* will continue to keep you updated on all relevant developments. But with everything we are all currently accomplishing, we feel confident to announce that the future we’re working towards will be one after VOLDIE*’s own heart for sure!

VOLDIE*’s mood barometer: Approaching a close to positive outlook on life, in no small part thanks to a questionable but apparently therapeutic obsession with round glass cubes. Potentially hazardous activities like juggling, asking stupid questions or handing any responsibility at all to wormtails should nevertheless be avoided.

[page 1]

MOST EVILE HOT NEWS OF THE WEEK
brought to you by Harri Pott

Slytherin’s Star Couple Torn Apart Forever?

Rumor has it that Panny Park-In-Son and Dragon Malfoi have broken up for the very last time! Much to the shock of this reporter, it appears that after two years of back and forth, Panny Park-In-Son has put an end to their relationship for real. Close friends of the couple admit that the Dream Team has been struggling for a while, though they too have not seen the ending coming. It appears that Dragon Malfoi has been struggling with his Hairy obsession for a while and Panny—while understanding—has finally reached her breaking point. What this will mean for this year’s unofficial Hogwarts Christmas Ball is unclear, but we at WEEKLY VOLDIE* will keep you up-to-date!

Pink Is The New Black

The Leagues of Darkness are known for many things. Unfortunately, their bold fashion choices are not among them. While traditional, black wizard robes are a solid choice to stress their closeness to the common people and make it easier for young, impressional Hogwarts students to picture themselves among them, they do not truly speak of a willingness to innovate and inspire change that goes beyond the political. Therefore, for all her personal misgivings, this reporter has to applaud the latest Ministry plants’ bold fashion statement: Dressed in a wide variation of shades of pink, Under-The-Bridge does not just further the Ministry’s agenda at Hogwarts, but also fosters a regime of fear, terror and ignorance that we, as VOLDIE*’s staunchest supports can only admire. Our hearts may be as black as can be, has the time come for our robes to show their true colors?

Harry Potter A Dementor Whisperer?

As some of our readers may already know, our highly regarded VOLDIE*’s favorite chew toy Harry Potter has faced off against the esteemed power of the Ministry this summer. In a trial before the wisest and oldest of our world, Harry Potter has implied that he was forced to defend himself against a swarm of dementors in one of his heavily guarded safehouses. This is of course a ludicrous statement, however as the Ministry has full control of all these very dangerous beasts. However, as the Ministry has not prosecuted Harry Potter for slander, this reporter sees it as her moral obligation to get to the bottom of it. If Harry Potter has indeed encountered dementors this summer, is it possible that the Boy-Who-Didn’t-Get-Killed has dabbled into magics beyond even the dark and has gained control of the dementors this way? We at WEEKLY VOLDIE* will be sure to let you know as soon as we know more!

[page 2]

TOPS & FLOPS OF THE WEEK

VOLDIE*’S TOPS

• Has endured Wormtail’s presence for 20 minutes at a time
• Has risen above broth and deemed potato mush acceptable for his digestive system now
• Has made Harry Potter miserable for three consecutive nights
• Has not killed any of his followers, not even Wormtail
• Has continued to plan His Revenge™
• Has received the Daily Prophet
• Has been amused by the Daily Prophet
• Has gotten blood on yet another carpet, further improving the decor of his current residence

VOLDIE*’S FLOPS

• Has not killed Harry Potter
• Has not killed any other people
• Has not managed to re-grow his hair
• Has not killed any muggles
• Has not gotten Dumbledore kicked out of Hogwarts
• Has not successfully crucio-ed every single Dead Muncher available, though admittedly not for lack of trying

The official stats

• Crucios used this week: 11
• Imperios used this week: 0
• Avada Kedavras used this week: 0
• Other spells used this week: 42
• Attempts to kill Harry Potter this week: 0
• Attempts to annoy Harry Potter this week: 5
• Laws broken this week: 6 [not counting usage of the Unforgivables]
• Dead Munchers recruited this week: 0
• Plans successfully executed this week: 0
• Plans cruelly foiled this week: 0

VOLDIE*’s Official Status: end of hiatus is approaching in three…

WHAT IF (*2)
by guest author H. P.

…our most esteemed colleagues from the Daily Prophet had not taken an oath to always report in a neutral, truthful fashion, as serious as a professional journalist ought to? What if they had in fact succumbed to the dubious political pressure of a flailing Minister to run a morally questionable smear campaign against an underage, orphaned wizard who shall remain unnamed for the sake of his privacy?

Such a proclamation is absurd, of course, as no reporter of honor or basic understanding of civility would ever compromise their integrity on such a fundamental level. Nevertheless, when you close your eyes for a moment and really focus, can you imagine it? Can you imagine living in such a world, nodding and smiling and going along with such a terrible injustice, not once wondering whether you or one of your children will some day be in that child’s place?

What a scary world that would be, right?

[page 3]

3 Basic Rules Your Interior Design Considerations For When You Have The Honor Of Housing VOLDIE*
written by Hay-Jay Potterdotter

Our most beloved VOLDIE*’s hiatus is fast—though as always not fast enough—approaching its end. Like our dear readers, we at WEEKLY VOLDIE* can hardly wait for our esteemed Darkest and Dearest One to finally rejoin our society again. As this grand day looms ever closer, we have prepared some valuable advice for you on how to refurnish and equip your lovely home. After all, you want to be prepared to welcome VOLDIE* into your lovely domicile, should you ever be granted this incredible honor, don’t you?

In anticipation of your needs, we have prepared three easy to implement tips on how to turn your private home around and transform it into a building worthy of housing VOLDIE*:

1. Ensure that your cellar gives off a dungeon-appropriate aesthetic and is fit to hold and secure undesirable elements of society that may offend or threaten VOLDIE* at any given time. This includes rusty iron bars, uncomfortably screeching doors with large keys you can hang a single nail on the opposite wall—just out of reach of the bars—wet, moldy walls and unidentifiable fluids on the grounds. Do ensure that the door to the cellar can only be opened from the outside for security reasons and is appropriately warded against curious guests and unwelcome Ministry officials—so all Ministry officials. If you do not have a cellar, the attic, an unused guest room, a cupboard under the stairs or a garden shed may be reconstructed to suit your needs.
2. Place large rocks—at least one meter in diameter—strategically in every room of import that may house our Dark Emperor in the future. Be sure to keep at a temperature of at least 40° celsius constantly. His Snakeness’ loyal companion Nagini will thank you for it and so will VOLDIE*, even if not out loud. [Also, as previously stated, it is never a bad idea to get on a huge, human-eating snake’s good side.] 
3. Get rid off any and all carpets you may have in your home. Instead your floors should be covered in stone, marble or noble metal if you can afford it. Not only is it a simple, uncomplicated design choice that is easily implemented with the help of magic and a house elf or several, depending on the chosen color it may also brighten up the room or alternatively create the gloomy, ominous atmosphere you’ve always been aiming for. In addition, you save yourself the trouble of trying to get blood and other, less interesting body fluids out of your expensive, hand-woven carpets.

If you can think of any additional design choices that will increase His Great Terribleness’ comfort and improve your home’s interior at the same time, don’t hesitate to owl WEEKLY VOLDIE* and share your ideas!

May your home henceforth be worthy of VOLDIE*!

How To Trick Dunderheads Into Thinking You’re Not A Dead Muncher For The Advanced (*1)
written by Har E. Pott-Erbrat

It is a most unfortunate truth that the honor of being a loyal Minion of the Dark Forces is not a politically correct position to have in the current, vaguely dark-hostile climate. To ensure that you do not put yourself into unnecessary jeopardy or lose undue influence among our fellow-but-not-yet-enlightened wizards and witches, it may sometimes be necessary to convince those around you of your alliance to the current system.

Thankfully there are a few simple steps you can take to ensure that no one could ever convincingly accuse you of being a Dead Muncher and may in fact lose all credibility if they attempt to move against you. Just remember, this is a tutorial for the advanced because while the measures themselves are easy to accomplish, you will have to bring them across with a certain level of sincerity. This may require a Slytherin Mask of level 3 or beyond to accomplish successfully. 

Step 1: Own various muggle devices, no matter how useless, and place them in strategic places like the entrance hall [or a warded and secured hidden room if you truly want to sell the part]. No one will suspect your true alliance when you handle a phelly-ton like a pro and baffle your guests by inviting them to a common muggle drink. If they have even basic manners or are proud of their shamefully misguided pro-muggle leanings, they will feel obligated to accept. Not only can you then enjoy watching them suffer through a glass of cod liver oil for free, they may even change their minds about the true nature of muggles!

Step 2: Advocate for house elf rights. This is such a ridiculous notion that the Light will immediately trust you or consider you too crazy to pose a threat. Moreover, you could have only come to such a conclusion by prolonged exposure to muggleborns—you should call them muggleborns to sell this spiel—and their odd ideas. And if you really want to sell this pretense, regularly thank your house elves instead of crucio-ing them. As reasonable as the latter response may be, we all know of the unreasonably soft hearts the pretentious Light pretends they have. Just make sure the house elves in question are not holding anything valuable.

Step 3: Convince your heir to get sorted into Gryffindor or—but only if you are truly committed to this course of action—Hufflepuff. They may miss out on some of the obligatory Slytherin Mask training during their Hogwarts years, but nothing that can’t be corrected over the holidays. Plus, your heir has just become a valuable spy and is in the perfect position to gain the Light’s trust and betray them later on. VOLDIE* will appreciate your foresight, that’s for sure!

[A word of caution: Only choose Hufflepuff if your heir is truly up for the challenge. They will never be the same again.]

Always remember that these illusions are only as convincing as you make them. They require time, effort and an iron will, but the end result will be well worth the effort! Have faith in yourself, don’t hesitate and go through with the charade for at least one day longer than you are absolutely convinced you have to to sell it.

May your future lies concern your closest allies and confuse your most dangerous enemies—whilst working in the favor of VOLDIE*, of course!

[page 4]

WHAT IS YOUR TRUE HOGWARTS’ HOUSE? TAKE THIS QUIZ AND FIND OUT

All pretense aside, we all know the "Sorting Ceremony" at Hogwarts is rigged to the point of utter rendering it meaningless. But the time for silly pandering towards Dumbest-Board’s schemes is well and truly over. It is time to take a stand and reveal your truest nature—for how else can VOLDIE* be expected to put his trust in you? Take this test to prove yourself to His Evilness—and don’t forget to include it in your application to the Dark Forces when the time comes!

Please answer each question honestly and without too much thought, it will help get you the most accurate result. Once you are finished, check the symbol behind each answer you’ve marked and count which symbol you have chosen the most. Then read the results for said symbol and you have your answer.

1. What was Albus Too-Many-Middle-Names Dumbledore’s Hogwarts’ house?
[ ] Likely Slytherin, even if no one has the guts to say it [*]
[ ] Gryffindor, obviously [—]
[ ] Not Gryffindor duh [!]
[ ] One of the other two [?]

2. If I had been born a squib, I would have…?
[ ] What’s a squib? [*]
[ ] Infiltrated the Muggle Society and killed as many of them as I could [?]
[ ] There is no such thing as squibs in my family [—]
[ ] Who says I’m not one? Have you ever payed enough attention to see me perform magic? [!]

3. What is the main goal of the Dark Order?
[ ] To eradicate all muggles and mudbloods [—]
[ ] To attempt to and ultimately fail to kill Harry Potter [!]
[ ] To serve VOLDIE* to the best of our abilities [?]
[ ] To represent the goals of the conservative dark and return towards a political equilibrium between both sides [*]

4. What did Oli-samander tell you when you bought your wand?
[ ] My parents' wand cores [—]
[ ] Yeah, like I trust the official, British-Ministry-approved wandmaker [!]
[ ] Yeah, like I payed for my wand [?]
[ ] Some overdramatic declaration about the greatness of terribleness [*]

WEEKLY JOKE

Q: What is the difference between a wormtail and a worm’s tail?
A: One has an actual use, even if the potions that require it are nothing special.

[page 5]

YOUR RESULTS:

The majority of your answers was a type [*]: Well, there’s no way to soften the blow: You’re a Gryffindor! Don’t worry, we all know you’re trying your best. And not all is lost: Don’t believe everything people tell you, Gryffindors can be overzealous psychopaths too! Just think of Serious Black! Never has there been a more efficient, ruthless Servant of VOLDIE* before his time! You do have a tendency to be easily placated by meaningless drivel, a virtue that is much appreciated at VOLDIE*’s side. Furthermore, you do not have to be limited by your strong sense of right and wrong as long as it is appropriately managed by his Lordliness. So do not worry: You will fit into VOLDIE*’s forces as well as anyone!

The majority of your answers was a type [—]: Congratulations, your true nature is that of a Ravenclaw! This means that you are neither smarter nor better than your fellow wizards and witches, but we do not mind if you prefer to believe that. It does fit well with your tendency to fall for obvious light propaganda after all. But don’t you worry, at VOLDIE*’s side your lack of critical thinking will not stand out too much and may in fact help you to rise through the ranks faster than you otherwise would. A healthy sense of entitlement also helps to overcome any initial scruples you may have over the less advertised work a loyal follower of the Dark has to accomplish at some point.

The majority of your answers was a type [!]: You already knew that you’re a Hufflepuff, so we’re not entirely sure why you bothered with this quiz in the first place. Whatever your reason, you’re already doing more than the other three fourths of the Wizarding World put together. Although you may keep an eye on just how blatantly you continue to underperform. Sooner or later, someone will catch on. Nevertheless keep up the good work! You’re doing VOLDIE* proud!

The majority of your answers was a type [?]: It’s official: No matter the color of your tie, your true heart lies in Slytherin! You have a very clear, not to mention healthy understanding of the Magical World and what it expects of you and have tailored your answers accordingly. If you truly mean them, all is well, if not, we urge you to work on that. Diligently. Do that, and as long as you don’t get too caught up in others’ expectations to remember that VOLDIE*s’ always come first, you will be just fine.

You do not have a clear majority for a type of answers: You are not truly suited for any particular house and probably gave the Sorting Hat quite a headache. It’s best if you keep the result to yourself (and VOLDIE*, of course) for people who do not easily fit into a single box are usually regarded with rightful suspicion and distrust. After all, no one really needs more than a one-dimensional personality, so there is clearly something wrong with you. Don’t be discouraged though, you can still learn to become less of a real person and more of a stereotype. VOLDIE* will support you every step of the way! 

[page 6]

LETTERS FROM READERS

Editor's note: We from WEEKLY VOLDIE* do not take responsibility for the content of our readers’ letters, nor do said letters reflect our own views and opinions.

Is the Ministry really dark? That would explain so much, seriously
— Name removed by editors for the sender’s protection*

Dude, is You-Know-Who’s pet snake really mothering him? Cause that’s concerning on a number of levels and I’m not sure what to do with this. If I get eaten by her because I’m too weirded out to defend myself, I will haunt your ass.
— K

Potter, are you trying to get yourself killed?
— in various variations, has been sent in 45 times

Bla bla bla the Ministry is holy and pure bla bla Harry Potter is a liar bla detention Potter bla.
— Professor Dolores Umbridge, Undersecretary of Minister Fudge
*content slightly edited by the owner of this newspaper to fulfill WEEKLY VOLDIE*’s quality requirements.

To make one thing very, very clear: THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS DARK OR LIGHT MAGICAL CORES! I’ve checked and re-checked and magical cores do not have any leaning whatsoever. They are simply the physiological difference between wizards and muggles and enable us to manipulate magic, nothing else. There is no conspiracy here at Hogwarts, so please stop handing out those self-help pamphlets to the first years. I’m serious.
— H. Granger

thanks for the sneaky advertising, hare-bear. we’ll be sure to share our profits with you
— possibly fred or george weasley but not both

Careful kid. You’re making a lot of enemies and stamp right over a lot of people’s delicate sensibilities. Watch your back.
— not signed

Will you leave my family out of this madness already?
— Heir Malfoy

READERS' CHOICE

Last week’s vote: Who has a greater sense of style: VOLDIE* [drawing of a dramatically billowing, black cloak with a drawn-up hood casting the face in shadows, only a pair of glowing, dark red eyes gleaming in the darkness, above the figure on the grey sky looms the glowing Dark Mark] or Dumbly [caricature of a wizened, old man with a long, white beard, an imposing staff and a long robe colored lime green robes with bright orange stripes that fade into deep purple towards the seam]?

Result: VOLDIE* [56%] conquers Dumbly [44%]

This week: Decide for yourself, who has the greater sense of style: TOADIE [caricature of a frog face wearing a soft pink, frilly baby bonnet] or Trevor [drawing of a toad, wearing a small, black top hat]?

OWL US YOUR VOTE UNTIL THE END OF THE WEEK!

[page 7]

Cordelia was wary.

Yes, 'wary' was a perfectly adequate description of her current emotional state. 'Tense' may have also worked, but that would imply an involvement of personal responsibility — guilt — Cordelia was unwilling to commit to. Not even in the privacy of her own mind. She was a Slytherin through and through. And it hadn’t been her ambition that had tipped the Sorting Hat’s choice in the end. It had been her completely reasonable, perfectly healthy, sense of self-preservation.

One did not grow up in the extended Bulstrode family without well-honed survival instincts, that’s for sure. And it were those same survival instincts that were currently driving Cordelia crazy.

Usually, she didn’t put too much faith into The Rules™. They’d been written by Malfoy after all, so for all her house pride, how great could they be? As a counter argument, Cordelia had spent the past two days twitching whenever she caught sight of Harry Potter’s smile.

It wasn’t a nice smile. And he’d been wearing it — yes, wearing, like a Merlin damned tie — since Tuesday.

The worst part was, Cordelia didn’t even know why. As war as the gossip mill knew, nothing of consequence had happened on Tuesday. She’d have suspected Malfoy of pissing Potter off again — Merlin knew those two didn’t know how to handle sexual tension like a grown-up, and no, she didn’t mean it like that — but Malfoy had taken one look at that creepy smile, turned white as a sheet and had avoided the Great Hall ever since.

So had Parkinson, and everyone knew she didn’t put up with Malfoy’s drama anymore, meaning there had to be a reason. A reason other than 'I don’t wanna be in the vicinity of Potter when he inevitably snaps and brings Hogwarts down around us'.

With the whole insanity being centered around Potter, Cordelia doubted that she was the only one who had noticed this sudden shift in behavior too. Granger, for one, was running around with the most frazzled hair since the spring of ’93 — if that wasn’t an alarming comparison, nothing was — and the Weasley twins hadn’t pulled a prank in two weeks now. They’d stopped selling their sweets too and the three times Cordelia had caught sight of them in the library, they’d been fully focused on their work. [Going by the books spread over their table, it hadn’t been school work at least, but still.]

To make matters worse, the fourth edition of WEEKLY VOLDIE* had been all over the Great Hall on Thursday and Cordelia was rapidly running out of excuses not to send a copy to her parents. Other than I don’t want to, that is. She probably wasn’t the only one, not that any of her year mates acknowledged the huge, Dark Mark shaped elephant in the room. The whole When does one of us have the guts to tell our parents what insanity Potter has cooked up now that the Dark Lord will probably kill all of us for. Cordelia still didn’t know what would be worse: to be the first or the last to let her parents know what was going on in Hogwarts.

She almost — but only almost — wished Umbridge would’ve had more success in trying to stamp that damn paper from existence. There was no way to keep it from her father much longer. But her father would be killed for this. For the VOLDIE thing, if nothing else.

And if all these worries weren’t enough to keep her up at night, Nott was up to something. The fifth years were trying to keep it quiet — they really weren’t doing a bad job either, it was just that Cordelia knew Millicent’s tells too well — but there was something seriously wrong with the guy. With some of the stories Cordelia had heard about how Lord Nott had raised his heir, that wasn’t a surprise either. She hoped the rumors were exaggerating, but, well. She’d met Lord Nott once. It wasn’t an experience Cordelia was eager to repeat.

Right now Nott — who was as likely to one day start shooting Unforgiveables as he was to suffer a nervous breakdown — was muttering away under his breath and scribbling away on a notebook like a madman in the common room. That in itself wasn’t unusual.

What had caused several heads to turn — and Malfoy to trip over nothing and fall down an entire staircase, which had been hilarious —  had been the casual "Hey, Nott," and the accompanying nod Harry Potter had greeted the guy with the other day.

Cordelia had been watching the fifth years for the past four years and she’d never seen anyone lose their color quite like Zabini and Parkinson had. And Malfoy presumably, though it was hard to tell with the whole falling down the stairs thing.

All in all, Cordelia was fairly sure that Hogwarts wouldn’t remain standing until the end of the year — and Umbridge wouldn’t survive until Christmas. There was too much aggression brewing in the cracks that WEEKLY VOLDIE* was pulling and prodding on, too much resentment in the way Nott kept dancing just that bit out of Crabbe and Goyle’s reach, too much rage in the way Granger regarded Umbridge as though she was a bug under a microscope that needed to be squashed.

And all of that still didn’t touch on the bloody Dark Lord rising from the dead to terrorize her family. 

Cordelia closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

Opened them again and re-read the letter she had written. It had taken her two hours and she still wasn’t sure if she should send it or not. On the one hand, if she didn’t do it now, there would be no way to justify her choice later on. It would be perceived as a statement by her parents — it would be a statement — and it could very well earn her a fate worse than death. On the other hand, if she didn’t send it— Maybe this entire madness could be contained. Maybe it would only shake the foundations of Hogwarts, would only tear apart this school. Maybe if they worked together, they could keep it in these old walls and no one — especially not the Dark Lord — would ever have to know.

It wasn’t a very likely outcome, but it was a possibility. A tempting one at that.

Cordelia bit her lip.

Millicent probably wouldn’t send her own copy home any time soon. Her relationship with her own parents was shaky enough as it was. But unlike her distant cousin, Cordelia wasn’t the heir to the house — she couldn’t afford to take the same liberties. Releasing her bottom lip from between her teeth, Cordelia pulled out a copy of the newest WEEKLY VOLDIE* edition, folded it twice and put it and the letter into a crisp, white envelope.

Potter would just have to deal with the consequences of his stupid actions. As would they all.

Chapter Text

“But why does it have to be my name everywhere?” Harry whinged, even as he wrote down yet another ridiculous allusion to his real name as a possible author. He wasn’t a huge fan of whinging — it always gave him flashbacks to his childhood, back before Dudley had grown too old to whine and fake-cry every second minute of the day — but certain occasions demanded nothing less and this was most certainly one of them.

“Because people will read it," Luna said simply.

Harry huffed, insulted at the perfectly good pout that was wasted on Luna because the girl didn’t deign to look up from where she was carefully doodling a unicorn onto page 123 of her defense textbook.

“That’s stupid.”

Because it was. Granted, this was the magical world they were talking about, but still. There were plenty of smart witches and wizards that Harry knew. Okay, there were two smart witches Harry knew, three if you counted Luna. But Luna was brilliant, which wasn’t quite the same thing, so two. Man, the magical world really was in a sorry state, wasn’t it?

“The Prophet’s throwing your name around like it’s going out of style," Luna reminded, like someone, anyone would allow Harry to forget that unfortunate truth for even a single day in his life. Really, if he’d known how much trouble Hogwarts would be, Harry couldn’t in good conscience swear that he would’ve been as eager to follow Hagrid into the Leaky Caldron as he’d been at eleven. Ah, the follies of youth.

"And it will, very soon," Luna continued, unbothered by Harry’s internal monologue. "Harry really is a terribly uninspiring name for a Dark Lord. But while they’re still at it, you might as well do the same.” Luna shrugged. 

Harry nodded slowly. That actually made perfect sense. In the two turns to the right, upside-down way that was typical for Luna’s ideas. Except—

"Hold on, what do you mean by Dark Lord? Luna? Luna!"

On the first Monday of the new term, Seamus Finnigan woke to sickly yellow hair and pants that transformed into a skirt the moment he stepped out of the Gryffindor tower, no matter how often he changed them.

It didn’t exactly improve his mood that Dean was laughing himself sick over it.

"It’s your own fault, mate," the asshole said unsympathetically once he came up for air. Which took a while. "You should know better than to insult Harry within earshot of the Weasley twins. Or any Weasley. Or Hermione. Or the Quidditch team. Or—"

"Will you just shut up!" Seamus snarled between gritted teeth. He wasn’t in the mood to be the source of his best friend’s humor. "And I didn’t insult Harry."

"Whatever you say, man." Dean shrugged and swiped the sweet potatoes before Ron could have the brilliant idea to take thirds. "Doesn’t change that you made an arse out of yourself yesterday."

"I just asked him if it was true!"

"Yes, which is just about the only thing anyone’s been asking him since he stumbled out of that damn maze." Dean rolled his eyes. "You know, your infatuation was cute when we were twelve, but it’s been three years. You really need to learn how to not act like a moron every time Harry turns to face you or he’s never gonna take you seriously."

"I’m trying." Okay, fine. That was a whine. But it was justified, no matter how judgmental Dean was looking at him.

"Well, try harder than."

So much for having understanding friends. It was official: Gryffindors sucked.

"Don’t look at me like that." Dean pointed a fork at him with enough force to send a piece of broccoli flying. "You know you gotta watch what you say about Harry. He’s got it tough enough as it is and you know the twins didn’t take the whole gladiator arena thing last year well. Hell, I still have nightmares about that bloody dragon. Or have you forgotten what they did to McLaggen?"

Seamus shuddered. No. He didn’t think anyone had forgotten about McLaggen. Although the stubborn asshole himself didn’t seem to have learned much of a lesson, safe that he should keep his disgusting mouth shut around the twins. Or Weasleys in general, considering how Ginny had eyed the guy over the last few weeks. Now there was a girl Seamus didn’t want to piss off. The twins were vicious, especially when Harry was involved, but Ginny was just plain crazy. Seriously, what was it with Harry bringing out the destructive madness in Weasleys?

"I know." Seamus buried his face in his arms with a groan.

"There, there." Dean patted his head, the gesture more mocking than comforting. "You know if the twins were really pissed you wouldn’t have gotten off this lightly. If you just apologize to Harry, they’ll probably let it go."

Seamus whimpered pitifully at the thought of trying to stutter through an apology to his crush — again.

[The single worst part was when Umbitch — as the entire student body in an uncommon show of solidarity had taken to call her within two days of the witch’s presence — who’d indeed been an absolute bitch to Harry during the defense lesson, had taken one look at Seamus’ golden skirt and taken fifteen points off Gryffindor for inappropriate conduct.

Which in turn forced Seamus to track down Lavender and Parvati and convince the girls to help him transfigure a couple of completely appropriate, conservative skirts that fulfilled every requirement set in the school rules — which did not, in fact, specify that only girls could wear the girls’ uniform.

Never let it be said that Seamus couldn’t teach his fellow Gryffindors a thing or two when it came to being petty as fuck. Especially when Harry fell off a chair from laughing too hard when he learned why Seamus suddenly wore exclusively skirts. Two birds, one stone anyone?]

Harry had a perfectly good — and perfectly harmless, it needed to be said — plan.

He’d been working on it in one form or another since his sham of a hearing at the Ministry for his usage of magic against a dementor. Had refocused more energy on it for every time Mrs. Weasley had insistently ushered him out of the kitchen at Grimmauld Place or kept Sirius from divulging some useful information. The plan was simple: Harry was going to keep his head down.

It galled to even consider it — not helped by Cedric’s frozen expression in his nightmares — but with every rhetoric question and too-mean joke at his expense from strangers who didn’t know him from Adam, Harry found the thought easier to bear. No one believed that Voldemort was back? The adults wanted to pretend Harry didn’t have a place among them in this fight? Dumbledore couldn’t be bothered to so much as look at him?

Fine. Let them have it their way. Let them pretend and flounder. Sooner or later, Voldemort would recover his full strength. The easier the magical world made it for him, the quicker his real return would approach. 

Let them laugh at him, let them patronize him — when Voldemort eventually stepped out of the shadows, Harry would be there. He’d be watching, waiting. And when the masses inevitably panicked, he would smile at them and say I told you so.

Was it childish? Probably, but it wasn’t like anyone bothered to treat him like an adult, now, did they? Was it bitter? Most definitely. But Harry was bitter — so bitter, he sometimes thought he would fucking choke on it — and so what?

That perfectly doable, completely harmless — safe for the consequences in the long run, but those were hardly his problem now, were they — plan? Yeah, it was straight to hell before Harry had made it through the first half of Umbridge’s defense lesson.

It was one thing to stand aside and let everyone else run at full speed over a cliff because they were too busy reminding everyone the world was round to pay attention to the ground right in front of them. It was another thing altogether to have to deal with the unpleasant, incompetent, bigoted Ministry plant for an entire school year.

Something had to be done. And since it wasn’t Harry’s job, well.

"Do you have a moment, Professor McGonagall?"

His head of house, who had just finished her last class for the day and was ushering a few straggling third year Hufflepuffs out of her class room, turned around to face him. Although the professor looked as sharp and put-together as always, Harry got the distinct impression that McGonagall was not happy to see him. To be fair, people — with the exception of Ron and Hermione — were rarely happy to see Harry. And if they were, that was usually a sign that they wanted to use Harry to further their own fame or intended to sacrifice him in a graveyard.

Nevertheless, McGonagall inclined her head in agreement — although her eyebrows rose when Harry took the time to shut the door behind himself. There might not be such a thing as secrets in Hogwarts, but there was a difference between speculations and witnesses. With one active Ministry plant and dozens of students who were likely to be a lot more sympathetic to their own government than to some kid they’d never exchanged more than a few words with, it was better to be safe than sorry.

"How can I help you, Mr Potter?"

"It’s about Umbridge." No reason to beat around the bush and waste anymore time than necessary.

"Professor Umbridge." McGonagall’s lips thinned, which — coming from the woman who’d looked ready to slam her fork into one of Umbridge’s eyes and slowly strip the damn thing off its layers with a blunt knife during lunch — was a bit rich, in Harry’s esteemed opinion.

"Yes, her. She’s—" Harry hesitated for a moment, searching for the right words that wouldn’t cost Gryffindor a ton of house points and coming up empty. Which was a statement in itself. "—not a qualified teacher," he settled on.

"And you are, of course, the standing authority on what qualifies a person to teach," McGonagall stated in a tone so dry, it sucked all the moisture out of the air.

"Well, on a personal note I consider a professor who verbally attacks their students, slanders various people — be they a person of public interest or not —, is incapable of keeping their personal biases from interfering with their teaching and pushes their personal political opinions onto the impressionable minds of children untenable," Harry snapped, harsher than he’d intended to be. It went without saying that Hogwarts had a long list of failures on meeting these particular requirements — a reminder that, going by her unamused expression, McGonagall didn’t appreciate. Taking a deep breath to calm his all too easily ignited rage back into manageable levels, Harry continued, "However in this case, Umbridge lacks the O in her defense NEWTs that is required to hold the position."

And that was why Harry had let Hermione loose onto the library yesterday before he’d gone to confront McGonagall. If Snape was still a teacher after years of unprofessional behavior, then they needed more to get rid off Umbridge. And Harry wanted to get rid off her. Badly. She seriously screwed with his plan to not turn around and throw hexes until someone knocked him out every time she took a breath in his vicinity.

"Mr Potter," McGonagall starts and her tone of voice is really all Harry needs to hear to know this conversation won’t go anywhere. "I understand that Professor Umbridge isn’t the most pleasant staff member, but I assure you, she is more than qualified. The standard you’re referring to has been considered an ideal rather than a condition for several years, due in no small part to the ongoing difficulties to fill the position."

In all honesty, that isn’t much of a surprise. With both Snape and Binns as steady teachers, Harry had already figured that wizards put more stock into "attending Hogwarts", rather than putting any real effort into the quality of education offered there. Still. If he couldn’t get rid off Umbridge, Harry was going to murder the woman. And convince Fred and George to help him get away with it.

"But Professor—"

"No, Mr Potter." McGonagall’s voice sharpened with displeasure. "Hogwarts is in a very difficult position this year. The Headmaster’s freedom to act in the school’s best interest has been severely limited. In the current political climate, we cannot afford to give the minister an excuse to get even more involved." She pursed her lips and fixed Harry with her sternest glare. "The very best we can do, Mr Potter, is to bear the current situation as best as we can. My advise to you is to keep your head down. It’s unlikely that Professor Umbridge will return after this year."

Harry…stared. At his head of house. In the kind of silent disbelief that left him unable to come up with a proper response.

That was the extend of McGonagall’s help? To keep his head down and endure? While that vile, bigoted woman was allowed free reign? was going to ruin their chances at a decent OWL result if Hermione’s rants were to be believed?

Harry swallowed the very serious, very empathetic What the fuck is wrong with you?! that so desperately wanted to escape. But what would be the point? McGonagall had never listened, not when they’d confronted her about the Philosopher’s stone in first year, not when they’d complained to her about Snape’s unfair treatment, why should now be any different? Who knew, maybe that was the problem. Maybe she’d grown so used to filing complaints that never went anywhere or meant anything that she’d stopped actually listening.

"I see," Harry said instead and he did.

[It didn’t matter that keeping his head down had always been the plan. That plan hadn’t lasted more than a second beyond first contact with the enemy. Besides, as a long history of colorful incidents could testify, Harry had never been very good at doing as he was told.

It didn’t matter because this — going to McGonagall, moving things through the proper channels — this had been Harry’s last shot at sticking to the plan. Oh well. Improvising has always been his strong suit.]

"Do you think it’s true?" Ernie asked his fellow housemates in the relative safety of dorm.

Somewhere in the darkness, Zacharias sighed. "If this is about Potter, I don’t care if Sprout finds out, you’re sleeping in the common room."

"Don’t let Hannah find out you said that." Justin snickered. "She’ll flay you alive and Susan will provide her with an alibi, so she’ll get away with it too."

Zacharias scoffed loudly. "She needs to get over that crush already. Potter probably doesn’t even know she exists, it’s run passed pathetic ages ago."

"I pay you ten galleons to say that to her face!"

Justin’s declaration was met with a long moment of silence before Zacharias sniffed. "Please, just because it’s the truth doesn’t mean I have a death wish. I’m not Potter."

"So you do think he’s telling the truth!" Ernie determinedly brought them back to the actual topic. To that, perhaps for the first time since Ernie had met Zacharias Smith, his dorm mate had nothing to say.

"This is ridiculous." Kennedy eventually broke the quiet. "Can we all just agree that whatever it is Potter is currently cooking up, it’s not worth getting killed over, so we should all stay clear for as long as we can before Hannah inevitably drags us all down with her?"

"Amen to that." Justin sighed. Zacharias didn’t respond at all, which was as good as an agreement in itself and even Ernie found himself hard-pressed to disagree.

Really, life in Hufflepuff would be so much easier — if pretty boring, it really wasn’t fair that the monthly club meetings were reserved for sixth years and above — if their year mate Hannah wasn’t so obsessed with Potter. Well, and if Potter didn’t go to the same school as them.

"One thing’s for sure, we live in interesting times," Ernie said finally. He’d meant it as a joke, but somehow the words sounded a lot more foreboding out loud.

[submitted via tumblr by @itsvegemate]

It was done. Harry smiled proudly at the first ever edition of WEEKLY VOLDIE*, the only thing that had kept him from hexing anyone, friend or foe, so far. Although Malfoy had been surprisingly decent — by which Harry meant hadn’t run his mouth more than once a day, about the limit of daily bullshit Harry tolerated from the Slytherin without retaliating — these last few days. Would wonders ever cease?

"What do you think?" he asked Luna, who was peering down at the paper as though it might jump into her face if she wasn’t careful.

"It’s a bit…dark, isn’t it?"

Harry tilted his head and thoughtfully stared down at the bold, black letters proudly proclaiming his new, very own, self-made newspaper. The logo would have to remain dark, for aestethic purposes if nothing else, but the title itself...?

"Well, it’s a newspaper about Voldemort," he pointed out, quite reasonably in his opinion. "Dark is kind of the point."

Luna leveled him with a most disappointed look. "Dark and Evil are not the same thing, Harry Potter. Evil comes in many shapes and colors, Dark only in one."

"Fine." With an eye-roll and a sharp slash of his wand, Harry turned the letters of the title a bright, eye-watering pink — coincidentally the very same shade their newest professor favored in her wardrobe.

Luna nodded her approval at the horrifying sight. "Now that is a color deserving of true Evil."

"You know," said Harry slowly, rolling an idea that had been popping up in the back of his mind with increasing insistence over the last few days around in his head as though trying to figure out in which formation he liked it the most. "I’ve been thinking about what to do with this once we're done. I know I said I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, but… Wouldn’t it be a shame to keep the rest of Hogwarts from enjoying WEEKLY VOLDIE* as well?"

"Hogwarts is a school, where children are meant to learn." Luna turned around to face him fully, eyes glittering dangerously. "I believe she would be glad to help us in this quest."

"It’s official: Harry’s lost it." Fred’s calm proclamation was met with a considering head-tilt by his twin.

"It was bound to happen."

"True."

"Though I would’ve expected Dumbledore—"

"Yeah, I know." Fred shook his head. In the headmaster’s defense, it would’ve been difficult to foresee Umbridge’s placement. On the other hand, Dumbledore’s weird actions hadn’t started at Hogwarts, had they?

"So the question remains, oh dear brother mine." George threw himself bodily onto the bed, causing Fred to lose his balance and almost brain himself in the nose with his wrist. His twin’s smile was wicked. "Do we let Harrikins work his magic or do we offer a helping hand?"

Two beds to the left, Lee Jordan let out a most pitiful groan. "Please for Merlin and above, will you stop talking dirty about Potter before I had my first coffee? You know I can only tolerate your infatuation with caffeine."

"You wound us!" Fred cried immediately, hand pressed dramatically to the right side of his chest, while George mimed falling over, twitching in pain.

Of course all that earned them was a lot of incomprehensible grumbling from Lee, who tried to bury himself in his cushion, and a dirty glare from Travis. Never much of a sense of humor, that guy, for all that the twins had done their best to teach him. At least, he wasn’t stupid enough to voice his no doubt uncomplimentary opinion on Harry out loud. Turned out, all those lessons in the last four years did leave some sort of mark after all. George had doubted that for a while during their third year, but that had only given them additional reason to prank him, so.

"You still haven’t answered, brother mine," George reminded Fred on the way to the Great Hall.

Lee rolled his eyes so hard it had to physically hurt. "Oh please. Like you ever take any option other than the fun one."

The two identical, self-satisfied smirks that statement earned him might have scared the pants off of any sensible Slytherin, but all Lee did was quicken his walk in response. He really couldn’t be expected to handle his impossible, Potter-obsessed best friends without some much-needed coffee in his blood.

Albus blinked in genuine surprise at the sight that greeted him when the door to his office was thrown open — rather impolitely, though for once he doubted Dolores even noticed.

Quite the achievement, considering how much pleasure the dour woman took in every act of disrespect against him. As though that would somehow erase his memories of the plump, wide-eyed, little girl she’d been when she first came to Hogwarts. A Hufflepuff, if his memory didn’t betray him.

[Hufflepuffs, Albus had long noted, were often among his hardest students to pin down. Loyalty, after all, was a fickle thing when you couldn’t be certain where or with whom said loyalty would one day lie.]

Alas, this was hardly the moment to mourn the young children he had once known. Especially not with the way Dolores was bodily dragging young Harry into the office after her, in a move not unlike Severus’ at his most furious — though Albus spared a moment of amusement at the knowledge that neither Severus nor Dolores would be happy about this comparison.

"Dumbledore!" the woman snarled, eyes wild.

Albus carefully hid a wince at the noise.

"Dolores," he greeted, forgoing a smile. While Albus had expected Dolores’ unfortunate fixation on Harry, he hadn’t expected it to escalate this much. And most certainly not within the first week. "Is something the matter?"

"The matter?" Dolores screeched, causing Harry to grimace. Though the boy at least didn’t look angry or overly much concerned. "This is going too far, Dumbledore! I will not have the Ministry’s authority undermined in such a blatant, disrespectful way, not while I am at this school!"

"That is quite the declaration, Dolores," Albus said slowly, all the more curious now what exactly Harry had done. "But I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about."

"I’m talking about this!" With that, Dolores slammed a few sheets of paper down onto his desk. 

Albus blinked down at the glittering, pink letters spelling WEEKLY VOLDIE* and for the first time in a long time found himself speechless. Then he chuckled. He couldn’t help it. After all these years as Hogwarts’ headmaster, it was rare for a student to so completely blindside him. Yet Harry always seemed to manage somehow.

"You think this is funny, Dumbledore?" Dolores hissed like a wounded cat. "Do you? I will see Potter expelled for this! The Minister won’t stand for anything less!"

"Now, now, Dolores," Albus attempted to calm the irate woman down. He had underestimated the bullheadedness of bureaucrats before, it wouldn’t do for a harmless, if not very tasteful joke to cost Harry his education. "I don’t believe that to be necessary."

"What you believe is of little consequence, Dumbledore—"

"Excuse me, Professor Dumbledore?" Harry interrupted Dolores’ tirade before the woman could get stared.

"Yes, my boy?" Albus asked, carefully looking at the boy’s nose instead of his bright eyes. He didn’t miss the way his lips twitched.

"I was just wondering if you could tell me why I’m hear?" Harry asked, the picture of calm indifference.

Something which Dolores did not handle well, if her incoherent noise of fury was anything to go by. "Why, you little—"

"I believe what Professor Umbridge is attempting to say," Albus quickly inserted himself before the woman could cross a line that would put all of them into a very difficult position, "Is that this little prank, well-meaning as I’m sure it was intended, does come of as a bit crass, my dear boy."

Dolores scoffed while Harry looked back and forth between them, still the picture of confusion. "I’m sorry, Professor Dumbledore, but I don’t understand. You can’t honestly think that I’ve written this thing?!" He gestured loosely towards the newspaper edition lying innocuously on the desk.

"Don’t play dumb with me, Potter!" Dolores slammed her hand onto the table in front of him, cheeks a blotched red with the force of her anger. "If you wanted that silly excuse to work, you shouldn’t have signed your name on this little pet project of yours!"

"Ma’am, with all due respect, I didn’t sign my name anywhere on this paper."

"It says H. J. Potter right on the first page!"

"So?" Harry blinked. "There’s lots of Potters in the UK, never mind the world. And granted, I seem to share the initials, but those could stand for any name. What if this newspaper’s author is some woman named Hannah-Joanne Potter? No offense intended, but I think it strange that no one considers the person behind it might be female. That’s kind of sexist, isn’t it? Besides don’t a lot of journalists publish their stories under a pen name of some sort?"

Moments like these reminded Albus why he had decided to grow out his beard — it was much harder for people to notice when he was smiling. All jokes aside though, he was impressed. Harry had never been a particularly gifted liar, but then he didn’t have to be to avoid answering the actual question. Not to mention how serious the boy appeared. 

"Do you really think the Minister is going to fall for that, Mr Potter?" Dolores asked after a moment, calmer now but more dangerous for it.

Albus contained a sigh. Of all of Cornelius’ many supporters, why did it have to be Dolores?

"Well, I’m not sure why the Minister of Magic would concern himself with the bothers of a fifteen year old student, but if there’s any way to legally move against people using my name in public newspapers without my permission, I would be most grateful for the minister’s help in that regard," Harry said earnestly. "I have to tell you, Ma’am, if your suspicion is correct and this newspaper is in fact referring to me of all people, then it’s already the second newspaper to do this. If you have any recommendations on how to shut that trend down, I’d appreciate it."

And there would be the trap Harry had so cleverly laid, Albus thought not without appreciation. Truly, the boy would have done well in Slytherin.

Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on the point of view, Dolores was not so stupid as to miss what Harry was alluding to. Her eyes narrowed in displeasure, but she’d stopped her shouting and screeching at least.

"Detention, Potter," she snapped after along moment of deliberation, likely weighing her options and realizing that she wouldn’t win this particular battle, even without Albus refusing to expel Harry.

"Whatever for, Ma’am?" Harry asked with a wonderfully convincing expression of surprise. It truly was a shame that Albus couldn’t afford to spend too much time with Harry, the boy seemed to truly be coming into his own.

"For disrespecting a professor!"

Harry raised his eyebrows at him at that and Albus suppressed the urge to grimace. It was clear that the boy was wondering whether he would let the punishment stand, just as it was equally clear by the vindictive smirk Dolores was now wearing that she would simply find another reason to hand out a detention of he brushed this one aside. No point in antagonizing the woman even more. 

With an inward sigh, Albus inclined his head. "Professor Umbridge is well within her right to hand out justified disciplinary actions, Harry," he settled on, a reminder to both, his student and his colleague that only justifiable punishments would be tolerated.

Harry bit his lips with a frown, but nodded all the same. "I see."

"All the same," Albus continued with a smidge of regret, "if you happen to get in touch with the originator of this curious paper, would you be so kind as to remind him that, while surely a creative, idea based on good intentions, some things should not be made light of?"

Harry stared at him and though Albus took care not to meet his gaze directly, he could tell that the boy wasn’t pleased. Of course, brilliant, young men rarely were when confronted with a contradicting opinion or a flaw in their creations. And though Harry was undoubtedly clever, Albus suspected he didn’t truly understand what it was he was doing — the kind of impression a publication of this sort would convey. The things it could set in motion, the ways in which what seemed like a simple joke could get out of control. Harry was too young and had too kind a heart to foresee those consequences. And Albus was grateful for that mercy, he was, but that also meant it fell to him to limit the fallout of his students’ mistakes. For Harry more so than for most others.

"Should I get in touch with the person behind this mess, I’ll be sure to deliver your message," Harry said finally, neither his tone nor his expression giving anything away.

It wasn’t quite the answer Albus was hoping for, but, to be fair, he wasn’t sure what would have been. For the time being, it was the best he could reasonably request with Dolores Umbridge in the room — and dismissing her was out of question. The woman’s paranoia could give Severus’ a run for its money, and that was truly saying something.

"In that case, Harry, I believe you are about to be late to your Transfiguration class," Albus dismissed the boy, who briefly inclined his head towards him — but not Dolores, a fact she definitely noticed from the way she pursed her lips — and left the office with quick steps. "Dolores," Albus continued smoothly before she could use the chance to excuse herself and follow Harry, "I believe you had some things you wished to discuss regarding the Defense coursework of the seventh years?"

I must not tell lies.

["Of course one cannot expect any more of a half-breed dog."]

I must not tell lies.

["Such things are nothing young children such as yourself should concern yourself with."]

I must not tell lies.

["Although you may have been told differently, I assure you, any such statement has been an unfounded lie, a sad cry for attention.]

I must not tell lies.

["I trust you have learned your lesson.“]

I must not tell lies.

["Is there something you wish to add, Mr Potter?]

I must not tell lies.

["No, Professor." Harry smiled a beatific smile that, for some reason, caused Hermione to snap her quill in two. "Everything that needs to be said has been said.“]

To Harry, it was a game.

Hermione would scold him for it — after she stopped crying, knowing her — and Ron would get that worried look in his eyes that Harry hated to be the cause of and Luna would shrug and say something along the lines of "Naturally. All of life is a game. You just see it clearer than most." and none of it would really stop Harry, which is why he didn’t bother to explain it to anyone.

He didn’t bother explaining that it was so easy to smile in the face of Umbridge’s bullshit because for every time she crossed a line, Harry added one more cross on his mental list for all the reasons why he shouldn’t give a single fuck about the consequences of Luna’s idea. He didn’t bother sitting down and telling his friends that he’d put safeguards in place — people with the authority to keep him from going too far — and that, with every day, far quicker than anticipated, those same safeguarding lines were torn apart.

Sirius, for all that Harry loved him, hadn’t been able to offer any real advise. McGonagall didn’t listened. Dumbledore couldn’t be bothered to even look at Harry.

Still. Harry had been angry at Fudge. Frustrated with the wizarding world. Pissed at Umbridge, back when the worst she’d done was spew some verbal diarrhoea on why the sun shone out of Fudge’s arse or whatever it was she went on about when Harry didn’t bother to pay attention.

Unfortunately, prejudice and incompetence wasn’t were the foul woman drew the line. And why should she, following in the proud tradition of murderous defense teachers Harry had enjoyed over the years. The back of his hand twinged. An uncomfortable reminder, though the pain had already begun to fade.

Hermione, when she’d seen the scar, had been outraged. She was the who’d insisted he take it up with Professor McGonagall. Not that Harry had put up much of a fight. One didn’t simply disagree with Hermione unless one had the time, detailed arguments, facts and research to back one’s position up. [Neville and Parvati were still trying to convince Hermione that freeing house elves wasn’t the solution to all the race’s problems. It was a work-in-very-slow-going-progress.]

So here Harry was, knocking once again at McGonagall’s office.

"Mr Potter." It was less of a name and more of a sigh.

"Professor," Harry greeted politely. "Do you have a moment?"

McGonagall brushed a strand of her off her forehead and eyed him with a sort of tired exasperation. "I’m quite busy, Mr Potter, so please make it quick."

"It’s about Professor Umbridge—"

"Not this again," McGonagall interrupted before Harry could even lift his hand. "Mr Potter, please understand that this is a delicate and very stressful situation for all of us. As much as I’m sure there’s merit to your complaint about her conduct, I simply do not have the authority to speak out against her. I have told you on numerous occasions to stay out off her way and avoid her wrath."

"But—"

The professor held up a hand and Harry would bet his entire Gringotts’ vault that even Snape would have frozen in the face of her utterly unimpressed expression. "Your little pet project has done nothing but make waves, fuel the fire and make the headmaster’s position in this school all the more tenuous. I have told you repeatedly to cease with this ridiculous nonsense, Mr Potter. I cannot protect you from the consequences of your actions."

Harry stared.

The discomfort in the back of his hand crossed over into a sharp flare of pain when he balled his hands into fists.

"I’m not asking you to," Harry said flatly. "Only that you live with the consequences of your own actions. Good night, Professor."

And without another word, without waiting to be dismissed, Harry turned on his heels and left.

[What was the point of safeguards and second-guessing yourself, anyway? Harry was a Gryffindor for a reason. This might all be a game for him, but Harry was playing to win.]

“But why ‘Weekly Voldie’? Why not ‘Fuck Snake-Nose’—“

“RON! That’s hardly appropriate language, think of the younger students!”

“-or ‘Bloody Voldie’ — okay, no, he might actually like that, never mind. But maybe ‘Weakly Voldie’? That could work.”

“-swear, how you became a perfect I’ll never understand—“

"Oh, give it a rest, Hermione!"

“They’re missing the point,” Harry told Luna quietly, while the two of them watched, wide-eyed and wands at ready, as the volatile force of Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley collided in a closed space.

“It’s the nargles.” Luna nodded sagely. Gently tugged at his sleeve. “We should go. VOLDIE* waits for no one.”

[It’s not about Voldemort. It’s certainly not about the war. It never was. It’s just a joke.]

Chapter Text

It was five thirty on Saturday morning and Hermione was wide-awake.

That in itself was not unusual. Gryffindor as a rule was loud. If she wanted to get any real work done in peace, early mornings were the safest bet. Hermione had spent many of them researching various topics that had caught her interest to her heart's content—right up until Ron and Harry woke up and dragged her away from her precious books because supposedly even her brain needed food to run on.

Today, unfortunately, was not one such day. Hermione was not trapped in the middle of anything so benevolent as a truly fascinating research rabbit hole. If anything she was rapidly approaching a nervous breakdown. And they were only a month into their fifth year. This had to be a new record.

"I am going to kill him," Hermione said grimly.

"You don't actually know what's going on," Ron pointed out because he always picked the least convenient moment to be reasonable. "Maybe he just had a bad dream and went to the kitchen to get a cup of tea."

Right. Because when Harry Potter disappeared without an explanation, the reason for that was always harmless and entirely logical and not ever a mind-blowing escalation of terrible decisions culminating in a near-death experience. Sometimes it felt like Hermione was the only one with an intact memory in this tower. Possibly in the entire school.

"Harry doesn't like drinking tea," Parvati pointed out from where she was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the fireplace.

"That's not true." Ron frowned. "He always drinks tea at the Burrow."

Hermione rolled her eyes. Merlin save her from Ron's obliviousness. He could correctly discern a chaser's next move before they actually positioned themselves four times out of five, but when it came to Harry's mountain of unresolved traumatic life experiences, suddenly he was unable to see beyond the length of his own nose. Then again, Ron also had an enviable gift of accepting Harry at his most bizarre as "Just Harry"—something Hermione still struggled with on occasion, if only because there was only so much denial she could bury herself in before her self-awareness threw a spanner into the works—so perhaps things balanced out on that front.

"He hasn't touched a cup of tea at Hogwarts since the Third Year Love Potion Disaster™, Ron."

Understandable, really. The potion had failed abysmally due to being brewed by an overeager and not particularly talented fourth year, which meant that Harry had spent said Valentine's day in the hospital wing, puking his guts out, instead of throwing himself at the Ravenclaw in question. Hermione knew they all considered that the better outcome, especially Harry, but the experience had stuck with him.

It had also been one of the few times during their third year that wasn't when Ron and Hermione had put their respective difference aside for the honorable matter of vengeance—because don't you know? Gryffindors don't believe in revenge—and made sure the culprit understood very, very well why consent mattered. Then they tipped off the twins.

Just to make sure that the message stuck.

"Oh." Ron's expression darkened.

On second thought, maybe Hermione shouldn't have brought it up. Ron was acting extra protective this year, perhaps in part to make up for his stint as a jealous prat last year, perhaps simply because none of the professors were doing anything useful and Umbridge was acting completely out of control, going around and torturing students as it pleased her.

Quirrell had been a better teacher and he had been possessed by You-Know-Who. Lockhart hadn't been, but that was hardly a comfort. That man's incompetence had done as much damage as Crouch Junior's deliberate machinations—if not more so. When Hermione allowed herself to think about it, which wasn't often, it was actually a miracle that only one student had gotten killed so far, and then not even on school grounds. Perhaps they could thank Hogwarts' renown wards for that because it certainly wasn't thanks to their professors' concern for their well-being, she thought uncharitably.

Now that was another interesting topic that would bear further research. If the wards influenced the behavior of everyone on Hogwarts' grounds on some level... possibly subconsciously... but then what did that say about Umbridge? She would have to read up on it.

After she killed her best friend. Provided that he had the decency to still be alive for her to murder him, that was.

"I am going to kill him," Hermione said out loud because certain proclamations bore repeating.

"So you've said." Parvati turned a page in her magazine with a slowness that had to be deliberate.

Not that Hermione was expecting any help from that department. Those glamours might fool Umbridge and impressionable first years, but Hermione knew her dorm mate fairly well. There was no way that Parvati was this invested in any article by Potions Monthly, whether she shared her best friend's obsession with Professor Snape or not. Hermione would bet her entire month's allowance that the deceptive sheen of a bubbling cauldron hid the notorious skull with a snake shaped like a lightening bolt spilling out of its mouth that the entire school now recognized on sight.

Hermione hadn't caught the other girl with Harry's other co-conspirators yet but there was no way anyone else was writing those gossip columns.

"We still don't know-"

"We know that he left the school grounds," Hermione interrupted. She was too furious to listen to Ron's placating. The first thing she had insisted on was to check the map when Ron had woken her up an hour ago because he had gone to the loo only to come back and find Harry's bed empty. Not that she could say that in front of Parvati and other potential eavesdroppers. "There are only so many options that don't involve a kidnapping and none of them are good."

No one had a response to that, hopefully because they knew she was right.

There was already a professor out for Harry's literal blood, not to mention You-Know-Who and his far too numerous supporters. Leaving Hogwarts in the middle of the night without telling anyone was the height of stupidity, no matter what kind of security measures Harry had surely taken, given that he wasn't usually actively suicidal.

And if he hadn't taken a sufficient amount of precautions, well. Then she would just have to ensure he thought better of it the next time he disappeared for a midnight stroll.

Finally Parvati sighed. "Maybe-"

But whatever she meant to say, she didn't get the chance to voice it because in that moment the portray at the entrance swung open and revealed the rain-trodden figure of Hermione's missing best friend and a smaller shadow that turned out to be Colin Creevey. Not a choice in companion that did anything to comfort Hermione.

Both of them were dressed in thick winter cloaks that were soaked completely through and visibly shaking. They stumbled into the common room with all the grace of fully-grown Hungarian Horntail let loose in a library, only to come to an abrupt stop when they finally noticed their welcoming committee.

"Oh." Harry rasped. He was so pale Hermione palmed her wand just in case she would have to levitate him. "H-H-Hi."

Water dripped to the ground, forming a rapidly growing puddle on the floor.

"Hi", Hermione echoed. Somehow managed to keep her voice detached instead of screaming at the top of her lungs like she wanted to. "Would you care to explain where you've been?"

Harry smiled. Or made a pathetic attempt at one, at least. "R-R-Resear-ch," he forced out through clattering teeth.

Hermione clenched her grip on her wand. Forced herself to count to ten. Then to fifteen, when that failed to extinguish the red sparks in the corner of her eyes.

"Is that so."

Ron, in a display of until then unprecedented self-preservation instincts, ducked.

WEEKLY VOLDIE*

The Publication of Everything Grim and Gloomy

The Deplorable State of Azkaban: A Prison (Sentence) Unworthy of VOLDIE*'s Most Faithful
written by H. J. Potter

It is with a heavy heart and righteous indignation that I bring your attention to a matter of utmost importance: the abysmal conditions some of our most beloved Dead Munchers have been forced to suffer in Azkaban. From soul-sucking Dementors to freezing cells and meals that make even Wormtail's cooking look appetizing in comparison—that is hardly a treatment befitting of VOLDIE*'s most faithful servants!

But the true scandal, dear readers, lies not in the unacceptable suffering our compatriots must endure. No, what should shock every clear-minded wix in this country is the complete absence of proper legal proceedings that has preceded the sentence of a suspicious amount of Azkaban's prisoners.

Take, for instance, the notorious case of Serious Black—unquestionably VOLDIE*'s most loyal Dead Muncher; a man who betrayed his closest friends, murdered thirteen people with a single curse, a feat no one has been able to replicate (truly impressive work, that), and was caught at the scene of his crimes in the only manner befitting of our best warriors: in the middle of a proper maniacal laughing fit. Truly a model servant of the Dark if ever there was one. And yet we have lost this paragon of everything the Dead Munchers stand for to Azkaban without a trial.

Let me repeat that, for this reporter can scarcely believe it himself: Without. A. Trial.

Sources suggest that numerous other dedicated servants of VOLDIE* were imprisoned under similarly nebulous circumstances in the chaotic aftermath of that regrettable evening in Godric's Hollow. Dozens of hard-working individuals disappeared based on nothing more than circumstantial evidence, family connections, random tattoo preferences and even—dare I say it—personal vendettas.

I ask you, my fellow supporters of the Dark: is this the standard of justice we wish to uphold? Should the most faithful Dead Munchers not be afforded the basic courtesy of having their proud acts of faith properly documented in front of the entire Wizengamont? How else are future generations of aspiring Dark wixen supposed to learn from their magnificent examples?

Now, let me be perfectly clear, this reporter is not suggesting anything so ludicrous as that VOLDIE*'s servants were wrongfully imprisoned. Of course not! We all know that Serious Black was absolutely, definitely, without question That Cursed Potter Family's Secret Keeper. After all the Ministry has confirmed it, and when has the Ministry ever been wrong about anything?

That reassuring certainty, however, raises a different question: namely what our Ministry so desperately wants to hide behind their half-hearted excuses of 'emergency measures' and 'wartime expediency.'

If trials had been held, Veritaserum might have been administered. Details might have been verified. Rumors might have been confirmed as fact. And perhaps—just perhaps—certain inconvenient truths about that night in Godric's Hollow might have come to light. Truths about the depths of depravities the so-called Light has willingly sunk to in their effort to achieve an unjust victory.

In the absence of certainty must wonder: how many are rotting in Azkaban, guilty only of being in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong family name? How many supposedly 'faithful Dead Munchers' owe their freedom not to clever negotiations and strategic donations, but to the Ministry's preference for tidy endings over messy investigations?

The Ministry's refusal to conduct the trials they are obligated to hold wasn't about efficiency, dear readers. No, I think we all know better than that.

It was about control. Control of the narrative. Control of the perceived truth when the evidence might prove... inconveniently complicated.

Which brings this reporter to an even more delicate question: if we cannot trust the Ministry to follow their own laws, how can we trust their version of events at all?

It's something to think about. We at WEEKLY VOLDIE* certainly will.

(On a final side note: We cannot help but admire Serious Black's impressive escape from Azkaban last year—the first and so far only wizard to have accomplished such a feat! The evidence of his dedication to the Dark Arts truly could not be more obvious.

That said, this reporter notes with some amusement that despite being free for over a year, Black has yet to make any effort to get back in touch with VOLDIE*. Perhaps the years in Azkaban have affected his sense of direction? Or he is waiting for an appropriately dramatic moment to reveal himself?

Whatever the case may be, we at WEEKLY VOLDIE* await his next move with bated breath.)

VOLDIE*'s mood barometer: Currently reaching a new, previously undiscovered level of volatile. We recommend avoiding any mention of "food," "Harry Potter," and "Azkaban" in VOLDIE*'s presence. Also don't mention Serious Black. Touching upon any of these topics may lead to a prolonged crucio session while VOLDIE* works through his emotions.

[page 1]

MOST EVILE HOT NEWS OF THE WEEK
brought to you by Harri Pott

Can True Love Survive an Azkaban Sentence for Life?

The question has been on everyone's lips this past week: Can devotion to one's spouse truly withstand the test of a lifetime imprisonment? Our sources suggest that Bella Trixie Black—sorry, The Strange—remains as passionately dedicated to her husband Reindeerous today as she was when they first got married, despite their enforced distance thanks to Azkaban's less than comfortable accommodations.

"She talks about him constantly," reports one Dead Muncher, who prefers to remain anonymous, "mostly to compare him to the Dark Lord—and find him lacking."

How romantic! Nothing says eternal love quite like constant comparison to an unreachable ideal.

Meanwhile, Reindeerous reportedly spends his days in Azkaban viciously cussing out anyone mentioning his wife by name with a truly touching intensity considering that the two lovebirds haven't been allowed to share so much as a single conjugal visit in fourteen years. While the Dementors do, of course, put a damper on the prison's romantic ambiance, it appears that not even these creatures of personified despair can extinguish the passionate fire of their love.

This reporter firmly believes that their love will last forever—or at least until the Dark Lord returns. Then things might get interesting.

Silver Highlight Trend for the Fashionable Dead Muncher

Several of our more fashion-conscious Dead Munchers have begun adorning their signature masks with elegant silver highlights. This masterful look—achieved through careful application of enchanted silver leaves along the cheekbones, temples and eyebrows—adds a certain je ne sais qui to the traditional intimidating skull aesthetic.

While pink, of course, remains the True Color of the Dark™, we at WEEKLY VOLDIE* commend these anonymous trendsetters for finding a tasteful way to stand out in a crowd of identically-dressed people.

For those wishing to adopt this more daring look, our fashion correspondent recommends starting subtly—perhaps with two silver dots and a little half-circle on the left cheek—before committing to the full look. After all, you wouldn't want to outshine VOLDIE*. That rarely ends well.

New Love in the Dungeon Air

Is Hogwarts' dour Potions Master hiding a softer side? There have been murmurs that Severe Snap—devoted educator and possessor of the Wizarding World's most impressive collection of billowing black robes—has been spotted engaging in a suspiciously civil conversation with a certain someone during the first Hogsmeade Weekend that is rumorrd to have involved more than three sentences without a single sneer!

The identity of this mysterious individual remains unknown, though witnesses have noted that Professor Snap has purchased several unidentified liquids, one of which may have been soap. Hopeful voices interpret this as evidence of a new romantic interest, while others suggest he may be trying a new approach to basic dungeon maintenance or prepare a truly unpleasant new detention activity.

When asked for a comment, Professor Snap reportedly responded with a withering glare and proceeded to take fifteen points from Gryffindor. This reporter takes that as confirmation that they are on the right track.

[page 2]

TOPS & FLOPS OF THE WEEK

VOLDIE*'s TOPS

• Has remembered the names of four different Dead Munchers without needing to crucio them first for clarification
• Has managed to eat solid food three times this week without any unpleasant digestive incidents
• Has acquired a proper wardrobe (in black, much to this reporter's exasperation)
• Has kept Nagini fed and content (only two complaints about an insufficient rat supply this month, compared to the previous seventeen)
• Has resisted the urge to personally visit Azkaban to mock the Ministry's definition of "top-notch security"

VOLDIE*'s FLOPS

• Has not orchestrated a mass breakout from Azkaban
• Has not killed Harry Potter (an ongoing disappointment, that)
• Has not sent an encouraging note to his imprisoned faithful followers
• Has not managed to regrow his eyebrows despite trying three different potions
• Has not successfully reunited with Serious Black despite the man being free, obviously loyal, and a deft hand at mass-murder
• Has not received a satisfactory answer for why his "most faithful" Wormtail has spent twelve years as a rat instead of searching for him

The official stats

• Crucios used this week: 7 
• Imperios used this week: 0 
• Avada Kedavras used this week: 0
• Other spells used this week: 31
• Attempts to kill Harry Potter this week: 0
• Laws broken this week: 3 [not counting usage of the Unforgivables]
• Dead Munchers recruited this week: 0
• Dead Munchers broken out of Azkaban this week: 0
• Plans successfully executed this week: 0
• Plans cruelly foiled this week: 1
• Hours spent brooding about the injustice of his followers' imprisonment: 0
• Hours spent brooding about his own appearance: 14

VOLDIE*'s official status: end of hiatus is approaching in two...

*WHAT IF (3)
by guest author H.P.

…the Boy-Who-Refuses-To-Die was secretly using his rare and undeniably Dark gift of Parseltongue to spy on his fellow students? What if every decorative snake inside the Slytherin common room, every serpent carved into the dungeon walls and every pet snake brought to Hogwarts by an unsuspecting pure-blooded student were to actually serve in Harry Potter's secret personal surveillance system?

The notion is, of course, preposterous. And yet, when you close your eyes for a moment, can you imagine it? Can you picture dozens of devoted Slytherins discussing their private affairs, their family matters or their opinions on current events, all while carved serpents listen from the walls and pet snakes coil themselves innocently around their owner's forearm? What valuable intelligence might such a devious tactic yield for the so-called Light? 

Naturally we all know better than to believe that the personification of Pointless Gryffindor Virtues would never stoop so low as to use this Dark ability for anything useful, never mind something as morally questionable and underhanded as spying on his schoolmates. Surely someone would have already raised concerns about this if there was any real risk of it happening.

But. What if an entire House of students—already marginalized, already side-eyed, already presumed guilty by association—had to watch every word they spoke in their own common room, never knowing which carved creature might be listening, which pet might break their confidence, which ancient stone serpent might turn against them at the first opportunity.

What a scary world that would be, right?

[page 3]

3 Legal Loopholes Every Dead Muncher Should Know (+1 Bonus For The True Professional)
written by Hay-Jay Potterdotter

In these trying times, while the Ministry remains tragically keen to imprison VOLDIE*'s most dedicated servants without proper trials, it is more important than ever that aspiring and established Dead Munchers alike understand the legal protections our government thoughtfully provides—when they can be bothered to remember the rules of due process, that is.

Without further ado, here are three essential legal loopholes every Dead Muncher should memorized before their next raid:

Number 1: The "Imperius Defense" — A Timeless Classic for A Reason

The reliable "I was under the Imperius Curse, Your Honor" excuse has gotten more Death Eaters out of Azkaban than any other eight words in the English language. And why shouldn't it have? The Ministry has yet to invent—or even work on, if the rumors are to be believed—a method to prove whether someone has been held under the Imperius Curse or not.

The beauty of this defense lies in its simplicity: since the Imperius Curse forces complete obedience, any action taken under its influence cannot be held against you. And since there is no way to prove you weren't under the curse at the time so... As the burden of proof lies with the prosecution, any lawyer worth their salt will have this lawsuit shut down before your opposition can say "Sure you were."

A side note for the historians amongst you (though how there can be any left on British soil after decades of Binn's "teaching", we wouldn't dare to presume): This defense was so popular in the first couple of months after the start of VOLDIE*'s temporary hiatus that approximately 67% of all accused Death Eaters successfully employed it. The remaining 33 percent were either too proud to lie or didn't realize how effective it would be.

Learn from their mistakes.

Pro tip: This defense works significantly better if you can afford a competent lawyer and come from a respectable pureblood family. The Ministry is far more willing to believe that an upstanding member of the Wizengamot was forced to commit atrocities against their will than some random nobody from questionable lineage.

If that isn't justice, what is?

Number 2: The "Accidental Magic" Clause — Not Just Applicable for Children

According to Section 13 of the Decree for the Reasonable Restrictions of Underage Sorcery, "accidental magic" cannot be prosecuted as it occurs without intent. This law was designed to protect children whose magic manifests in moments of strong emotion or distress. However—and this is where it gets interesting—the Ministry has never bothered to create a legal definition for when magic stops being "accidental" and becomes "conveniently timed."

Several enterprising Dead Munchers have successfully argued in court that their wands "simply went off" during moments of "extreme emotional distress." After all, can anyone truly prove that you meant to cast that Reductor Curse at an Auror's back? Obviously, you were simply startled. Or potentially overwhelmed with anxiety about the political fallout of what has clearly been a terrible misunderstanding.

Even That-Boy-Who-Refuses-To-Keel-Over-Dead recently employed this excuse when arguing that he just "had to" fight of a Dementor in front of some muggle instead of doing the socially acceptable thing and get his soul sucked out. That is how wide-spread this excuse is.

"But I'm a fully trained adult wizard," you might think. "Surely they won't believe my magic was accidental?"

Dear reader, let this reporter assure you: the Ministry will believe anything if you phrase it correctly and maintain the expected amount of disdainful indignation over any doubt they might voice. Remember: you are the victim. That Muggle-born first year frightened you. That innocent bystander suddenly appeared in your line of sight. These are perfectly reasonable explanations for why your magic might "accidentally" manifest in an unfortunately lethal manner.

Important caveat: This defense works best for single instances of "accidental" magic. If you "accidentally" cast the Killing Curse seventeen times in a row, even our Ministry might ask uncomfortable questions. Know your limits.

Number 3: The "Family Heirloom" Exception for Dark Artifacts a. k. a. Pure-Blood Privilege at Its Finest

Here is another delightful quirk in magical law that every self-respecting Dead Muncher should exploit to its fullest: you can legally possess any Dark artifact your heart or your Dark Lord desires, so long as you can reasonably claim it as a family heirloom.

The Ministry, in their infinite wisdom and deep respect for the property rights of purebloods, has declared family heirlooms sacrosanct. They cannot be confiscated without "overwhelming evidence" that they have been used in a recent crime, and even then, the process requires approximately forty-seven properly filled-out forms on top of a formal hearing.

The cursed necklace that has rotted out three entire Royal families? Family heirloom. The hand of glory that already killed two inconvenient half-bloods? Handed down from parent to child for generations. That highly illegal dark tome describing seven methods to achieve immortality? So great-great-grandfather Orion the First collected rare books. Who are you to disrespect his legacy?

Best of all? You don't need to prove that the artifact belonged to your ancestors. Simply claim that it has been so with an appropriate amount of aristocratic disdain, and most Ministry officials will back down rather than risk offending one of the Old Families. Nothing terrifies a bureaucrat quite like the threat of a strongly worded letter from someone with more money than they know what to do with and influential friends that can make their life difficult.

And if you are new to the Dark and lack a sufficiently impressive family tree, there is always the option of marrying into one. Alternatively, you can also purchase your dark artifacts from established pureblood families and claim that you are "holding them in trust." You'd think the Ministry would check... but we all know them better than that.

Bonus Tip: Take Your Crimes To The Next Nation With The International Portkey Jurisdiction Gap

Last but not least, for the ambitious Dead Muncher who thinks internationally, we present one of the most deliciously complex loopholes in international magical law: the International Portkey Jurisdiction Gap.

International magical law is such a magnificent disaster of conflicting regulations that crimes committed during or with international Portkey travel fall into what can be called nothing less than a legal void. After all, committing a crime while traveling between countries via Portkey poses all manner of complicated questions, starting with the obvious: which country has jurisdiction? The one you left from? The one you arrive in? The one you were passing over at the exact moment of the crime?

The answer, dear readers, is simple: nobody knows. More importantly: nobody wants to deal with the paperwork needed to find out.

This means that a sufficiently clever Dead Muncher could theoretically commit a crime while traveling internationally, and no country involved would want to prosecute them. Too much effort. Too much interdepartmental cooperation needed. Too many opportunities for embarrassing mistakes that might reflect poorly on their respective Ministers. No, much better for all parties involved to pretend that the crime never happened at all.

Wouldn't you agree?

A Final Word of Caution

Please keep in mind that these loopholes work best when used sparingly. If you invoke the Imperius Defense for every crime you have committed since 1970, even the most incompetent Ministry official will eventually begin to doubt you.

Always remember: the goal is not to prove your innocence. The goal is to make it too complicated, too expensive or too embarrassing for the Ministry to acknowledge that you are guilty. Let their incompetence work for you, not against you.

May your escape from any overstepping aurors' grasp be worthy of VOLDIE*!

Important disclaimer: WEEKLY VOLDIE* accepts no legal responsibility for readers who attempt to use these loopholes without proper planning, adequate lawyers and sufficient pureblood anchestry to fall back on. Please get caught committing crimes responsibly.

[page 4]

HOW LONG WILL YOU LAST IN AZKABAN? A SURVIVAL ASSESSMENT

How long can you withstand constant Dementor exposure without losing your grip on reality? Curious to find out whether your dedication to VOLDIE* would  survive a life-long prison sentence or it’s time for a Plan B? Take this test to discover how well you will handle Azkaban's legendary hospitality—hypothetically, of course.

Please answer each question honestly and without too much thought, it will help get you the most accurate result. Once you are finished, check the symbol behind each answer you've marked and count which symbol you have chosen the most. Then read the results for said symbol on the next page and you have your answer.

1. How do you typically handle prolonged periods of isolation?
[ ] I thrive in solitude and use the time for deep reflection. [*]
[ ] I talk to myself extensively. We have delightful conversations. [?]
[ ] I count things obsessively to maintain a sense of order. [—]
[ ] Isolation? What isolation? I'll just make friends with the rats. Or the seagulls. I'm flexible. [!]

2. What is your relationship with your happiest memories?
[ ] Bold of you to assume that I have happy memories. [—]
[ ] I have curated a collection of emotionally neutral moments to sustain me. [*]
[ ] I prefer to focus on revenge fantasies instead. What? [?]
[ ] What memories? The past is of no use to me. I live entirely in the present. [!]

3. How would you describe your current mental stability?
[ ] Unshakeable. Some might say unnervingly so. [*]
[ ] I'm holding it together with the power of spite and determination. [—]
[ ] Define "stable". [?]
[ ] I've never been a fan of using labels I have gotten saddled with by other people. [!]

4. What is your plan for handling the Dementors?
[ ] I will master Occlumency and build impenetrable mental shields. Failing that I will practice setting their cloaks on fire with my mind. [*]
[ ] I'll focus on my anger—Dementors can't feed on rage, right? [—]
[ ] I'll try to befriend them through persistent small talk. Maybe they are just misunderstood. [!]
[ ] I'll simply think about things they find unsettling, like light bulbs and nightlights. [?]

5. How do you feel about the prospect of going mad?
[ ] Madness is just a less articulate form of sanity. [!]
[ ] I'd rather die than lose my mind. [—]
[ ] I'm mad on every day ending with a 'y' already, what's a little more? [?]
[ ] I will allow the guards to think I’m mad to get them to underestimate me. [*]

6. What would you do to pass the time in your cell?
[ ] Compose detailed escape plans. [*]
[ ] Exercise religiously to maintain physical and mental fitness. [—]
[ ] Reorganize my cell repeatedly using whatever bits of my predecessor I can find. [?]
[ ] Finally get some quality sleep. [!]

WEEKLY JOKE

Q: What's the difference between a Dementor and a Ministry official?
A: A Dementor is honest about sucking the happiness out of your life.

[page 5]

YOUR RESULTS:

The majority of your answers was type [*]: You are a Black-level survivor. Congratulations, you possess the rare combination of mental fortitude, strategic thinking, and single-bloody-mindedness required to not only survive Azkaban but potentially escape it. Your ability to maintain focused on your goal, preserve your sense of self, and resist the Dementors' mood-killing influence makes you exceptionally dangerous—which is precisely why the Ministry will ensure you never get a proper trial. You will last indefinitely in Azkaban, though you will probably find a way out before "indefinitely" can become too troublesome. VOLDIE* will be proud. (Assuming you're actually loyal and not just exceptionally good at faking it.)

The majority of your answers was type [—]: You are a long-term survivor. You have what it takes to last years, possibly even decades in Azkaban through the much appreciated power of spite. You won't enjoy it—nobody does—but you will endure. Your survival strategy relies on structure, routine, and an impressive capacity to channel suffering into motivation. You will emerge from Azkaban changed but functional and thus still capable of furthering VOLDIE*'s cause. Just don't expect anyone to recognize you. That island is hell on anyone's skincare routine.

The majority of your answers was type [?]: You will probably hang in there...for a while. You might last anywhere from several months to a few years, depending on factors outside your control like cell location, weather conditions, nearby fellow prisoners, and whether the Dementors take a particular interest in you. Your somewhat questionable grip on reality is both a blessing and a curse—it makes you adaptable but also vulnerable to outside influences. You will probably maintain enough sanity to remember your name and why you are in there, though you might also develop some interesting new personality quirks. VOLDIE* would prefer you focus on not getting caught in the first place.

The majority of your answers was type [!]: You will not last long. As in at all. We regret to inform you that your Azkaban survival time could be measured in weeks, possibly days if you are particularly unlucky. Your mental approach to imprisonment—whether it is toxic positivity or a dangerous lack of self-preservation—makes you incredibly vulnerable to the Dementors. The good news is that you will probably go mad too quickly to suffer for long. The bad news is that rapid mental deterioration makes you useless to VOLDIE*'s cause. We recommend you avoid capture at all costs. Seriously. At. All. Costs.

You do not have a clear majority of any type: Your survival time in Azkaban is unpredictable and will depend entirely on which aspects of your fractured personality dominate on any given day. You might last years or mere hours. You might ascend to another level of reality, in which case good luck because it’s not that type of reality, or befriend the Dementors or convince yourself you are on a particularly dreary vacation. The amount of disconcerting options is truly remarkable. We suggest you either sort yourself out before committing any (more) crimes or commit yourself so thoroughly to VOLDIE*'s service that he'll prioritize breaking you out at his earliest convenience.

[page 6]

LETTERS FROM READERS

Important disclaimer: We from WEEKLY VOLDIE* do not take responsibility for the content of our readers’ letters, nor do said letters reflect our own views and opinions.

Bla bla bla the Ministry is flawless bla bla Harry Potter is a pathetic attention-seeking child bla bla another detention Potter bla bla bla anyone who reads this sad excuse of a magazine will regret it bla bla.**
— Professor Dolores Umbridge, Undersecretary of Minister Fudge
**Content slightly edited by the owner of this newspaper to fulfill WEEKLY VOLDIE*’s quality requirements.

Can you really talk to dementors? Do they have anything interesting to say? It has to be better than snakes, right?
— Some poor ignorant soul with no appreciation for the wonder of mass destruction that is a proper, loyal basilisk

Regarding the hypothetical smear campaign: subtle you are not, Potter. Well done.
—Unsigned

When I said 'Leave my family out of this', I meant including my personal relationships, you moron.
— Heir Malfoy

I cannot believe I am writing this, but fifteen new students have approached me about S.P.E.W. and I have this sinking feeling that it is your fault. What have you done now, Harry?
— H. Granger

Potter, are you trying to get yourself killed?
— in various variations, has been sent in 27 times

Say, Harrikins, did you intend to make it sound like our father is leaning toward the dark? Just curious.
—definitely george weasley

According to your quiz, I am a Ravenclaw. I am not in Ravenclaw. What I am is terrified of Hufflepuff, now that I keep reading about how you perceive them. Are you alright? Are they alright?
— K

READERS' CHOICE

Last week’s vote: Who has the greater sense of style: TOADIE [caricature of a frog face wearing a soft pink, frilly baby bonnet] or Trevor [drawing of a toad, wearing a small, black top hat]?

Result: TREVOR* [87%] beats out TOADIE [13%] (by a frankly embarrassing margin)

This week: Decide for yourself who has the Darker™ aura: SERIOUS BLACK [caricature of a black shadow shaped vaguely like a person...or possibly a grim] or SEVERE SNAP [drawing of a tall man wearing a dramatically billowing cloak and an even more dramatic sneer]? OWL US YOUR VOTE UNTIL THE END OF THE WEEK!

[page 7]

Draco was having a decent day.

Not a great one, not that that was a surprise. Great days had become a rare good lately. Umbridge seemed to be dead-set on tightening her iron hold on the school and while her tendency to hand out detentions like candy to the mudblood and blood traitor students was entertaining, her ridiculous number of Educational Decrees were getting tiresome very quickly.

His father insisted that Umbridge's vehement opposition of anything Dumbledore and Potter made up for her unpleasant personality and even less pleasant habit of sticking her nose into literally anything, whether it involved the local Boy Wonder or not, but then his father didn't have to deal with the hassle of sweet-talking the odious woman into signing a personal exception to the broom flight ban because he liked to go out by himself sometimes, without the weight of the rest of the Quidditch team's eyes on him, judging and finding him lacking because Gryffindor's Star Seeker just had to be born to fly.

There was only so much hemming Draco was willing to endure for the sake of watching the rest of the school suffer. Everyone had a limit.

Especially the bloody Boy-Who-Refused-To-Quit, who just so happened to be the second name on Draco's list of reasons why he should probably go home for the Christmas holidays and then just never come back again. Should they all make it that far, that was.

Lately, Potter had acquired the habit of baring his teeth at Umbridge in what was most definitely not a smile, Draco had won that debate against Greengrass by a landslide, instead of responding to her taunts. Draco, in turn, had developed a perfectly healthy full-body twitch at the sight of that particular facial expression. Zabini could poke fun at him all he wanted, but Draco hadn't forgotten the way the Italian had all but thrown himself out of Potter's way when the git had stormed around the corner last Tuesday on their way to Potions with a look in his eyes that Draco would bet his entire Gringotts' vault only briefly preceded violent dismemberment. Their entire year had given Potter a wide berth that day.

Except for Nott, of course, who must have literally never run into a raging dragon he hadn't wanted to pet and had instead decided to start a friendly conversation with the Golden Boy. In public.

Moments like that made Draco wonder if Nott was even planning to survive to seventeen. Then he recalled that this was the same guy who had spent half of their third year attempting to sneak out into the Forbidden Forest to track down the leader of the Dementor hoard Hogwarts had temporarily acquired at the time and he put the matter aside as a lost cause.

No. One of these days Potter was going to snap.

Not pulling an outrageously stupid stunt in the middle of a busy crowd snap—did a certain illegal student newspaper ring any bells there?—no. This was quickly turning into a Potter Situation™ the likes of which they usually didn't have to worry about until May at the earliest. But then usually the people inside this school didn't go out of their way to tempt Scarhead into bloody murder.

The last time a professor had so persistently targeted Potter it had been Lockhart. And when the dust had cleared he'd been found with his memories completely erased in a hidden part of the castle that even Dumbledore supposedly hadn't known about. Potter had been a second year back then. And Lockhart had only targeted the Boy-Who-Was-Going-To-Kill-Them-All himself, not his friends. Or—if there was any truth to the rumor that it had been him behind those petrifications—at least he had been smart enough not to be obvious about it.

Unlike Umbridge.

Might be why Lockhart had lasted until the end of the year. Not to mention, a dark voice in the back of his head added, why he was found alive.

Unlike Crouch Junior, the impersonator who just so happened to stumble into a nearby Dementor and had his soul removed before the aurors could return him to his cell, from which he would have been reasonably likely to be released the second the Dark Lord deemed it prudent to do so. Right after he had admitted to tampering with the Goblet of Fire that had ultimately led to Diggeroy's death.

Draco was a Slytherin. He didn't believe in coincidences. There was a reason he had a running bet with Goyle over how long Professor Snape was going to last.

On the bright side, with how unbearable Umbridge was acting, Potter's disconcerting ability to facilitate unfortunate accidents that did not trace back to him was bound to kick in sooner rather than later. Draco usually wouldn't mind but going by some of the comments he had heard the Boy Wonder make while studying in the library—alright, eavesdropping—he didn't think Potter was feeling too broken up about potential collateral damage right now.

Might have something to do with the hateful howlers he still got every other day at breakfast, not to mention the game the Daily Prophet was making out of how many supposedly oblique insults they could include in a given article, but Draco could only speculate. And worry.

If he had known ahead of time how much trouble being Potter's chosen rival would turn out to be, he could have saved himself a lot of stressful scheming. It was a good thing that he was a Malfoy and would look perfectly dignified when his hair inevitably turned grey at twenty.

Despite those ever-present and steadily growing concerns however, Draco was, for once, having a decent day. He had only been forced to endure fifteen minutes of Umbridge's simpering—and really, Pansy had done a better job of false flattery when she'd been twelve and obsessed with him—before some world-ending catastrophe courtesy of the Weasley twins had distracted her. He had then spent a pleasant breakfast only scanning the Gryffindor table every five minutes instead of every three, a new personal best.

Most importantly he had gotten ahead with his homework in preparation of spending a peaceful Saturday by himself while most of the upper years wasted their precious free hours in Hogsmeade.

As a matter of fact, Draco had never seen so many students collectively decide at the exact same moment that they were going to grab their coat and their closest tolerable housemate and flee the school with detailed plans to not return a single second earlier than absolutely necessary as this morning, when their—in retrospective forebodingly uneventful—breakfast had gotten interrupted by a shower of bright pink sparks. By the time Draco had blinked the dots out of his vision, the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall had been turned into a huge copy of the newest WEEKLY VOLDIE* copy.

Umbridge, in an outstanding display of why self-control didn't last when confronted with the Boy Wonder once he decided to commit and commit hard, had immediately lost her mind.

Draco had been sitting at the other end of the hall and he swore he had still felt her spittle on his face as she had raged at the ceiling like a madwoman possessed.

The hall had never emptied so fast.

Especially since Umbridge had been too distracted to notice the stack of pamphlets waiting for the students on both sides outside the entrance.

Draco had taken the chance to dock points from several Hufflepuffs for possession of an illegal newspaper—though he wasn't stupid enough to try and take it from them, wands had been drawn over the coveted magazine a frankly impressive number of times already and he wasn't going to start something with a group of Hufflepuffs without backup and a plan—and then split off from the rest of his year mates to enjoy a couple of peaceful hours in the library. This time for the actual research he had been too distracted to conduct the last time he had come by, only to be distracted by Potter's little world saving cult a couple of tables over.

Perhaps he would even read the latest issue, a copy of which he had naturally hidden away between his potion notes. It wouldn't do for a Malfoy to be out of the loop after all. Frankly the ship of denial on the cursed newspaper that would likely incite the Dark Lord into killing them all had well and truly sailed.

Might as well enjoy the sunset while I wait for the boat to catch on fire.

By the time Draco had passed the courtyard, he could have even been accused of being in a good mood. Which meant that the universe immediately decided to intervene.

"What- Hey!"

Draco ripped himself free from the tight grip on his arm that had appeared out of nowhere and proceeded to unceremoniously drag him into the boy's bathroom before he even realized what was happening. He immediately reached for his wand.

"Easy, Malfoy." Potter kicked the door shut behind him.

As in Harry Potter as in The Nightmare Child of Gryffindor as in The-Boy-Who-Was-Supposed-To-Be-Hiding-At-The-Shrieking-Shack-Or-Somewhere-Equally-Unlikely-To-Wait-Out-Umbrige's-Rampage. That Potter.

"I'm not here to fight."

"Of course not." Draco sneered. Potter was only obvious and straight-forward in his attacks when he had an audience. All the more reason to keep a tight grip on his wand. "You never learned how to properly duel."

Something flashed through Potter's eyes, lightening fast and so very dark. "Oh, I think I get the gist. Don't think it's for me though. I've never been all that good at bowing to my betters."

He smiled in the same way one might look at a protective cerberus baring all its teeth in warning and call it a smile.

Draco refused to flinch. It took more effort than he would have liked. "What do you want?"

"Nothing but a quick chat. A friendly conversation, you might say." Potter's smile widened. Neither it nor the silencing ward snapping into place around them was in any way comforting.

"About what?"

If this was the moment Potter lost it and decided to get even with everyone who had ever wronged him, Draco was going to face his end with his head held high. Then he was going to come back to haunt his father for demanding years worth of detailed reports only to never fucking listen to a single bit of what Draco told him. And to say goodbye to his mother. But mostly to haunt his father.

"Warrington and Bletchley."

Draco blinked. What?

"What about them?"

"Bletchley plays on the Quidditch team, so I know him somewhat but he isn't as confrontational as some of the others." 'Like you' Potter didn't say with uncharacteristic tactfulness. "And I've never met Warrington, probably wouldn't be able to pick him out of a crowd. I want you to tell me about them."

This...was not at all going the way Draco would have expected it to. Still, he was a Slytherin. And Potter wasn't an ally, wasn't even an acquaintance.

"Why would I?"

Potter lost his smile. It had been a terrible smile but Draco suddenly missed it. Without it Potter's face looked empty. Off.

"Because if you don't I will go out of my way to investigate them and any other Slytherin that catches my attention in great detail. The password isn't half as difficult to crack as you lot seem to believe. Nice armchairs by the way, very comfortable. Especially the round one with the uneven leg."

Is Potter seriously threatening to break into our dorms?

Draco didn't gape because Malfoys didn't gape but his jaw muscles didn't feel as strong as they should. "That's a lot of detentions you're risking if you're getting caught. Or cursed."

Potter shrugged. "I'm not worried about that."

He really wasn't, Draco realized, startled by the sudden insight. He had spent years observing Potter, even if Zabini called it stalking, and so yes, Draco knew Potter. He knew what made him angry enough to lose it or stubborn enough to dig his feet in. He knew what made him smile. He knew that Potter always watched his food and that he never sat with his back to the entrance. He knew that Potter was passable at potions even if his grades would never show it.

But this Potter? Who stared at him with unrelenting focus, both arms casually swinging at his side, hands nowhere near his wand and yet ready to twist his body around at the first hint of movement?

This wasn't a Potter Draco recognized.

"What's this about?"

Warrington in particularly hated mudbloods and wasn't shy about making it known. Especially now, with Umbridge around to pat him on the head for it. Had he hexed Granger? Or gone after the annoying fourth year stalker that had attached himself to Potter's hip this year? Because if Potter was here, like this, calmly talking about breaking twenty-two school rules in front of someone he knew damn well would rat him out at the first available opportunity, it was because Warrington and Bletchley had gone after someone Potter cared about.

And for some reason he had decided to involve Draco in his retaliation.

Potter watched him thoughtfully for a moment, as though weighing how much he wanted to reveal. As though nothing he had said so far was worrying him in the slightest.

"You know Theo."

Nott. Of course.

"My dorm mate?" Draco drawled with impressive vocal control, if he dared to say so himself, given that most of his brain was preoccupied with shrieking in horror and the rest was muttering 'What did he do?!', 'What did he do?!', 'What did he do?!' on repeat. "We've met."

"Funny." Potter tilted his head. "Bletchley and Warrington like playing games. Shooting nonverbal stunning spells at Theo when he's distracted. Harmless stuff. Just testing reflexes. You know how teenagers are."

His voice was perfectly mild.

Draco closed his eyes. An unforgivable faux-pas, given his current company, but it couldn't be helped. Not when he wasn't sure what Potter would see in his gaze if he let him. Not when he didn't know what that tight, trembling emotion bubbling dangerously within him was.

Nott was a pain in his arse on more days than he wasn't, unreliable and constantly obsessing over things that were liable to get him and everyone in his vicinity killed. Theo had been a shy boy with a slight lisp he'd never gotten the chance to grow out of and a deep fascination for things that grow.

Draco hadn't liked him much. Had thought him boring. Plain. Not worth his time.

"They do, huh." He opened his eyes. Forced himself to meet Potter's gaze.

"Yup." The sound popped out of Potter's mouth like a hatchet hitting the chopping block. "Figured I'd introduce them to a different game. Since they like playing so much. One with higher stakes."

Draco stared at Potter for a moment longer. Wondered what he was really going to do if Draco were to refuse to give him what he wanted.

He supposed he would have to find out another time.

"Bletchley is superstitious. Always sits in the exact same seat in Arithmancy. Always oils his broom three days before a play. Hates onions and hates being late even more. Warrington is top of all of his classes and loves to make sure that everyone knows it. Has a nasty habit of stealing other people's books when they catch his interest. Experiments with spell creation in his free time."

There. Nothing Potter couldn't learn himself with a bit of careful observation, but valuable nonetheless.

"Huh. That was easier than I though it would be." Potter shot him a look that could almost be called befuddled but Draco suspected was actually closer to the startlingly intense calculation he usually hid behind his placid Boy-Who-Survived-To-Annoy-Another-Day mask. "What do you want in return?"

That was a question Draco would have expected from a Slytherin, not a goody two shoes Gryffindor. But then Potter had never fit that mold as well as people liked to claim, had he?

Maybe it was time that he stopped complaining about everyone else underestimating Harry bloody Potter and started taking his own advise.

"A favor," Draco decided because there was literally no way to say 'leave this room alive' without sounding pathetic and Draco was many things but pathetic wasn't going to be one of them. And who knew, perhaps once the adrenaline rush had left his system, he would be able to think of something Wonderboy would be useful for. Preferably while not getting dissected by Killing-Curse-colored eyes that seem perfectly willing to cut his soul into tiny pieces to figure out what it was shaped like.

"Fine. But I reserve the right to refuse if I don't think it's an equal exchange."

Because of course it was in moments like this one that Potter set out to prove to the world that he did, in fact, knew how to use his brain.

Draco nodded. It was more than he had expected to get from the Golden Boy, back before his perfectly uneventful day had been not-so-gently shoved off its predestined path. Besides a favor was a favor—and Potter might be a lot less pet-friendly than your average Gryffindor but he was still a Gryffindor. Unless Draco had completely misread him, he would honor the deal.

After a long moment, Potter nodded back. Then he pulled his wand out and broke the silencing charm with a deliberate motion.

Draco watched him reach for the door. Stop with his fingers curled around the handle. Then he suddenly crouched down, the motion so unexpected that Draco raised his own wand on reflex before he could think better of it.

But Potter didn't turn. If anything he pressed himself even lower to the ground and made a quiet, oddly sharp sound that raced along Draco's nerves like a razor-sharp blade. Never quite cutting skin, only threatening to. Then, before Draco could decide whether Wonderboy had lost it or was trying to lull him into a false sense of security, Potter straightened once more and pulled the door open.

"This never happened, Malfoy."

The words were spoken so softly, they could have been a request. Draco wasn't fool enough to take them as one.

Neither did he agree, of course. He simply watched wordlessly, his wand arm still stretched out protectively in front of him, as Potter strode through the door and disappeared down the hallway.

Then, because Draco should know better but curiosity had always been a weakness of his, especially when prodded by Harry Potter of all people, he took two steps towards the door and inspected the floor where Potter had stood. There wasn't anything there. Not at first glance. But when Draco reached out and trailed one hand along the baseboard, he found himself tracing the outline of a tiny snake, its shape barely visible to the naked eye where it had been carved into the dark wood.

He stared at that snake for a long time.

Was it too late to take his father up on the offer to enroll him in Durmstrang?

Chapter Text

Sirius stared at the ceiling in a silent appeal for answers.

The bottle of twenty-five year old Ogden's Old Firewhiskey he was currently clutching in a death grip was almost empty. This posed somewhat of a dilemma. On the one hand he wasn't supposed to leave his cursed childhood home for anything less than a life-threatening emergency—and even then only when said emergency would be solved by him not staying at Grimmauld Place, as Snape had made sure to specify like the slimy bastard he was—but on the other hand the only remaining alcohol in the house after Molly Weasley's determined rampage was, sadly, his unlamented mother's secret stock that Kreacher had probably poisoned. Or would the moment Sirius ordered him to crack a casket open.

The ceiling failed to offer up a useful piece of advise.

Good. That meant he wasn't too drunk to keep going yet.

Not that it would stop Sirius even if the ceiling did start talking back—probably in that very specific tone of condescension any true Black was born with, given how soaked the very walls of this cursed place were with the vile magic that his ancestors had taken such pride in, as though pointless curses spoke of power, as though tormenting your children was—

Stop.

Don't go there. Don't walk that path. Too many twists. You'll lose yourself in them. You—

Sirius shook his head. Tipped the bottle back until the reassuring heat of the firewhiskey filled his mouth and ran down the line of his throat, like liquid fire breathing new life into his frozen body. A much needed source of warmth to chase away Azkaban's shadows. 

Not that it were Azkaban's shadows that were haunting him tonight. Tomorrow? This morning? Right now. Whatever. Not that it were Azkaban's shadows that were haunting him right now.

A chuckle trembled through his chest. Knocked loose what shouldn't be touched. What should remain buried like he'd buried Marlene and Lily and Dorcas and Reggie and James. Except he couldn't even do that right, could he. Wasn't around to bury anyone. Useless. Abandoned. Forgotten. He'd failed everyone he loved. Always, always failed when it mattered the most.

"'m sorry."

He gently tapped the bottle. The bottle didn't react. 

Of course it didn't. It had carried itself with that distinct aura of Slytherin-inherent superiority.

But Sirius was sorry. He was so fucking sorry that sometimes when he opened his mouth no words came because it was all he could do not to break down crying and further convince the people who already side-eyed him like he was going to claw their eyes out if they turned their backs on him that he couldn't be trusted. That Azkaban had ruined him.

Easier to blame the prison than the ones who left me there, isn't it?

Sirius shoved those thoughts away. It didn't matter. He had been broken long before he'd woken up in that place, every last bond he'd ever formed snapped and aching in his chest, and he knew it. He'd always known it. He was a Black.

He might curse it, he might despise it, he might spend days contemplating whether slashing his wrists and watching the blood spill out until there was nothing left to give would be enough to finally get them out from under his skin, where magic and madness writhed against his senses, testing and straining his control, but it wouldn't change anything. He was what he was.

A good twelve years in isolation hadn't helped. That forsaken island in general had done Sirius no favors, not that it was meant to. It had forced a steady supply of miserable poison into an already gushing wound. But. It had only aggravated the damage that had already been there. 

Snape was right about that much, at least. Wouldn't he be outraged to know it? Sirius was tempted to let him know they agreed on the matter, just to see the revulsion on Snivellus' face, but the amusement faded before the thought could take hold. 

He should have taken Regulus with him when he ran. Should have talked some sense into him. Made him see that he had options. That Sirius hadn't wanted to leave him behind. He should have talked instead of shouting because no one could needle him like Reggie could, knew him like Reggie had. And that went both ways, but somehow even with all that history, the secrets, the fear between them, they had never figured out how to talk to each other. How to listen.

Then Reggie had taken the mark and none of it had mattered anymore.

No. That was wrong too.

Then Reggie had died and Sirius hadn't even known about it until...

Until Bella had been thrown into the cell across his own, still riding the high of blood lust and Dark Magic, and she had taunted him with his brother's weakness, apparently not cut out for the indiscriminate murder and gore after all—should've read the fine print, shouldn't you, little brother, always so proud of your marks, your books, maybe if you'd used those smarts Mother went on and on about when it came down to it—proving that the once proud blood of the main house had rotted through, back in the early days when chosen sides and allegiances still mattered. When jeers and insults had filled the hallway and Sirius had made it his personal mission to drive Bella to a murder attempt once a day. Before Azkaban wore them down, one after the other. Until all that remained were the patterns they had established, half-hearted insults long turned meaningless by repetition, thrown back and forth because they knew this dance at least, knew the step that came next. The only routine left. The only control they had.

After a while it didn't matter who was a Death Eater and who wasn't or what crime they had committed that had brought them here. Once you were in Azkaban long enough, the world beyond the cold stone walls ceased to exist. Or maybe you ceased to exist.

That's what it felt like, sometimes.

You clung to what little you remembered of Before because it was all you had left, all you remembered being, and if you gave that up, if you let go of what little you could still call your own, there would be nothing left. Wasn't that worse than death? To lose yourself, to give up on yourself, before your heart stopped beating?

Or maybe it was a mercy. Maybe the ones who clung so tightly to the few memories they could salvage suffered all the more for it.

Sirius went back and forth on the matter—when he could bear thinking about it. 

Except no. That was a lie. Sirius couldn't imagine a world in which he would prefer to forget rather than remember everyone he had loved, even after the happier memories of laughter and jokes had faded beyond saving and all that remained were the tears, the arguments and the ugly accusations.

The shape of Prongs' snarl, cruel for all that Sirius would have never described him as such, when he'd been pushed too far on something he truly cared about. The look of betrayal in Moony's eyes when Sirius had crossed a line that their friendship had never fully recovered from. Lily's spiteful words, always too smart and aware of exactly how to make it hurt, when one of their pranks had truly upset her. Regulus' last words to him, the anger and bitterness drowning out the hurt beneath. Dorcas' cold shoulder after a fight, so absolute he might as well not have existed for all the difference it seemed to make to her.

The memories—crystal clear compared to the vague notion of shared afternoons in the sun—hurt. Sirius ached with it. Their weight. The jagged edges they carried, digging deeper into his flesh the more he tried to hold on to them. But not as much as it would hurt to let them go.

Besides he craved that pain. Remembering them should hurt. Losing them should hurt. He had failed them. Left them. He wasn't there to protect them, to protect anyone. He'd trusted Wormtail when he should've known better than to trust anyone. Not with James and Lily.

This agony was his to carry by right and Sirius would rip anyone to shreds who tried to take it from him.

Something cracked.

It was the bottle.

Oh, well. Served that arrogant bastard of a wannabe snake right.

Besides it had already been empty.

Useless. Just like him.

Sirius should probably find another one.

Or go to bed, the part of his mind that had never quite stopped sounding like Moony chided.

Sirius scoffed. Like sleep was an option. His mind should know better than that. It was the reason he was in this mess in the first place.

The whiskey might not be able to drown out the sound of his own thoughts forever but... it helped. For now it helped. And Sirius needed that. He needed it so much it might have scared him, if fear hadn't been burned out of him along with pretty much every emotion other than anger and despair.

Whatever. Not like it mattered. Nothing mattered anymore, other than killing Peter. And Harry.

Harry—

Don't go there.

But Sirius didn't go through all the trouble of drowning his rationality in alcohol just to start listening to it now. Not that he could have stopped himself if he wanted to. Because Harry... Harry was James and Lily and everything he'd loved about both of them. Sirius couldn't stop seeing them in every move, every too-revealing expression on the boy's face. And it ached.

They should be here to see this.

Sirius turned his head. Just a little, wary of the way the world was swimming in and out of focus. It was enough to catch sight of the brilliant shade of pink that was lying somewhere to his left, amidst a dozen other pieces of paper on the floor.

He'd been confused when Moony had owled him what had, at a first, not particularly interested glance, appeared to be newly designed Witch Weekly edition, complete with a short note from his friend about how maybe he should reach out to Harry and have a chat with him. Sirius had been baffled—since when did Remus read gossip rags?—until his mind had processed the actual title.

And the logo.

It had taken Sirius a good half an hour and several detection charms to determine that he wasn't hallucinating. Nor had he been cursed. But no. Reality did not provide such comfort. There was actually a newspaper with a dark mark smack on its cover lying on his kitchen table. A pink dark mark with the snake styled in a suspiciously familiar shape of a lightening bolt.

Sirius wasn't gonna lie, he had cracked up and cracked up hard. With humor, yes. And something else too. Something detached but darker, like grief turned stale with age. And the more he had read—had had to read because once he'd started, putting the paper down hadn't been an option—the more it had grown.

The humor. The horror. The unnamed, untamed beast that had made itself at home in Sirius' chest, fed by misery and betrayal and too much loss.

He'd uncapped his first bottle around the time he'd reached an article speculating on Snape's love life—and he still considered it the most harmless part of the entire issue, certainly material worth saving for the next Order meeting—and hadn't stopped after he'd reached the final page.

WEEKLY VOLDIE* glittered back at him with a disturbing cheerfulness, recognizable even from where he was lying on the ground, cheek pressed against what was hopefully one of the cleaner carpets in this house.

You knew he wasn't happy. At the Dursleys. At this place. With the Order and Molly and Dumbledore and the Ministry and his friends. Are you really surprised?

He was. Sirius hated to admit it but he was. Because...

This wasn't what James would've done. Nor Lily. Sirius hated himself for that, for it being the first thought that had popped into his head right after 'Damn, Prongslet really isn't pulling his punches, is he'. Harry wasn't James. Wasn't either of his parents, as Molly liked to loudly remind him as though Sirius didn't know that. As though rationality had anything to do with it and if she just screamed it loud enough he would finally sit up and notice that she was right.

Sure.

The truth was.

The truth was Sirius didn't know Harry. Had barely spent 24 hours in the boy's company altogether, never mind without some overbearing, self-assigned protector looming over both their shoulders as though Sirius needed supervision. As though Harry would open up to him in front of people he barely knew. As though having an unsupervised and uninterrupted conversation with his godson would lead to the both of them merrily skipping town and fucking off to the other end of the world, never to be heard from again.

Hell, that was probably what Sirius should do.

Just like he should have convinced Dorcas not to go back to work that day.

They had all known that Voldemort wouldn't turn a blind eye to their activities forever, that their luck would run out one day, and with every push, every new punchline that risk only got bigger. To the point where one of the Auror trainees had gone down in history as That Idiot™ who got caught by Sirius Black saying "What a way to commit suicide via You-Know-Who" three days after—

He probably hadn't killed him. The idiot.

Sirius thought he would remember that. Then again, perhaps not. He'd never been all that broken up about putting people down permanently when they asked for it. Might have been one of the reasons Dumbledore hadn't liked sending him out into the field, even back before James and Lily had found themselves with yet another target on their back.

But he hadn't. Dorcas was long gone. Even if it sometimes felt like it had been less than a year. Even if he still caught himself thinking 'She's gonna think this is hilarious' before he remembered.

Most of his life Before felt like that. Impossibly far away and yet so recent, he could still taste the iron on the back of his tongue from wounds that should have scabbed over years ago, even if they hadn't yet healed.

As for Harry...

Harry.

Harry wasn't gone yet. Sirius may have failed him as much, if not more than most of those who had relied on him, but there was still time to make up for it. There was still a living person to make it up to.

One who appeared determined to run full-speed down the same path that had killed many older and better trained wixen. 

Sirius swallowed a sob. Or maybe his own tongue. It was hard to tell the difference through the numbness that slowly spread along his limbs. As though he was lying in a tub of ice water that was rising steadily. Perhaps if he simply let himself drift away, further and further, until nothing and no one could reach him—

No.

Think about Harry. He needs you.

Another lie, though one Sirius had grown so used to telling himself, he could almost believe it. Even though it was obvious how much Harry didn't need him.

He'd grown up while Sirius had been busy wallowing in a three by five meter cell, being of no use to anyone, and now Harry didn't know how to integrate Sirius into his life anymore than Sirius knew how to handle the boy who was already a teenager—so young, so old, why aren't you here to see this, Jamsie, you'd be so delighted to see who your son is growing into, but why did he have to do it without you, whywhywhy—and looked at the adults in his life like they were either an unreliable ally and he hadn't yet decided whether the sacrifices they were demanding were worth making or like they were an obstacle he needed to overcome.

At best.

Sirius would know. For all that Harry was undeniably James' and Lily's child, he saw a lot of himself in the boy.

And not just him.

It was a character flaw, he supposed. Or maybe it was inevitable. Lose enough people and their shadows started to distort the world around you. Until you saw the eyes of dead friends stare back at you out of the faces of every living soul you met.

Grief was greedy like that. Claimed everything it touched.

That was the crux of it, wasn't it. Looking at Harry hurt. Because he looked like James. Because he had this way of pushing his glasses back up his nose that made Sirius take a double-take. Because he snapped at his friends in the tone Lily used when she lost her patience.

Sirius had prepared himself for it. Or tried to. He'd thought he would be able to deal with it, at least. Had known he had to deal with it.

But this? He hadn't prepared for this.

Nothing could have prepared him for this.

He blindly reached for the newspaper but when he opened his eyes, it wasn't the pink cover he found himself looking at. It was one of Dorcas' sketches. An old one, from before their sixth year that had changed everything. Lily was in it, right at the center, gesturing wildly. Alice beside her, captured mid-eye roll at Sirius—who he had been, who Dorcas had seen him as, a boy he had long buried along with the rest of his dead—who had an arm wrapped around her shoulder and was grinning.

Just three kids having fun.

Dorcas had always liked to sketch. For as long as Sirius had known her, her fingers had been smudged with ink. She'd also had a habit of throwing her drafts out—or at the head of certain pranksters when they annoyed her, which happened daily—which meant that over the years everyone in their year had accumulated a personal collection of her work.

Sirius had kept them all. The old ones in a worn-down muggle shoe box, solely because it would have gone that extra mile of pissing his mother off, should she have ever discovered it. The rest in a folder he'd warded with everything he'd known, up to and including blood-protection. That one was probably exactly where he had left it back in 1981: securely hidden away in his Gringotts' vault, where no one could touch it until after he was dead. And if the protections were worth anything not even then.

Safely beyond everyone's reach. Especially his own.

It was better this way. Sirius didn't know if he would have been able to resist the temptation to pull them back out, especially not in his current mindset. And... he didn't know what he would do if he saw those pictures again.

Since his escape, Sirius thought he'd done a decent job of not thinking about Dorcas. A skill he had been well-practiced at even before he had been thrown into Azkaban. Because it used to hurt so damn much, back before his entire chest had been hollowed out by the devastating loss of James and Lily, the shock of which drowned out everything else for a long damn while. Even once it passed, certain things just never... reconnected.

At the moment though, it was impossible to not think of the vindictive witch who had laughed at some of the worst jokes Sirius had ever told. Because when Sirius looked at WEEKLY VOLDIE* it wasn't James' satisfaction of a prank that had exceeded his expectations nor Lily's less-advertised streak of vindictiveness once someone had made the foolish mistake of incurring her wrath he saw. 

No.

In every steel-sharpened word and twisted joke, in every irreverent mention of the horrors Voldemort's followers had committed in his name and outrageous call to action, it was Dorcas' relentless rage against the universe that glared back at him. That same brutal, uncompromising fury, put in too-clever words that made you snort against your will instead of sharp brush strokes that tore apart reputations as easily as the paper they were drawn on.

A different weapon of choice, but one built on the same fear, that same impotent anger. The knowledge that nothing you did would change the world for the better, so you might as well tear it all the way down.

Sirius knew why Moony had sent him the paper. He knew it all too well.

Remus had taken one glance at the damn thing and he had realized the exact same thing Sirius had: they had seen this before. So he'd sent it to Sirius because Sirius was the only person that hadn't actively pissed Harry off this summer. And Sirius knew better than anyone else alive how this story ended. Remus was smart, so very smart, and so he understood that Sirius could reach out to Harry in a way no one else would. In a way that might convince even a legendary stubborn teenager to listen.

Because Remus, for all his intelligence and underrated people skills, had never understood.

He'd spent all his life fearing the parts of him that he couldn't control, had always been his own worst monster, and so he couldn't grasp what it meant when the greatest power you had—the only power you had—was to let go.

Sirius had loved Dorcas—or thought he did. It was hard to tell sometimes, when most of those shared moments had long ago fractured in the face of the Dementors' endless hunger—but he had known her even better. He'd known the ferocity of her anger.

Dorcas had burned. Like Fiendfyre given human form. She hadn't known how not to. How to stop. And in the end— 

'It'd take more than a couple of ambitious Death Eaters to bring down the wards,' she'd told him that morning. Laughed. Invited him into the joke that wasn't funny, was never going to be funny, because Dorcas, more than even James, had understood how much Sirius needed to laugh when the world drowned you in all the reasons why you shouldn't.

She'd been right. It had taken Voldemort himself.

And now—

And now.

Harry.

Sirius should write him.

He knew what Remus wanted him to say. What Molly would expect him to say, if she knew about any of this. Which she hadn't yet or else Sirius would have been woken up by a howler weeks ago. What Sirius had said, years ago—those arguments, unlike the better days, were burned into his mind—that hadn't accomplished anything except piss Dorcas off even more.

Sirius stared at the drawing of a boy he could barely reconcile with himself, caught mid-laugh, hair unfinished, probably because she'd gotten distracted near the end. Threw the sketch away before he did something unforgivable. Like set it on fire.

He needed to write Harry. Or kidnap him. Clearly no one else was doing anything useful and Harry knew it or it would have never come to this. It never would have come to this if James had lived. If Lily had lived. If Sirius hadn't failed them. Hadn't ruined everything he touched. 

He needed—

He needed a drink.

WEEKLY VOLDIE*

The publication of Cruelty, Mayhem and Unquestioned Life Choices

EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW WITH REINDEEROUS LE STRANGE: A CONVERSATION BEHIND BARS
conducted by H. J. Potter

Editor's Note: The following interview was conducted under extraordinary circumstances at Azkaban prison. To gain access to the dreary island, our intrepid reporter team may or may have not posed as Ministry interns conducting a 'routine prisoner welfare assessment'.
We have edited the transcript for length and to remove the portions where the Dementors' presence rendered speech temporarily impossible.

WEEKLY VOLDIE: Thank you for agreeing to speak with us, Mr. Le Strange. Let's start with something straightforward—you received a trial after your arrest, didn't you?

REINDEEROUS LE STRANGE: [laughs—a harsh, grating sound] A trial. Yes. Suppose you could call it that. Spoke my piece. Told them exactly what I'd done and why. No shame in it.

WV: That's quite different from many of your fellow Death Eaters, isn't it? So many claimed they were forced to serve—

RL: [spits] Cowards. Every last one of them! Pathetic. [mimes whining voice] 'But I had no choice...' Pha! We knew what we were doing. We believed in it. Some of us had the spine to say so.

WV: You're referring to those who claimed to be under the Imperius to avoid prison?

RL: I'm referring to the traitors who slithered back into their precious manors and left us to rot. The ones who bought their freedom with gold and lies the moment it all fell apart. [laughs bitterly] Made me sick then. Makes me sicker now.

WV: Do you believe all those who claimed Imperius were lying?

RL: Not all. Some weak-minded fools might've been. But plenty lied through their teeth and the Ministry let them. Guess it was easier than putting half the government on trial.

WV: Speaking of trials—or the lack thereof—what do you know about Sirius Black?

RL: [pauses, frowning] Black. Sirius Black.

WV: He was supposedly one of the Dark Lord's most faithful servants. Murdered thirteen people. And yet—

RL: Was he. [leans forward slightly] 

WV: I'm asking you.

RL: [studies the interviewer with unsettling intensity] You have that look. The intense one. Like you want to push, just to see what happens. I knew someone with a look like that once. [his expression darkens] They're dead now.

WV: [coughs] Let's talk about your conditions here. How would you describe Azkaban?

RL: [with a hollow expression] Describe it? You want me to describe it? [his voice drops] Imagine every happy moment you've ever had—every laugh, every triumph, every moment of warmth—sucked out through your skull day after day after day. The Dementors don't just feed on happiness. They feed on hope. On memory. On the very idea that you were ever anything other than this. [his hands shake slightly] Most nights I don't remember Rab's face. I know I should remember—I know it's there somewhere in my mind or it used to be—but it's like trying to see through fog that only gets thicker. And when I do... [his voice breaks] when I do remember, it's screaming. Always screaming. That's what you're left with. The worst moments. The darkest hours.

WV: How long have you been here?

RL: Ten years. Or maybe more? Time doesn't... doesn't move right here. Days could be weeks. Weeks could be hours. You stop counting. Everyone stops counting.

WV: Do you think you deserve this?

RL: [something fierce returns to his eyes] I knew the risks. I accepted them. I won't beg for mercy from the mindless sheep who didn't even have the guts to order me killed.

WV: Let's talk about Vol—

RL: [immediately alert, almost feral] Careful. Careful how you phrase that.

WV: Is the Dark Lord back?

RL: [long silence] You already know the answer. I can see it in your face. In the way you're sitting—like you're ready to run at any moment. Always with one eye on the door. [smiles, showing rotting teeth] You've seen him, haven't you? Recently, I'd wager.

WV: Mr. Le Strange—

RL: The Dark Lord doesn't die, boy. Men like him... [trails off, staring at nothing] They find ways. They always find ways. I knew—even when they said he was gone, I knew. Bella knew. Barty knew. We understood what the cowards didn't: power like His doesn't vanish.

WV: So you believe He has returned?

RL: [laughs, the sound spiraling toward hysteria] Believe? BELIEVE? I don't need to believe. I can feel it. Like a hook in my chest, pulling. The Mark burns cold sometimes—did you know that? Even through all these years, the distance, the Dementors—the Mark calls us. It knows its master. [his voice drops to a whisper] He's not back. He's never been gone. And he's angry. Angry about the years wasted. Angry about... [stops himself]

WV: Angry about what?

RL: [shakes his head violently] No. No, I won't—I can't— [clutches at his left forearm] The ones who abandoned him. The ones who didn't search. The ones who moved on with their comfortable, meaningless, little lives while he... while he... [becomes incoherent, muttering]

WV: Mr. Le Strange? Can you tell me what the Dark Lord might do next? What his plans might be?

RL: [still muttering, then suddenly sharp again] Plans? He'll punish the traitors first. The ones who claimed Imperius. The ones who abandoned him. And he'll reward the ones who stayed true. Then... [grins unpleasantly] then he'll go after you, boy-with-the-green-eyes. Because you're the reason he fell. You're the— [stops abruptly]

WV: The?

RL: [shakes himself] Nothing.

WV: Do you have any information about other Dead Muchers? Ones who might not have been properly investigated?

RL: [laughs bitterly] Information? I have nothing but years of thoughts and speculations, boy.

WV: Care to share?

RL: [shakes his head] I could. But what would you do with it? You're just a student, aren't you? Playing at journalism with that little paper of yours. [his eyes glitter] Though I suppose that's more than anyone else has done. More than the cowards who pretend not to see what's happening.

WV: What do you think is happening?

RL: [deadly serious] The Dark Lord will finish what he started. And the Ministry— [laughs] They haven't learned anything. Not one thing.

WV: Do you want him to win?

RL: [long pause] I want... I want to see my brother again. I want to die somewhere other than this cell. [hardens] Yes. Yes, I want him to win. Because at least then I might see daylight again. At least then this might mean something. [trails off, lost in thought]

WV: One final question. If you could say something to the people who are free—the ones who walked away—what would it be?

RL: [intense, focused] I'd say: He remembers. Every face. Every name. Every person who served and every person who betrayed him. And when he's ready, he'll come for the traitors first. Before the mudbloods and the blood-traitors. Before even you, boy. He'll come for the ones who bore his Mark and then renounced him. [smiles coldly] I look forward to the look on their faces when they realize that there is nowhere left to run.

Interviewer's note: The interview was concluded shortly afterwards when a Dementor approached the cell. Reindeerous Le Strange became unresponsive for approximately ten minutes. By the time he had recovered enough to speak, he could no longer remember being interviewed and proceeded to test the reflexes of this reporter by lunging and attempting to choke the life out of them.

We left Azkaban with more questions than answers.

Whether Le Strange is a reliable source is debatable. Whether he is a sane source even more so. There is, however, no doubt remaining in our minds that Le Strange is a loyal Agent of the Dark Forces, who will readily rise once more to the opportunity to stand at VOLDIE*'s side once it is offered. And, still shaky from a soul-suckingly persistent air of hopelessness and despair, this reporter cannot help but ask: who can blame him?

(Though we are sure the ever-insipid Light will find a way.)

Let us hope that VOLDIE* shall soon get around to freeing his Most Faithful Servants from their prolonged torment.

To those who desperately await Day X on a dreary island: stay strong. Our thoughts are with you. To those who are hiding behind ancestral wards from the lingering consequences of their foolish youth: good luck and may your end be quick—if not painless. VOLDIE* may work miracles but we all know his mercy has limits.

Very strict limits.

VOLDIE*'s mood barometer: A previously unknown level of elation has been reached, as highlighted by a truly spectacular Evil Cackle™. Unfortunately VOLDIE*'s good mood is likely to be at your expense. We recommend making yourself scarce for a while and leaving any urgent and important messages with Wormtail for delivery. Particularly the bad ones. 

[page 1]

MOST EVILE HOT NEWS OF THE WEEK
brought to you by Harri Pott

DITTANY DEMAND SKYROCKETS: BLACK MARKET BOOMING

The local student black market has seen an unprecedented spike in demand for dittany these last weeks. Even with prices tripling, suppliers struggle to keep up. A curious trend, given that dittany heals cuts and wounds—not burns from Potions mishaps nor common injuries from Quidditch accidents. Cuts. Very specific, skin-deep cuts that apparently a significant portion of the student body suddenly acquires with remarkable regularity.

One fifth-year Gryffindor, who declined to be named, suggested the injuries might be "detention-related" but refused to elaborate on this suspicious statement. It is too early to tell yet, but the implications are worth investigating. We will be sure to keep you updated on any truth we uncover—no matter how bloody.

EXPERIMENTAL SPELL GOES HORRIBLY RIGHT

Several seventh-year Slytherin students found themselves in the Hospital Wing this week after one of them tested a spell of his own creation in an unsecured environment. The results were... mixed.

According to informed bystanders, the spell functioned as intended, which was, apparently, the problem. Most of the affected students recovered within a couple of hours. Two however continue to experience what Madam Pomme-aux-Frey has been overheard delicately describing as "lingering sensory complications". Specifically an experience of a pain remarkably similar to the Cruciatus Curse whenever they see a red light. Any red light.

This reporter applauds the innovative spirit of our resident prodigies. We do, however, recommend that future experimental spellwork be conducted while maintaining a safe distance from people you don't mind surviving another year or two. And also to test your creations on some hapless Gryffindor, not yourself.

NEVER DUEL A MOTIVATED HUFFLEPUFF: A CAUTIONARY TALE

An unnamed student learned a valuable life lesson this week: when a Hufflepuff challenges you to a duel, the appropriate response is to apologize for whatever you did to upset them and back away slowly.

Fifth-year Hufflepuff Banhannah Abort reportedly took exception to comments made by said unnamed student regarding a certain 'attention-seeking liar' and his 'delusional hero-worshipers'. The ideological disagreement escalated into a duel that was short, decisive and educational.

"I've never seen someone get hit with that many Stinging Hexes in under a minute," reported one impressed witness. "She was methodical about it. Kept going until [redacted] begged her to stop."

While the person in question spent the afternoon in the hospital wing, Miss Abort was seen in the library, working on her Herbology homework with the serene expression of someone fully at peace with their life choices. We at WEEKLY VOLDIE* applaud her steadfastness, if not necessarily the object of her passionate defense.

[page 2]

TOPS & FLOPS OF THE WEEK

VOLDIE*'s TOPS

• Has practiced his Evil Cackle™  with great success on three separate groups of properly unnerved followers
• Has upped his solid food intake to the level of a healthy human (toddler)
• Has come to terms with his lack of eyebrows, deeming them very sophisticated and a true sign of having reached a higher stage of evolution
• Has successful tormented the Boy-Who-Refuses-To-Keel-Over-Dead with the force of his evil delight

VOLDIE*'s FLOPS

• Has still not orchestrated a mass breakout from Azkaban
• Has not even attempted to kill Harry Potter (a new personal low)
• Has gotten into a spat with Nagini over the treatment of the local rodent population
• Has not acquired a comfortable yet intimidating throne to sit on

The official stats

• Crucios used this week: 5 
• Imperios used this week: 1
• Avada Kedavras used this week: 1
• Other spells used this week: 26
• Attempts to kill Harry Potter this week: 0
• Laws broken this week: 1 [not counting usage of the Unforgivables]
• Dead Munchers recruited this week: 0
• Dead Munchers broken out of Azkaban this week: 0
• Plans successfully executed this week: 1.5
• Plans cruelly foiled this week: 0
• Hours spent brooding about the injustice of his followers' imprisonment: 0.2
• Hours spent brooding about his own appearance: 8

VOLDIE*'s Official Status: end of hiatus is approaching in one...

YOUR WEEKLY HOROSCOPE
brought to you by Harri Pott

For loyal followers of the DARK: The stars align in your favor this week. Their position indicates that significant developments are occurring in private circles and a certain unnamed return is carefully orchestrated behind closed doors. 
The time to prepare is now. Review your skills. Renew your contacts. Ensure that your Unforgivables are stronger than ever. The Dark Lord rewards those who are ready when called upon, and the stars suggest that call may come sooner than many expect.

Special fortune indicator: The removal of certain... unwelcome individuals from your social circle may dramatically improve your luck this week. Specifically, anyone with rat-like qualities, a tendency toward cowardice or a history of living as vermin for extended periods of time. Eliminating—or at least severely maiming—such a person will prove to be cosmically advantageous.

Advice from the cosmos: Be ready to prove your loyalty when the moment arrives. And if you happen to encounter a certain spy-turned-babysitter, the universe won't blame you for having an unfortunate accident with your wand.

For the infuriating LIGHT: Oh dear. The stars have aligned in what professional astrologists call "the configuration of doom" and what this seer personally would describe as a sign to start making peace with your choices. The forces of Darkness gather their strength while you cling to your naive belief in goodness, justice and the inherent honesty of public newspapers. How's that working out for you?

Particular concern: There is a not insignificant possibility that your precious Boy-Who-Lived will soon become the Boy-Who-Dies-In-An-Absurdly-Complicated-Fashion. The stars suggest he may trip over his own shoelaces and then... well. 
You will see.

Advice from the cosmos: Perhaps reconsider your life choices? The Dark is always open to applications, and at least we're honest about the danger we pose.

For your average MINISTRY stooge: The Ministry's future hangs in the balance, suspended between multiple possible options not unlike Schrödinger's competent (?) government. (Spoiler: you're probably the dead cat in this scenario.)
Your cosmic fate depends heavily—perhaps entirely—on a single decision regarding a certain escaped prisoner. The stars are quite clear on this matter: the 'Kiss Order' issued against Serious Black is astronomically, astrologically and catastrophically STUPID.

The cosmos wishes to inform you that:

1. You're trying to execute a man who never received a trial.
2. Your insistence on this policy makes you look either corrupt, incompetent or both.
3. The universe is judging you. Hard.

Advice from the cosmos: Grant Black a trial. (After you have successfully captured him, which this reporter doesn't see happening any time soon.) Also investigate why you were so quick to imprison someone without trial in the first place. The universe suggests this might be part of a larger pattern worth examining.

[page 3]

Remodeling the Dark: How to (Temporarily) Lighten Your House if the Ministry Comes Knocking (*2)
written by Har E. Pott-Erbrat

In the last couple of years, the Ministry has developed the distressing habit of conducting "random inspections" of ancient pureblood homes (a complete coincidence, they assure us, and not at all the strategic exploitation of unfounded anti-traditionalist sentiments to fill the gaping holes their deplorable spending has left in their budget), it becomes prudent for even the most innocent of households to know how to present themselves in the correct political light.

Tip 1: Strategic Redecorations (Or: How to Hide Your Aesthetic in Plain Sight)

The Ministry has developed a remarkably simple-minded association between interior design and political affiliation. Dark colors? Suspicious. Serpent imagery? Definitely a Dead Mucher. Portraits of scowling ancestors? Evidence of an ongoing plot against the government.

It is the kind of straight-forward 'reasoning' you have to expect from Gryffindors. Fortunately it means the solution is just as simple: Paint your walls a vitalizing shade of orange. Replace your elegant dark blue drapes with delightfully floral curtains. Transfigure your dignified serpent door handles into cheerful dolphins. Position a vase with blooming sunflowers in front of any particularly menacing portraits.

Enterprising wixen who are willing to go the extra mile may purchase a portrait of Dumbledore and prominently display it in their entrance hall (available for purchase at any Diagon Alley shop, no actual connection to the man required). But careful: this step shows a level of dedication to the ruse that may lead to questions from your fellow Dark Servants. Be prepared to prove your loyalty.

Tip 2: Manage Your Staff (And Other Inconvenient Witnesses)

Ministry officials love to interview servants. House-elves, while legally unable to testify against their masters, can still provide 'impressions' that might lead to uncomfortable questions. Human servants are even worse. They can be questioned under Veritaserum and may have no qualms of incriminating you, depending on how happy they are in their current position.

Therefore, it is essential that anyone in your employ presents the correct image.

• House-Elves: Dress them in clean pillowcases. (The Ministry has this bizarre notion that house-elf welfare correlates with owner morality. No, it doesn't make sense to us either.) Instruct them to use phrases like "Master is being very kind" and "Master never uses Dark magic" in casual conversation.
• Human Servants: Humans complicate things. We recommend you give them a paid holiday during any expected Ministry visits. Should you receive no advance warning, ensure they are well-compensated and thus likely to "misremember" the details of your lifestyle.
• Pets: A well-groomed pet suggests a caring, responsible owner—exactly the image you want to project. If they also happen to have a taste for human flesh and can get rid of any inconvenient witnesses, all the better. We are not saying that unsubtle or annoying people in your life should become snake food lest they give away your plans, of course. That would be terribly irresponsible. Who knows whether those pests would give your darling pet indigestion? That said, the Light does like to go on about animal welfare, so a well-fed pet will be a point in your favor. 

Tip 3: Perfect Your Light Wixen Performance

This is perhaps the most important tip: understand that the average Ministry toad WANTS to believe you are innocent.

Why? Because actually investigating and prosecuting pureblood families is difficult, expensive, and potentially hazardous. It requires evidence, trials, and accountability—all things the Ministry finds exhausting. Unless they can knock you out from behind and disappear you into Azkaban without an interrogation, never mind a trial, before anyone knows you're missing, it is much easier to knock on your door, take a look at the smiling house-elf, tick the little box marked "Inspected - no concerns", and take an early lunch break.

They are not looking for proof that you're guilty. They are looking for permission to believe you're innocent. Or an excuse to slap you with a fine to stop the public from wondering where all their tax money is going.

Give it to them. The goal is to be so thoroughly boring and conventionally acceptable that your unwelcome visitor forgets you exist the moment they leave your property.

Stay safe and do VOLDIE* proud. 

Editor's note: WEEKLY VOLDIE* does not endorse illegal activities. This article is purely educational and meant to highlight how easily the Ministry's inspection protocols can be circumvented—which suggests their inspections are more about harassment than security. 

Any readers who find these tips useful for entirely legitimate purposes are welcome to send us testimonials about their successful Ministry inspections. Anonymous submissions accepted.

[page 4]

ARE YOU PARANOID ENOUGH TO SURVIVE VOLDIE*'S INNER CIRCLE?

Do you have what it takes to navigate the treacherous waters of VOLDIE*'s most trusted servants? Can you balance appropriate suspicion with functional cooperation? Will you backstab at the right moment or get backstabbed first? Fill out the following quiz to discover whether you are ready for the inter-follower-politics of the Dark.

Please answer each question honestly and without too much thought, it will help get you the most accurate result. Once you are finished, check the symbol behind each answer you've marked and count which symbol you have chosen the most. Then read the results for said symbol and you have your answer.

1. A fellow Dead Muncher compliments your dueling technique. How do you respond?
[ ] Thank them graciously and return the compliment [!]  
[ ] Thank them while mentally reviewing every spell you used to determine what they might have learned [*]  
[ ] Assume they're trying to poison you and refuse all food for a week [?]  
[ ] Immediately challenge them to a duel to assert dominance [—]

2. VOLDIE* assigns you and a colleague a mission. Your first thought is:
[ ] They're definitely planning to kill me and take credit for everything [?]  
[ ] Excellent, teamwork makes the dream work [!]  
[ ] I need to ensure I'm more valuable than my partner so VOLDIE* keeps me if something goes wrong [*]  
[ ] I should kill them first and complete the mission alone [—]

3. Another Dead Muncher fails a mission and faces VOLDIE*'s wrath. Your reaction:
[ ] Stay very quiet and make yourself invisible [*]  
[ ] Feel sympathy and offer emotional support [!]  
[ ] Loudly point out their mistakes to deflect attention from your own past errors [—]
[ ] Assume VOLDIE* is testing everyone's loyalty by seeing who defends the failure [?]  

4. A Dead Muncher you've never trusted starts being nice to you. You:
[ ] Accept their friendship overture and hope for the best [!]  
[ ] Begin sleeping with one eye open and your wand under your pillow [?]  
[ ] Strike first before whatever they're planning comes to fruition [—]
[ ] Remain cordial but increase surveillance of your personal effects and food [*]

5. You overhear two Dead Munchers whispering and they stop when you approach. You:
[ ] Conclude they're plotting against you and begin to counter-plot [?]
[ ] Assume it was private conversation and move on [!]  
[ ] Make a mental note to observe their behavior carefully [*]  
[ ] Immediately report them to VOLDIE* for suspicious activity [—]  

6. VOLDIE* asks for your opinion on another Dead Muncher's performance. You:
[ ] Refuse to answer because it's obviously a trap [?]  
[ ] Enthusiastically denounce them to eliminate competition [—]
[ ] Give an honest and balanced assessment [!]  
[ ] Offer measured praise with subtle reservations that protect you either way [*]  

WEEKLY JOKE

Q: How many Dead Munchers does it take to change a light bulb?
A: None. They are too busy arguing who would dare to smuggle something as obviously muggle as a light bulb into the room to actually change it.

[page 5]

YOUR RESULTS:

The majority of your answers was type [*]: Congratulations! You possess the healthy balance of suspicion, strategic thinking, and self-preservation necessary to thrive in VOLDIE*'s inner circle. You trust no one completely and always have a contingency plan in place, but you understand that survival requires cooperation. VOLDIE* will appreciate your calculated approach. You are dangerous enough to be useful but smart enough not to be a threat to him. You could last indefinitely among the Dead Munchers—assuming you don't get too comfortable and forget that "indefinitely" isn't the same as "forever."

The majority of your answers was type [—]: Your approach to Dead Muncher politics is less "strategic paranoia" and more "preemptive elimination of all potential threats." While your initiative is admirable and keeps your enemies on their toes, it also makes YOU the most obvious threat in the room. Other Dead Munchers will unite against you. Worse, VOLDIE* may decide you are more trouble than you're worth. Your survival will therefore depend on how useful you are versus how exhausting it is to manage your constant power plays. Try to save the backstabbing for less controversial targets—like Ministry officials or blood traitors—to give your co-workers a break.

The majority of your answers was type [?]: There is such a thing as too much suspicion. Yes, life among the Dead Munchers requires vigilance. Yes, betrayal is always possible. But if you cannot function because you are convinced everyone and everything is trying to kill you, you become useless to the Dark Cause. Eventually VOLDIE* will tire of your inefficiency and your paranoia will become a self-fulfilling prophecy. You need to either scale back to manageable levels of caution or find yourself a nice cave somewhere far from other people where your excessive suspicion won't hinder your productivity.

The majority of your answers was type [!]: Oh dear. This is... unfortunate. You appear to be under the impression that VOLDIE*'s Inner Circle operates on principles like 'trust', 'teamwork' and 'basic human decency'. We regret to inform you that you would last approximately forty-eight hours among the Dead Munchers. Your trusting nature, while acceptable in certain contexts (like kindergarten or the Hufflepuff common room), is actively dangerous in an environment where everyone is competing for VOLDIE*'s favor and willing to eliminate competition through any means necessary. On the bright side, someone will say something nice about you at your funeral.

You do not have a clear majority for a type of answers: You are unpredictable. Sometimes you're appropriately cautious, other times you stab first and ask questions never or suddenly put your trust in people you definitely shouldn't. This erratic behavior makes you simultaneously fascinating and exhausting to work with. VOLDIE* might keep you around for entertainment value alone, but this is not a sustainable long-term strategy. We urgently suggest you commit to one level before your inconsistency is read as 'unreliability' and gets you killed.

[page 6]

LETTERS FROM READERS

Important disclaimer: We from WEEKLY VOLDIE* do not take responsibility for the content of our readers’ letters, nor do said letters reflect our own views and opinions.

Additional editor's note: You guys' aliases are getting more creative, a sure sign that you possess a healthy sense of paranoia. We are so proud.

You know that people have actually been imperiused and that it's a real problem for the aurors, don't you? Maybe you should read on some of their investigations to appreciate how much effort goes into their work and how quickly that damn imperius excuse can ruin it.
—Unsigned

I vote Serious over Snap. Imagine being so scary that the only thing the ministry could do to you once the war was over was to create a whole new horrible thing no one had done before just so he’s locked up and can’t scare us. Snap only haunts dungeons of castles, Serious haunts us all.
—Beautifularbiterdreamland

Potter. Potter, you don't actually have access to our common room, do you? That's a lie, isn't it? Yes? Don't you dare say anything about the flamingo, Potter. I will hex you!
—Mia_Da_Cat (*possibly but not certainly a code name for Draco Malfoy)

Apparently I'd do well in Azkaban. I'm not sure how to feel about that. I do have other career aspirations, you know. But I guess it's always nice to know there are options, even in that place.
—Definitely unsigned

This is the most creative attempt to instigate a Murder by Ministry Official I have ever seen. Color me impressed.
—Also unsigned

Just wanted to let you know that historians do exist. Not sure where they got their passion from (it definitely isn't Binns, I'll give you that) but they are real and they are dedicated.
—K 

I'm really worried about VOLDIE* and if he's been to a healer, or a voodoo doctor, a necromancer? A voodoo doctor probably has the closest cross-discipline experience. Always get a second opinion!
—Concerned Hufflepuff, aspiring Mediwitch

One of these days, someone is going to kill you for this little pamphlet. Hope it's worth it.
—Skeptical bystander

Has anyone seen a pair of yellow boots with a little silver chain entwined with the left one's shoelace? They seem to have decided to take a walk on their own and have yet to find their way back home.
—Minion pretending to be a student going by the name of Luna Lovegood

The Ministry is holy [...] everything you say is a lie [...] This newspaper is an affront on the senses and also its possession is illegal [...]**
— Professor Dolores Umbridge, Undersecretary of Minister Fudge
**Content slightly edited by the owner of this newspaper to fulfill WEEKLY VOLDIE*’s quality requirements.

READER’S CHOICE

Last week’s vote: Who has the Darker™ aura: SERIOUS BLACK [caricature of a black shadow shaped vaguely like a person...or possibly a grim] or SEVERE SNAP [drawing of a tall man wearing a dramatically billowing cloak and an even more dramatic sneer]?

Result: By popular choice, SERIOUS' Dark aura [62.5%] surpasses SNAP's [37.5%] in what could have been a neck-and-neck-race but turned into a decisive victory in the last couple of hours.

This week: Decide for yourself whom you'd rather fight: A DEMENTOR [caricature of a shabby black cloak with several holes in it] or A HUFFLEPUFF [drawing of a smiling, vaguely familiar person you do not recognize but know to be charming, hard-working and very pleasant]?

OWL US YOUR VOTE UNTIL THE END OF THE WEEK!

[page 7]

The day would come when Hermione would stop expecting for all or even just most of their professors to fulfill the basic requirements of their job description—such as teaching, just to pick a random example—but going by the visible steam gathering around her ears that caused her curls to frizzle out more than usual—the twin's mood-o-meter was developing well, despite the personal project Harry had gotten them involved in—that day wasn't going to be today.

Not that Ron had expected it to be. Honest.

All he'd hoped for was a quiet lunch. A modest request, some might think. Those people clearly hadn't ever seen Hermione encounter a seemingly insurmountable Obstacle™ on her way to shatter all previous O.W.L.S. records. Not that she would put it that way, but Ron thought the point stood.

As did Hermione. And by the quickly sharpening look in her eyes, she expected him to join her.

Ron shot his unfinished plate a commiserating gaze, but trapped between second helpings and Hermione on a mission, he knew from years of experience which force would win. So he snagged another piece of the delicious roast instead, savored with rosemary just the way he liked it, and put himself together a couple of sandwiches with well-practiced motions.

He'd made the mistake of letting Hermione drag him off to some education-ending emergency one too many times. At some point he had learned that whatever insane cause she wanted him to pick up now would be a lot easier to deal with on a full stomach.

"Ronald, if you don't quit stalling I swear to Merlin I-"

Ron hastily shoved the sandwiches in a pouch spelled to keep everything inside in stasis—another ingenious invention by the twins that Ron had actually suggested himself and kept on his person at all times for precisely such a situation—and stood up from the bench. That was less patience than usual, even for Hermione on a mission.

He waved at the others in silent goodbye, still busy swallowing the last few bites from his until now fairly relaxed lunch, though only Neville bothered to look up. He was still a little pale around the nose but otherwise looked much better.

Ron hoped he felt it too. Something about this morning's WEEKLY VOLDIE* drama seemed to really have hit a nerve with the usually self-contained boy. Personally, Ron thought of Umbridge's breakdowns as a regularly scheduled, school-wide entertainment—and given that none of the other professors had gone out of their way to make her life easier or try and put an end to Harry's paper beyond a couple of vague warnings and stern talking tos, he was confident he wasn't the only one.

That said, it hadn't escaped Ron's notice that today's publication had been accompanied not just by the usual furious threats (Umbridge) and overall delighted anticipation (every Hogwarts resident aged twenty or younger) but a sense of wary disbelief. An unvoiced 'He didn't really... did he?' that hung in the air like a collectively held breath by the crowd as the seeker suddenly dove down towards the ground at breakneck speed.

Ron understood. The picture of Rodolphus Lestrange, worn down, dirty, emaciated, but still glaring at the camera like he was contemplating an attack, was not for the faint of heart.

As for the implications, those had already led to three consecutive breakdowns courtesy of Hermione, whose high-strung nature didn't do well when confronted with Harry's explorative glee. In other words, Ron had already heard it all. The accusations of carelessness, the risks, the madness, the idiocy. He'd endured a high-stakes debate of the minute details interspersed with the occasional duel last night and, frankly, he was over it. Nothing the other students were whispering about caught his interest. 

With Harry having survived his latest bout of crazy and Hermione having set up a detailed step-by-step plan for how to handle any similar incidents in the future, only better and with back up plans to fall back on, there wasn't much left to do for him except to observe the fireworks. And enjoy his lunch.

Which he had been doing.

Now he was being dragged along several hallways and up more staircases than he appreciated.

"What's the hurry, Hermione? What's going on?"

"We need to have a chat," the witch in question growled out between clenched teeth.

Ron side-eyed her nervously. Sometimes it really was inconvenient to be best friends with the two maddest people in the entire school. Not to mention hell on his food intake.

Not that he regretted it. Having joined Harry in that compartment during their first Hogwarts ride was one of the best things that Ron had ever done. It would almost be tied with fighting that troll in the girl's bathroom—if that one hadn't involved a troll. And its booger.

But in moments like this one, when he watched Hermione pace back and forth three times with a precision that would have made any general proud, a gleam in her eyes that promised elaborate machinations and lifelong regrets (for other people), Ron missed the good old days back when Harry had been too shy or self-conscious to indulge his less 'normal' whims and had done his best to keep Hermione grounded while he was at it. These days, he preferred to egg her on.

It worked far too well.

"Hey!" Ron protested when Hermione shoved him through the door of the hidden room that Dobby had introduced them to and that Harry had promptly commandeered as his personal headquarter, officially named 'Editorial Office' for Hermione's peace of mind.

The room contained two long lines of old-fashioned printing machines on both sides, with a large round table made out of thick wood placed in the center between. A small cluster of the usual suspects—Luna, Creevey and Harry—was seated on the chairs furthest away from the door. Meanwhile Nott—hands down the weirdest Slytherin Ron had ever met, and he'd met some pretty strange people, present company included—was kneeling on the ground next to the oldest printing machine that never worked quite right, mumbling to himself and giving the machine in front of him the occasional poke with his wand.

The machine released a puff of smoke in response.

"Hey, guys!" Harry beamed. The table in front of him was covered in notes in five different colours. Six if purple and pink were supposed to mean different things, which, going by a closer look, they definitely were. Unless 'Sirius?' and 'How to apply to the Dark Forces: A step by step guide' were meant to be in the same category. Ron wouldn't put it past his friend. "We're strategizing."

"Good," Hermione said in a clipped voice. "Because Umbridge has gone too far."

There was a moment of silence. Even the stubborn printing machine—truly a Potter among commoners—stopped its ominous hissing noise.

Ron had to admit he hadn't seen that coming. As far as he was concerned, Umbridge had gone too far the day she had forced his best mate to carve the back of his own hand open and write lines upon lines of politically convenient lies in his own blood. It was handy that the woman was such a bitch that everyone else hated her too, of course. Would make it easier to get away with their plans, once they were ready to be set in motion.

But that wasn't a requirement. She'd gone too far and would pay the price. That was how simple the world was sometimes.

And oh, Ron had plans for the woman. He was really good with plans.

"We don't say her name here." Colin's solemn reminder finally broke the silence. "It gives the Nargles a foothold in that we really can't waste time to defend."

"What has She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named done now?" Harry asked with an accepting nod in Colin's direction and an unsettling focus that told anyone who bothered to pay attention just how seriously he took Umbridge.

That was another problem with their less threatening professors, Ron reflected. They took WEEKLY VOLDIE* as a sign that Harry didn't respect Umbridge (true) or the Ministry (also true) or any other authority (again true, where have you been for the last four years?) and then ruined it by harping on Harry and by extension the rest of them that these were Serious Matters™ that they shouldn't make light of and that this was the Real World™ and there would be Consequences™ and they really had to take it all very Seriously™.

Ron... didn't get it.

Harry took Umbridge seriously. He took the Ministry seriously. He took You-Know-Who seriously. He had taken one look at all the threats they were suddenly facing—on their own, bloody typical—and had created an entire student newspaper out of nothing to address it. He had tapesized the walls with his warnings, written in neon pink and highlighted by more glitter than the human eye was meant to perceive. He was literally shouting his messages from the ceiling. Harry. The same boy who used to hide behind Ron back when they were eleven because too many watching eyes made him nervous.

There was nothing more serious than establishing a new channel of information once all other available options had proven unreliable, useless or actively problematic.

And it worked.

Not that Ron had doubted it, mind. Harry didn't do things half-heartedly. And Hermione might complain, lecture and fret herself into an early grave, but once she realized that Harry had made up his mind, she did everything in her power to ensure he would succeed and stay safe doing it.

"She's released a new educational degree!" Hermione exclaimed as though Umbridge had done anything but write up new rules since she'd gotten her seat as the High Inquisitor. Each new addition was more annoying than the last.

Ron had personally witnessed a group of sixth year Slytherin girls mock the spirit of the woman's most recent order that 'There must always be at least fifteen inches of space between any boy and girl on school grounds' by making out heatedly with each other to the point where Ron and several other no-longer-innocent bystanders had to avert their gazes. He'd never been a fan of the snakes and nothing was going to change that but watching a still-flushed Mathilda Greenford calmly tell Umbridge that she'd simply been spending quality time with her friend and not broken any rules, she would never disrespect Hogwarts' authority like that, thank you very much, had come damn close.

Of course Greenford had gotten away with 3 docked points for 'improper conduct'. No surprise, given that her mother was a high-ranking ministry official and her father a reputable solicitor—but then Ron was sure that was why it had been her who had taken the fall in the first place.

Harry was still looking expectantly in their direction.

"She's forbidden study groups!" There was genuine horror in Hermione's voice, like this infraction of all the possible options was the drop that made the cauldron overflow.

Mental, that one. Always had been.

"And?"

"AND?! Don't you realize what this means? She's going to ensure all of us fail our O.W.L.S.! If people can't even study together anymore that means the tutoring system will break down and anyone who can't afford to pay for a personal tutor—like oh, I don't know, every pureblood in this school—and doesn't have a natural aptitude for DADA will scrape by or fail! That means they won't be able to continue DADA next year and possibly be excluded from the Dueling Club, meaning they'll only have less chances to practice and learn how to protect themselves-"

"Hermione, breathe," Harry interrupted her tirade.

Ron admired his best mate's guts.

"None of this is new information. Umbridge has been sabotaging our education from the start. You know that. This latest measure is inconvenient but it was only a matter of time." He said it with such a fundamental conviction that Ron found himself nodding along on reflex. And also because Harry was right. Obviously. But sometimes, when her brain moved too fast for her own thoughts to follow, it helped Hermione to have the facts pointed out to her, in a calm, orderly fashion, even when she already knew them.

Knowledge was important but perspective even more so.

"But it's our fault!" Hermione burst out.

Oh. So that was the real reason why she was so upset.

"Umbridge wouldn't have escalated like this without WEEKLY VOLDIE* pushing her! Don't you see? Forbidding any group activities is just another way of trying to get at us. She defines groups as three or more people regularly hanging out. That's going to give her one more reason to penalize us and anyone who's seen with us! We're driving her crazy and now everyone else is going to pay the price!"

It never stopped being funny how quickly Hermione had dropped the 'professor' when four years and counting of Snape's temper and insults hadn't managed to achieve the same. Really, that said more about Umbridge's character than her office decoration choices.

"So let them." Harry shrugged. "The more people she targets, the higher the likelihood that something will get done about her."

Which was a pipe dream, of course. The only way anything got done at Hogwarts was if they went and did something about it themselves. And this year, Ron was determined not to leave the job to Harry alone.

"Besides," Harry continued before Hermione could blow up once more, caught up as she was in her Academic Outrage™ and guilty conscience, "if Umbridge just wanted to target us, she could have targeted anyone involved with producing a paper. She chose to go all the way and disband every group. Actually, I wonder if it applies to Quidditch too. That would be interesting to watch." The smile tugging at the corners of his lips verged on mean. Ron figured he had more than earned the right. "Anyway, like I said, she's been setting us up to fail from the get-go. It makes sense to go after the study groups too. Maybe we contributed to how quickly she has gone there, but we're not responsible for her actions."

"I know." Hermione deflated. "It's just... I went to Professor Flitwick and he told me that he already checked. What she's doing is perfectly legal. The faculty can't do much without making themselves the next target of her rampage and it won't help anyone if we lose the few decent professors we have. But that means she is ruining an entire generation's defense education and everyone just lets her. Even if she doesn't stay for more than a year-"

Oh, Ron would make sure of that if Hermione didn't lose her temper and went after the woman first.

"-we all know VOLDIE is back. It's more important than ever that people know how to fight and defend themselves. But how are we supposed to learn when no one teaches us? Especially since it's not the purebloods with the warded homes and magical parents to protect them who are the most at risk."

"Hermione." This time there was a warning note in Harry's tone, like he knew where their friend was going and didn't like it.

"No, Harry." Hermione shook her head so hard, a couple more curls came lose from her braid. "You said you can't teach anyone but you've successfully taught Colin, a fourth year with average DADA grades, the patronus charm."

At that Harry turned to glower at Colin, who ducked his head and pretended to concentrate very hard on rearranging the notes in front of him. It did not hide the proud smile on his lips.

"That's different."

"It's not! The students need to have a chance to learn at least. And you're the best option. You're great at Defense, always have been, and I've watched you explain the theory last year, when Dean had trouble with the reductor curse. Not to mention that people would come if it was you offering to help."

"They'd come because they want to gawk and ask me if I'm trying to get myself killed," Harry countered drily. "And even if they genuinely wanted to learn, my answer is still no."

"But-"

"I don't have the time, Hermione. If you hadn't noticed, I'm kind of busy running a newspaper." Harry gestured towards their surroundings. "I'm sorry but I'd have to give this up to set up a proper defense group, especially an underground one, and I'm not going to do that. You'll have to find another way if it matters that much to you. But personally I think it's high time that those poor hapless other students learn to help themselves."

Like we keep having to, Ron couldn't help but think.

A reasonable point. They were already behind on staying caught up with the countless letters, threats, complaints and suggestions sent to the little owl post box Harry had charmed weeks ago to collect WEEKLY VOLDIE*'s mail. And that was with Ron and Hermione helping out every other day.

Hermione's mouth, already open in preparation for her next argument, snapped shut.

Oh no. Ron eyed her expression with trepidation. That was not the face of someone who realized the pointlessness of attempting to force Harry Potter to do something he did not want to do. This was worse. It was the face of someone who had an Idea™ of how to twist the current development in their favor. Ron had seen it before. Usually on Malfoy's pointy face, right before the ferret got them in trouble and walked away squeaky clean.

"Alright. You're right. The students can study on their own. But that doesn't mean we can't point them in the right direction."

"And how would we do that?"

A foreboding shudder ran down Ron's spine. Harry had posed that question as a challenge.

Hermione straightened. "You're still vetting new reporters, aren't you?" She tilted her head towards the many empty seats on the table. "What about me?"

Ron closed his eyes. Here we go.

He really should have eaten that sandwich while he had the chance. Actually, he should have bet money on how long Hermione would manage to resist the temptation Harry had presented her with on accounts of some delusion that she had to be the Voice of Reason™ in their friend group. If she'd bothered to ask, Ron could have told her that reason had abandoned this castle in general and their class in particular a long time ago.

Harry hummed. "Are you sure? You'd have to commit to the style of the magazine. Any content we publish has to fit our brand."

If possible Hermione straightened even further. Her body all but vibrated with the force of her determination. "That won't be a problem."

"Well, then." Ever so slowly a brilliant grin split Harry's face in half, filled with untamed chaos and genuine delight. "Welcome to the table, Harridan J. Pottymouth. Take a seat, please. You're just in time for the editorial meeting of our next issue."

With a soul-deep sigh, Ron plopped into a seat to Luna's right because like hell were these two maniacs going to leave him behind while they shook Hogwarts until the school had the good sense to reorder itself according to their wishes.

He could already see the research work in his future. Or rather the additional research work on top of his other extracurricular projects.

Really, his friends were great and all but they were both madder than a bag of bats and determined to make that everyone else's problem. It wasn't as if Hermione couldn't have simply designed a study guide like she had done every year in preparation of the exams and then handed them out to any interested party. No. Instead she spearheaded what was rapidly turning into the new educational section of an illegal student newspaper that had gotten more hate mail in a couple of weeks than Harry Potter had received in all the years Ron had known him and whose creators were actively being persecuted by Umbridge with a single-minded obsession that would have done You-Know-Who proud. Because that made more sense.

Thank Merlin he'd packed a snack.

Chapter Text

Martin sighed. It had been a long day and it wasn't even lunch time yet. 

To be clear: most days at Azkaban were long days, but this one seemed to stretch on particularly.

It didn't help that half the guards were down with the flu like every year at some point in October, once the weather turned—or in early November if the autumn was particularly mild. Martin himself had been spared thus far and he was determined to keep it that way. Until his assignment to Azkaban, he had never known how annoying the flu could be. At home and later at Hogwarts a simple pepper-up potion had taken care of the matter. Even on the rare occasion that he was feeling deeply unwell, a mediwix had been able to resolve the manner within half a day at most.

There was no reason it should have been any different as an adult and it usually wasn't. Azkaban, however, changed things. Never for the better.

Thanks to the continuous, if low-level Dementor exposure, its guards tended to be less resilient against common illnesses. It was one of many reasons why the guards usually worked in shifts of up to three months and did not leave the island during that time. To complicate matters further, staying sane and emotionally stable required the daily consumption of a complex—not to mention carefully calculated—potion regime that did not tolerate deviations well. 

Or at all.

Since basic healing potions were out of question due to the significant risk of complications and being sick didn't qualify you for the serious stuff, the guards had no other choice but to ride it out the Muggle way.

It was a miserable experience. For everyone involved too, since those who weren't sick were forced to pick up the slack.

That was the reason why Martin was currently walking the outer perimeter on his own when security protocols demanded that there were at least two people on any post at any given time. Of course, security protocols didn't change jack shit about the number of guards they had available and the Ministry had, as always, been too busy hounding minors to do something useful like send a couple of aurors to bolster their ranks.

Really, if they ever did have a breakout—which the magazine Isa kept sending him seemed to consider inevitable—they would be overrun in ten minutes. Maybe twelve if Martin was feeling particularly optimistic. Five on a day like today.

It made one wonder—

Martin paused. 

Usually "walking the outer perimeter" was very much a clear-your-head type of task. There was no way an unauthorized person could step foot on the island without tipping off the perimeter wards—or bringing them down, which would certainly be noticeable in a different way—so the only thing one had to watch out for where the Dementors. And prisoners who might have somehow escaped their cell, but that hadn't happened in all the time Martin had worked here.

There was a reason only one wizard had ever successfully escaped Azkaban. Martin would love to have a chat with Black to figure out how he'd managed it. 

That sort of thing bothered him.

It wasn't what had brought Martin to a halt though. It was the owl delicately perched on a particularly sharp-looking rock, watching him approach calmly as though it had been expecting him.

Azkaban island did not have wildlife. There had been rumors about it being haunted by a grim a couple of years ago, but Martin had never paid those stories any mind. He didn't think he'd ever seen so much as a mouse. Maybe a seagull but even those were rare and could usually be blamed on the birds getting lost or injured out on the water.

This owl wasn't lost. That much was obvious just by taking a single glance at the sleek, snow-white feathers. Though the letter clutched in one of its dangerously long talons certainly went a long way to confirm it.

Martin stared at the owl.

The owl stared back.

Owl post didn't usually arrive at Azkaban. There were always a couple of attempts to send inmates letters outside the authorized channels, of course, but those tended to not make it past the redirection wards. And when they did, they arrived at the official post office that was currently abandoned and dropped off their letters there, to be sorted through and more than likely burned by the next guard to find the time.

The owl's impatient hoot shook Martin out of his thoughts. It extended its talon holding the letter towards him like a queen beckoning a peasant closer.

Martin didn't know whether to be amused or insulted. Perhaps he had caught the flu after all and could blame this experience on a fever hallucination. Wouldn't that be nice?

"Is that for me?"

The owl hooted once. It sounded a lot like "What do you think, you moron?".

Martin blinked. Then shrugged and decided what the hell, he might as well play along. If this was a hallucination, it wouldn't matter. If it wasn't, ... well. It couldn't hurt to check the letter. Since someone had gone through all the trouble to send it to him. Maybe Isa was playing a prank?

He had barely taken hold of the letter when the owl launched itself into the air with a final judgemental hoot, clearly eager to leave this island as soon as possible. Martin could relate.

He stared at the envelope in his hand, wondering what the hell was going on and why he was entertaining this.

Martin Wetkins, Azkaban was written on its back in barely legible handwriting. Nothing else.

Perhaps the Dementors were getting to him more than he'd thought because in what Martin could only describe as a fit of insanity, he broke the seal on the back and opened the letter. Inside he found a short note, unsigned, a list of names and what appeared to be a stack of Honeydukes' best chocolate bars, shrunken down to fit into the envelope.

Martin stared at the contents for a long time before he set the parchment on fire and spread its ashes with a flick of his wand. Then he pocketed the bars and continued on his path.

The list of names ran through his head on silent repeat as he walked along the dreary walls of the main building, wondering what he was going to do. Martin was doing that a lot lately. Contemplating. Evaluating. Keeping an eye out for the first sign that the dice were re-rolled.

He was a human stuck on an island ruled by Dementors and filled with some of Wizarding Britain's worst and most vicious criminals, reliant on the help of a Ministry that insisted with so much force that everything was fine that the words got harder to believe with every repetition. And Martin was hard-working. He'd noticed the darkening of the Marks on certain prisoners' arms. He'd definitely noticed the changes in them, the way their incoherent rambling had turned towards new topics.

The chocolate in his pocket felt heavier than it should.

Whether He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was truly back or someone else was making a play, Martin had no illusions: people were going to die. And he wasn't going to be one of them.

He'd never been one to pick a losing side.

WEEKLY VOLDIE*

The Publication of All Things Sneaky and Sinister

ON THE STRATEGIC VALUE OF PLAUSIBLE DENIABILITY
written by H. J. Potter

Surviving in a society ruled by the self-righteous Light requires you to carefully manage a publicly-acceptable mask. The most successful Supporters of the Dark understand that overt rebellion invites an immediate show of force to crush it, whereas strategic ambiguity keeps you operational.

Consider your language. When discussing forbidden activities, use innocent terminology. For example "studying" sounds far less concerning than "unsanctioned defense training". "Remedial lesson" suggests academic troubles instead of illegal spell practice. And a "book not-a-club" focused on "historical military decisions" raises fewer flags than "learning what our incompetent professor refuses to teach".

Public performance is critical. Complain loudly about "that damn Potter" stirring up trouble. Express support for Educational Decrees in mixed company. Attend Ministry-approved functions. The more you appear to embrace their authority, the less they are going to scrutinize your private activities.

Regarding aesthetics: some readers have questioned the deliberate choice to wear pink. Let this reporter clarify: pink is obviously the color of Evil and Corruption™, as demonstrated by current events. However, the foolish Light clings to the nonsense that "colors don't reflect moral codes—except black, but then black isn't a color". This blindness can be exploited. Wearing pink signals support for certain administrators and the Dark as a whole while simultaneously mocking the Light's obliviousness.

Also build cells, not armies. Groups of five who each know five others creates multiple networks without centralization. If one cell falls, the rest survive. No one person can betray everyone.

Most importantly: never do anything you cannot explain away as an innocent misunderstanding. Have an excuse for everything and make it just believable enough that they will be unable to prove otherwise. Stick to it until the last possible moment. Plausible deniability is the name of the game. 

The Light wants an open rebellion—it justifies their crackdown on anything remotely Dark. Give them your compliance on the surface while you build up the Dark's power in the shadows.

They can't punish what they can't prove—even though they will no doubt try.

Editor's note: This editorial provides theoretical framework for Dark resistance movements throughout history. Any resemblance to current events at Hogwarts is entirely coincidental and should not be interpreted as WEEKLY VOLDIE* encouraging any rule-breaking.

Unless you are already breaking the rules, in which case: don't get caught.

VOLDIE*'s mood barometer: Annoyed how time-consuming rebuilding a body from a questionable ritual with less-than-competent support has turned out to be. Don't worry, he won't take it out on Nagini. Just everyone else.

[page 1]

HOW TO CIRCUMVENT A BAN ON FREEDOM OF ASSEMBLY
written by Har E. Pott-Erbrat

When Light-biased authority figures ban organizations—ostensibly for your own safety—they reveal an important truth: they are afraid of what you can do when you take collective action.

Here's how to exercise your right to assembly even though certain recent decrees forbid it.

Understand the ban's limits

Assembly bans tend to target formal organizations: clubs, societies with official meeting times, teams with registered memberships. They prohibit structure, not friendship—not in the least because the former is far easier to predict, track and outlaw than the latter. (Not that reason nor efficiency have ever stopped our Ministry, of course.) 

Key loopholes:

• Spontaneous gatherings aren't organized meetings
• Repeated chance encounters in the same location (especially at different times) are just coincidence
• Private conversations involving multiple people aren't assemblies

All of these loopholes work especially well when the group in question does not consist of the exact same people every time.

Important caveat: If any of your non-organized not-actually-a-meeting meetings involve a certain Boy-Who-Tests-Our-Patience-By-Breathing-Every-Day, all hope is lost. Nothing and no one will believe that you aren't up to anything. Don't waste anyone's time with your lame excuses. Execute Plan D.

Avoid Paper Trails

No names. No printed announcements. No documents that can be used against you. Whether that happens because they were discovered during inconvenient searches by a power-mad official with far too much interest in students' private belongings and a habit of wearing disturbing quantities of pink or because you got careless doesn't matter. The end result will be the same. So don't be a Gryffindor. Unnecessary risks aren't a challenge, they are an opportunity to make your enemies' lives harder.

Spread information through:

• Word of mouth: Trusted individuals only
• Coded messages: Use supposedly harmless phrases like 'Educational Degree 18 is my favorite. It's the one hanging by the abandoned class room on the second floor' to get your point across.
• Existing networks: Use your friendships, acquaintances and tenuous connections to their full extend. It will take more time but be harder to trace back to you.

Use Secure Locations

To avoid any accusations of regular meet-ups, switch up your location often, preferably with no predictable pattern. Unused classrooms and hidden rooms are a great option—especially in the Dungeons, where portraits are rare. The thicker the layer of dust, the better. Just keep your sneezing down or your silencing wards up because Mrs. Jack Norris will absolutely sell you out, as is her Merlin-given right.

That said, there is something to be said about sitting out in the open, where everyone can see you and your actions will thus draw much less suspicious. The library, the Great Hall, the kitchen, the courtyard... there are plenty of public places to choose from where students spend their free time every day.

Find a healthy mix.

Keep It Secure

• Limit information: Everyone should only know what they need to know.
• Verify trustworthiness: Ensure no one reports to outsiders, pink fanatics or otherwise.
• Have contingencies: Plan for the worst. If discovered, scatter and regroup elsewhere. (And if all else fails, there is always Plan K.)

Good luck. And remember: This isn't about rebellion. It's about survival. Your survival. The Dark's survival. VOLDIE*'s survival. 

Do what you must.

[page 2]

TOPS & FLOPS OF THE WEEK

VOLDIE*'s TOPS

• Has consumed solid food six out of seven days without digestive incidents
• Has stayed at his current residence for another week without burning it down in frustration
• Has kept Nagini adequately fed and content
• Has managed to brood menacingly for up to four hours at a time

VOLDIE*'s FLOPS

• Has still not orchestrated a mass breakout from Azkaban (we're starting to get side-eyed for this one which is totally unjustified)
• Has not killed Harry Potter (dreams don't count)
• Has also still not acquired a comfortable yet intimidating throne to sit on
• Has not managed to go 24 hours without Wormtail annoying him

The official stats

• Crucios used this week: 4 (look, he's always surrounded by the same people, at some point you either kill them or tolerate their mistakes... somewhat)
• Imperios used this week: 0
• Avada Kedavras used this week: 0
• Other spells used this week: 39
• Attempts to kill Harry Potter this week: 0
• Laws broken this week: 0 [not counting usage of the Unforgivables] (we were shocked too)
• Dead Munchers recruited this week: 0
• Dead Munchers broken out of Azkaban this week: 0
• Plans successfully executed this week: 1
• Plans cruelly foiled this week: 0
• Hours spent brooding about the injustice of his followers' imprisonment: 0.08
• Hours spent listening to Nagini complain: 5

VOLDIE*'s Official Status: *dramatic pause*

ESSENTIAL SPELLS EVERY STUDENT SHOULD KNOW
written by Harridan J. Pottymouth

Given the current state of Defense Against the Dark Arts education at Hogwarts—which is to say the utter lack of it—this reporter has compiled a list of practical spells every student should research and practice in their own time. You know, assuming you'd like to pass your end of your exams and be of use to the Dark Forces. Should you survive to adulthood, that is.

Defensive Spells

• Expelliarmus (Disarming Charm) for Year 2+  
  Removes your opponent's wand. Sadly non-lethal, but highly effective, and technically not Dark magic, so no one will technically be able to prove Evil Intent™ when you use it. Probably not even when the backlash of it sends your opponent flying across the room, off a staircase or into a conveniently placed wall.
• Finite Incantatem (General Counter-Spell) for Year 2+  
  Ends ongoing effects of various spells and jinxes. Useful for everything from sending a nearby floating spy to their death to canceling someone else's Lumos when they're being annoying.
• Episkey (Minor Healing) for Year 4+  
  Heals minor injuries. Won't save you from anything serious, but excellent for treating broken toes, black eyes and the occasional split lip. Does not work for wounds caused by certain magical artifacts.
• Protego (Shield Charm) for Year 5+  
  Blocks most minor to moderate hexes and jinxes. Master this before anything else. A competent Shield Charm is worth more than a dozen offensive spells you can't cast because you're already stunned.
  Editor's note: That doesn't mean you should stop dodging though.
• Protego Totalum (Powerful Shield) for Year 6+  
  Shields a certain area for extended periods of time. For when you want to study in peace. Creates a powerful barrier that stops intruders and most spells. Will not hold up against powerful curses and requires significantly more magical power and concentration.

Offensive Spells

• Petrificus Totalus (Full Body-Bind) for Year 1+  
  Immobilizes your target completely. Less powerful than Stupefy but useful and accessible to younger students. Non-lethal in most circumstances.
• Stupefy (Stunning Spell) for Year 4+  
  Sadly still mostly non-lethal incapacitation. Fast, effective and deemed morally unambiguous by the Light. Master this and use it against them.
• Impedimenta (Impediment Jinx) for Year 4+  
  Slows or stops your target's movement. Excellent for buying time to escape or to give yourself time to think of a better plan.
• Reducto (Reductor Curse) for Year 5+  
  Blasts solid objects apart. Can also be used to injure your oppontents directly or indirectly. Useful for destroying obstacles, creating exits and general destruction when circumstances require it. And circumstances will no doubt require it.
• Confringo (Blasting Curse) for Year 6+  
  Creates your target to explode. Can injure and incapacitate. Potentially lethal. Significantly more dangerous than Reducto. Use with extreme caution unless you are confident you won't be caught.

Adaptable Utility Spells

• Lumos & Nox (Light/Darkness) by Year 1+  
  Basic but essential. You can blind your opponent or escape them in the complete darkness.
• Accio (Summoning Charm) by Year 4+  
  Brings objects to you. Useful in countless situations, including evading dragons, retrieving items fallen down several moving staircases and summoning objects to use as shields or projectiles. 
  Pro Tip: Prioritize mastering this spell wandless if you want to master any wandless magic at all. It allows you to retrieve your wand should you find yourself without it.
• Muffliato (Area Silencing) by Year 5+  
  Creates a buzzing sound that prevents eavesdropping. Essential for private conversations in a surveillance-heavy environment.
• Homenum Revelio (Human-Presence-Revealing Spell) by Year 5+  
  Reveals human presence in an area. Useful for detecting ambushes, hidden enemies and confirming that you are really alone.

These spells may not be particularly exciting, but any basic spell you master completely will be more useful than the complex curse you only successfully cast every eighth time. When it comes to exams and life-and-death-battles, keep it simple. Not flashy.

Finally, this reporter is aware that practicing some of these spells without proper instruction violates certain Educational Decrees. We leave it to individual students to weigh the risks of rule-breaking against the risks of remaining defenseless in increasingly dangerous times and places.

Choose wisely. For VOLDIE*.

[page 3]

HOW TO RECOGNIZE A FELLOW UNDERCOVER DEAD MUNCHER: A PRACTICAL GUIDE (*1)
written by Harrold Pott-Stirrer

In times of increased Ministry interference in traditionally autonomous institutions, it is crucial for VOLDIE*'s Most Loyal Supporters to recognize when one of their own has been strategically placed in a position of influence nearby. After all, we wouldn't want to accidentally undermine a fellow agent's carefully orchestrated work, would we?

This guide will help you identify undercover Dead Munchers so you can offer them the appropriate support.

Step 1: Observe The Quality Of Their Information

A true undercover agent understands that knowledge is dangerous—especially practical knowledge that might help people defend themselves and thus become a more viable threat to them, should their cover be blown. Watch out for individuals who:

• Eliminate all practical application from an inherently practically-inclined curriculum
• Threaten to or actually take students' wands on the thinnest of excuses
• Insist on obvious untruths like that Ministry-approved theory is sufficient protection against real threats (example chosen at random)

Step 2: Monitor Their Control Tactics

Undercover agents must establish absolute authority to be most effective in the position VOLDIE* has chosen for them. Keep an eye out for someone who:

• Issues an ever-expanding list of rules and restrictions
• Bans organizations (particularly those that might teach practical magic, see Step 1 above)
• Institutes loyalty-testing measures to identify potential resistance
• Punishes dissent with increasingly severe consequences

The use of torture instruments for detentions would be particularly inspired. Any educator willing to maim students for minor infractions is clearly working toward VOLDIE*'s Greater Good.

Step 3: Assess Their Information Control

A skilled agent knows that controlling information is controlling power. Your undercover Dead Muncher will:

• Censor all news contradicting approved narratives
• Monitor and confiscate student correspondence
• Create an atmosphere of surveillance where students fear speaking freely

By keeping students ignorant and isolated, a talented Agent of the Dark ensures they won't be capable of effective resistance. Always a worthy goal, since—as we all and particularly VOLDIE* know—children ruin everything.

Step 4: Evaluate Their Treatment of "Undesirables"

As is only natural, true servants of the Dark show particular disdain for certain... less appreciated groups. To hide their understandable views, they will likely overcompensate to the point where no one would dare accuse them of their true beliefs. Watch for someone who:

• Displays obvious prejudice against Dark Creatures
• Shows strong preference for students from Ministry-connected families
• Is unable to hide their vicious desire to kill the Boy-Who-Still-Refuses-To-Die (even the best among the Dark can only play their role so well)

This way a real undercover agent highlights the hypocrisy of the Light's supposed "inclusion" and uses the current tension between the Ministry and the Light to cultivate more discord that weakens potential alliances against VOLDIE*. Their job is to play the long game and we are confident that they are playing it beautifully.

Step 5: Analyze Their Relationship with Authority Figures

An effective undercover agent must neutralize potential threats to their influence. Observe whether they:

• Systematically undermine the next higher authority
• Accumulate additional powers and titles
• Conduct investigations designed to remove competent competition

This way the undercover agent clears the path for total control—for VOLDIE*, of course.

Step 6: Notice Their Aesthetic Choices

Even undercover agents sometimes betray their true allegiance through their choices in personal style. Look out for:

• An obsession with the color pink (the ultimate disguise—no one suspects someone wearing that much pink, which is why it is the True Color of Evil™)
• A high-pitched, giggly voice that makes people underestimate them
• An appearance so aggressively non-threatening and tasteless that it must be deliberate camouflage

By appearing completely harmless, an effective Agent of the Dark disarms their potential opposition. After all, who would suspect them? Even if they did, they would look ridiculous accusing them outright.

If you identify someone who matches all or most of these criteria, congratulations! You have just discovered a dedicated Agent of the Dark Forces who is no doubt hard at work. Observe them closely—be subtle—to learn from their example. And their mistakes.

Stay tuned for next week's issue to learn how to best support your local undercover Dead Muncher. 

[page 4]

MOST EVILE HOT NEWS OF THE WEEK
brought to you by Harri Pott

POTTER BETROTHAL SCANDAL: PROTECTION OR PARANOIA?

Whispers circulating suggest that Harry Potter may have been secretly betrothed to one Rabe-As-Tean Le Strange in infancy—leaving many an ill-fated admirer of admittedly questionable taste heartbroken.

The theory? His parents, aware of the imminent Victory of the Dark and targeted by VOLDIE* himself, created a fail-safe: should the Light fall, their son would be legally bound to a Dark family, offering him some protection thanks to the unspeakable horror known to purebloods worldwide as "marriage contract law". Voices clearly less familiar with the complication a Lawyer with a Bone presents (there are reasons our Ministry likes to avoid "unnecessary legal procedures" entirely) argue that the betrothal may instead have been meant to protect the local Wannabe Savior from Dumb-As-Doors' notoriously manipulative "Well-meaning Old Man" routine by legally tying him to a party outside that Headguy's influence.

The Le Strange family has declined to comment, though anonymous sources note they have shown increased interest in The-Boy-Who-Might-Not-Die-Single lately. Whether this confirms the existence of a negotiated betrothal or simply highlights the natural fascination Dark families have with the Gryffindork whom VOLDIE* has repeatedly allowed to survive remains unclear.

This reporter notes that the existence of such a contract might explain why certain Dark-affiliated families have been so careful not to kill That-Fucking-Potter despite numerous opportunities to do so. After all, the Le Stranges have quite the reputation and nothing says "long and healthy marriage" like "do not murder my betrothed before the wedding".

HUFFLEPUFF SECRETLY CONTROLS UNDERGROUND DUELING NOT-A-CLUB

An underground dueling not-a-club—as all student clubs have been disbanded, legal or otherwise, by a authority so absolute it may as well force its victims to write in blood—has been operating in Hogwarts's shadows for years, ostensibly headed by seventh-year Slytherins. However, an anonymous source sensibly fearing for their life has reluctantly revealed that Hufflepuff pull the strings from behind the scenes.

When confronted, the supposed Slytherin leaders—only one of whom remains in the infirmary as of the day of this conversation—initially denied any Hufflepuff involvement, then grudgingly admitted that the badgers had "given them some pointers" until they finally confessed that "yes, fine, the Hufflepuffs are actually running the not-a-club and have been from the start".

This reporter applauds the Hufflepuffs' strategic brilliance, though she notes that we should not expect anything less from the least feared house of Hogwash. That is, after all, not a reputation one earns lightly. Also we could all take a leaf out of their book when it comes to one of the most important life skills: delegation.

ILLEGAL QUIDDITCH TEAMS THREATEN STRIKE

Three of Hogwarts' four now-illegal Quidditch teams reportedly plan a strike in protest of Educational Decree Twenty-Four, the infamous latest bureaucratic power play that bans all student organizations and only allows those with explicit approval from the Ministry to reform. Only one Quidditch team has been allowed to reform and after several rejected appeals, the other teams appear to have lost their patience.

The currently illegal teams have met up in what we can only assume has been a spontaneous gathering, where they have allegedly come to an agreement: if they cannot play officially, they will not play at all. Thus they have effectively ended the Quidditch season at Hogwarts for the year before it has even started.

Notably, one team has refused to join the strike, leading to speculation about which house values rule-following over solidarity. (This reporter declines to point fingers, but suggests readers consider which house is most likely to say "well, technically the rules are the rules" while their classmates organize collective action.)

The administration has not yet responded to this threat, possibly because they are still attempting to process that banning student organizations has led to the most organized student resistance in decades. 

On an unrelated note, Hogwarts' three illegal Quidditch captains extend an open invitation to anyone who may happen to spontaneously wander down to the pitch this coming Sunday. You never know what kind of friendly match the right coincident might start. Students of all houses are welcome, with the exception of the members of Hogwarts' one and only legal Quidditch team.

[page 5]

WHICH UNFORGIVABLE CURSE BEST MATCHES YOUR PERSONALITY?

Which of the three Unforgivable Curses most closely aligns with your natural temperament and conflict resolution style? This quiz will help you discover whether you're an Imperio, a Crucio, or an Avada Kedavra at heart. Fill out the following questions to find your curse(d) match!

Please answer each question honestly and without too much thought. It will help get you the most accurate result. Once you are finished, check the symbol behind each answer you've marked and count which symbol you have chosen the most. Then read the results for said symbol and you have your answer.

1. Someone cuts in front of you in the queue at Flourish and Blotts. Your immediate reaction:
[ ] I don't care about queues. As far as I'm concerned this person doesn't exist. [+]  
[ ] I fantasize about creative revenge but ultimately do nothing. [?]
[ ] I make a pointed comment loud enough for everyone to hear and enjoy their embarrassment. [—]  
[ ] I subtly manipulate the situation so they end up at the back of the queue. [*]  

2. How do you prefer to win arguments?
[ ] By making the other person believe they came to the right conclusion on their own [*]  
[ ] By outlasting them through sheer stubbornness [?]
[ ] By systematically dismantling their position until they admit defeat [—]  
[ ] I don't argue. I eliminate people who disagree with me from my social circle. [+]  

3. When you hold a grudge, you:
[ ] Cut them out of your life completely [+]  
[ ] May wait years for the perfect moment to get even [*]  
[ ] Oscillate between forgiveness and renewed anger unpredictably [?]
[ ] Make sure they know exactly how much they've hurt you, repeatedly [—]  

4. How do you handle people who won't go along with your plans?
[ ] I make cooperating less painful than refusing [—]  
[ ] I try different approaches until something works [?]
[ ] I convince them it was their idea all along [*]  
[ ] I work around them [+] 

5. When someone betrays your trust:
[ ] I feign forgiveness, but ensure they regret it. [*]  
[ ] They're dead to me. [+]  
[ ] I confront them and make sure they know exactly what they've done. [—]  
[ ] I'm hurt but might give them another chance. Eventually. [?]

6. How much do you enjoy causing pain?
[ ] I find a certain satisfaction in making people understand consequences. [—]  
[ ] Pain is incidental to my goals [+]  
[ ] It makes me uncomfortable but sometimes it is necessary [?]
[ ] Suffering doesn't interest me. [*]  

WEEKLY JOKE

Q: How many Defense professors does it take to teach defense?
A: We don't know yet. We're still waiting for the first one who lasts long enough to finish the curriculum.

[page 6]

YOUR RESULTS:

The majority of your answers was type [*]: You are a true IMPERIO. You understand that true power lies not in obvious force but in subtle control. You prefer to orchestrate outcomes from behind the scenes, pulling strings so expertly that your puppets believe they're acting of their own free will. You're patient, strategic and deeply invested in long-term planning. However, remember that sometimes a simple, direct approach works better. You also tend to assume everyone else is as calculating as you are and end up over-complicating situations.

The majority of your answers was type [—]: You are a real CRUCIO. You are intense, passionate and committed to making sure people understand the consequences of their actions. You don't just want to win. You want everyone to know they lost and feel appropriately terrible about it. You're emotionally invested in your conflicts and believe that suffering serves a purpose—be it educational, punitive or simply cathartic. While understandable, keep in mind that your emotional intensity can work against you. Not to mention it inspires people to unite against you.

The majority of your answers was type [+]: You are an actual AVADA KEDAVRA. You are efficient, decisive and uninterested in anything that doesn't serve your objectives. Why waste time on manipulation or punishment when you can simply eliminate problems? You view emotional investment as inefficient. People either align with your goals or become irrelevant. You're not cruel—cruelty implies you care enough to inflict suffering. You simply don't care at all. This makes you either the most pragmatic person in the room or a sociopath. Possibly both. Unfortunately, your lack of emotional investment means you miss opportunities that require relationship-building or long-term trust. Also, your tendency to cut people out permanently means you burn bridges you might need later. And, you know, the whole "potential sociopath" thing.

The majority of your answers was type [?] or you do not have a clear majority: You are UNFORGIVABLE-CURSE-RESISTANT. We're sorry to say that your personality doesn't align well with any of the Unforgivable Curses, which suggests you are either remarkably well-adjusted or so chaotic that you transcend categorization. You might fantasize about control or revenge but rarely follow through. You might get angry but struggle to maintain it. You might want to cut people out but eventually soften. This makes you either admirably human or frustratingly inconsistent, depending on who's judging. The downside: your reluctance to fully embrace any particular strategy means you're often less effective than you could be. People with clearer, more committed approaches will outmaneuver you.
On the bright side, you are unlikely to end up in Azkaban, which is more than most of our readership can claim.

IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER: This quiz is intended for entertainment and self-reflection purposes only. WEEKLY VOLDIE* does not actually endorse the use of Unforgivable Curses, which remain highly illegal and carry automatic life sentences in Azkaban (assuming you receive a trial, which is apparently optional).

If you scored high in any category, this does not mean you should actually use these curses. It means you share certain personality traits with people who would. There's a difference. Probably. Maybe.

YOUR WEEKLY HOROSCOPE

The stars have aligned in what this seer personally calls the "uh oh" configuration.

Everything is quiet. Suspiciously quiet. The kind of quiet that makes small animals hide in their burrows and sensible wixen check their wards are functioning at full capacity. Venus is in retrograde, Mars appears to be holding its breath and Mercury has gone completely still in a manner that suggests it knows something you don't.

Your instinct may be to relax. To enjoy the reprieve.

The universe strongly advises against this. Historically, periods of unusual calm at Hogwarts have preceded: troll attacks, basilisk incidents, Dementor invasions, tournament-related deaths and various other catastrophes. The pattern is consistent enough that "peaceful week at Hogwarts" should really be classified as its own form of Dark Omen.

• If you're currently opposing an increasingly authoritarian regime: The pause in escalation is not victory. It's regrouping.
• If you're plotting something dramatic: So is everyone else. Coordinate or collide.
• If you're trying to stay neutral: The universe regrets to inform you that neutrality will soon become impossible.

The Week Ahead:

Monday through Wednesday will maintain the eerie calm. Use this time wisely—practice and prepare yourself. By Thursday, the first cracks will become apparent. Friday brings confirmation that yes, something is definitely happening. Saturday and Sunday are currently obscured by what is either a malfunction in the astral plane or the universe's way of saying "you're on your own for this one".

Make of that what you will.

[page 7]

LETTERS FROM READERS

Important disclaimer: We from WEEKLY VOLDIE* do not take responsibility for the content of our readers’ letters, nor do said letters reflect our own views and opinions.

WHO THE FUCK WROTE THAT HOROSCOPE? DO YOU REALIZE I HAD A HEART ATTACK EVERY TIME POTTER TRIPPED OVER HIS OWN FEET THIS WEEK? DO. YOU.?? Also is it just me or has he gotten clumsier by the day?
I'd bet he's doing it on purpose—one particularly anxious Ravenclaw fainted that one time on Wednesday—but actually it might just be the blood loss. That would explain a lot.
—Probably a Gryffindor

Has anyone seen a pair of yellow boots with a little silver chain threaded through the left one's shoelaces? They are Luna's and have been missing for five days. She blames the nargles. Currently so do I. But if they don't show up within the next twenty-four hours in her dorm, I will take Hermione's advice and start to broaden my horizon.
—Harry

There's only a finite number Dementors around, and they're trapped on one island. Meanwhile there's countless Hufflepuffs of all ages constantly all around us willing to answer the call of a single Hufflepuff. You can kill Dementors with Fiendfyre, but you can't kill all the Hufflepuffs.
Added note: We too are unsure if Fiendfyre will kill them. It is not like the Ministry is encouraging us to find ways to kill their pet weapons.
—Black_Victor_Cachat

I would rather fight a Dementor than a Hufflepuff. I must ask an important question: How did you get in and out of Azkaban without getting caught? Professional curiosity, that’s all.
—Beautifularbiterdreamland

On one hand, a Dementor literally sucks out your soul and leaves your body an empty shell. If you are good at defensive magic or are very determined, you can learn the patronus as a defense against them.
On the other hand, Hufflepuffs are often unassuming and charming, which is great for lowering your guard and makes backstabbing more likely than from a more obvious Slytherin. Just like their spirit animal the badger, they are likely to attack you if they 'think' you are a danger to their chosen people, proof or no proof. Did you know, if a snake and a badger are fighting, the badger has the most chances of winning? Terrifying.
On that charming note, I would choose to fight a Hufflepuff. I would suffer terribly, and I may very well die. But least I would still have my soul 🤣❤️
—Reader_Iris

Editor's note: The odds of the snake do not surprise us. Your choice is also admirably mad. You do VOLDIE* proud.

Voldie, stop brooding about your appearance and just do something about it. The muggles have made great progress with plastic surgery. Yes, you can have a nose too! No need to go without. It will also help foil plans to poison you, once you can smell again.
—A helpful Ravenclaw

P.S. Potter, I have advice for you as well: what are you still doing with those ugly glasses? Get your eyes lasered. No more worries about enemies accio-ing your glasses to more easily kill you.
—MarjelleX

Editor's note: Good to know, thanks!

Just keep all your dark stuff in the secret chamber under the drawing room floor. The Ministry will never look there. And to think I actually thought I needed to get rid of The Diary.
—M.A. le Foi*
*Probably no relation with anyone named Malfoy. Probably.

Dear VOLDIE WEEKLY,
I would like to ask you about unbiased version of recent history that is Rise and Falll of The Greatest Dark Lord. Since everyone knows that winner writes history and since last war is supposedly won by Light via bizarre child magic I am sure there is a lot of misconceptions. Would you be able to do proper investigation regarding just where does the Dork Lord come from and how he climbed to top?
Let's make sure that Light cannont lie about the Greatest Dark Lard EVER.
—Amarillie

Editor's note: No promises but keep an eye out for further editions. Halloween is, after all, a time to remember.

Purely as a hypothetical scenario, if you were anonymously offered one (1) king sized bar of Honeydukes Chocolate and two (2) full bags of Eeylops Premium Owl Treats in exchange for going full exterminator-mode on a certain Loathsome Pink Toad that we all know and love to hate, would you take that offer? Hypothetically, of course.
—sincerely, an anonymous fan of your work, who really really doesn't want to fail their OWLs

Editor's note: Hypothetically speaking, absolutely.

To the WEEKLY VOLDIE*, I hope this letter finds you in good dark and gloomy health
Praise the Darkness!
Our company has never been better! With the Dilly sales booming we have finally been able to ensure that certain services, previously only possible in specific branches of our company, are now available for our dear Hogwarts residents!
Rejoice! Now you can smuggle goods, potions and (behold!) people to and from our school!
We hope that WEEKLY VOLDIE* will consider a partnership by allowing us to post a couple of adds in your newspaper.
—From Alibbi, the Ravenclaw responsible for the S.M.Ugglers cia. Branch in Hogwarts

1PS. Don't worry we (as the main Hogwarts Black Market supplier) will never have thoughts towards the more Light side of politics. Nor will we push for our adds to be put inside of the newspaper.

2PS. Don't even joke brother. At the very least I know how to defend myself against the Dementors, they have a clear weakness. On the other hand, here at the company we also do cleaning crime scenes jobs, boy when I tell you that more than half of those commissions come from the Puffers, you will think I'm joking.
S.M.Ugglers cia - For when you need something with no questions asked

Editor's note: We might be interested in your services, I'm sure we could make a deal. Owl us your proposal.

Have you guys ever thought about including a puzzle section/crossword? Maybe once a month if it’s too much to do weekly. I bet that’s one way to get a certain friend away from the ledge of a mental breakdown. It won’t save us all, but having a harmless puzzle to solve that will not determine her or her friends survival might be enrichment for her. I bet you’d have a lot of fun with the crossword clues.
—mushroomcircles

Editor's note: That is at once a brilliant idea and a potential new rabbit hole certain of our reporters may never recover from. Which of course adds to the charm.

THERE IS A LOCAL BLACK MARKET??? HOW THE FUCK DID I NOT KNOW THAT????? For real? It's led by Hufflepuffs, isn't it.
—K

READER’S CHOICE

Last week’s vote: Decide for yourself whom you'd rather fight: A DEMENTOR [caricature of a shabby black cloak with several holes in it] or A HUFFLEPUFF [drawing of a smiling, vaguely familiar person you do not recognize but know to be charming, hard-working and very pleasant]?

Result: A clear majority [73%] has chosen to fight DEMENTORS over HUFFLEPUFFS [27%] proving that over a fourth of our readership should rethink their relationship with their self-preservation instincts.

This week: Decide for yourself what you'd rather be: an AZKABAN INMATE [caricature of a tiny grey square titled 'Your cell'] or HOGWARTS' NEXT DADA PROFESSOR [drawing of a stick figure in front of a black board]?

OWL US YOUR VOTE UNTIL THE END OF THE WEEK!

[page 8]

Dolores was at the end of her patience.

A virtue she did, admittedly, not excel in even on her best days. Which this one was not. It had been quite a while since Dolores had enjoyed one of those. Possibly not since the day Minister Fudge had honored her with the well-deserved—not to mention dearly necessary—title of Hogwarts' first ever High Inquisitor. When the minister had suggested it, Dolores had been delighted to become his eyes and voice inside the walls of Hogwarts. As valuable as she was at Cornelius' side, finally gaining a foothold in the school that had long resisted even the Ministry's most reasonable suggestions and ensuring that the future generation would grow into the right sort of witches and wizards was far more important.

An action long overdue, if Dolores was honest with herself.

Why, just two years ago the Ministry's lack of oversight had resulted in a werewolf getting hired. As a professor. A werewolf.

It was no wonder so many of the poor children failed to grasp even the most basic understanding of magical theory, what with having been exposed to these horrifying influences at such an impressionable age. They would be lucky if even a third of the student body would pass their end-of-year-exams. And that wasn't even touching on the utter embarrassment that had been last year's events. The Triwizard Tournament, meant to show off Britain's excellence and obvious superiority to the rest of magical Europe, even if none had ever phrased it as such, had instead ended with Hogwarts' true champion dead and Harry Potter usurping not just Diggory but the Ministry, what with the all the questions and ridicule his scandalous participation had earned them.

On top of that entire mess, the boy had then dared to claim that You-Know-Who was back. In front of the spectators and, worse, the reporters no less! Thank Merlin Cornelius had had the sense to shuffle the boy out of the public's eye and set things to right.

Of course Diggory's death was a tragedy—no doubt he had an ill-fated run-in with one of those creatures the Tournament's organizers had seen it fit to involve, as though beings incapable of even wielding a wand had any place in such a glamorous event. It really was too bad that Dolores hadn't had the foresight to insist on more insight into the Committee's planning. No doubt things would have run smoother with the capable hands of grown witches and wizards guiding the competition to the proper conclusion.

Alas, there was no use to cry over spilled Veritaserum.

Cornelius had seen reason in the aftermath of that international disaster—and Dolores had had a very clear idea of exactly what was going on at Hogwarts. After all, self-important as the Potter boy was—and it galled her to think about how far Wizarding Britain had fallen in the past decade, revering a child that could at best be called a half-blood—it was unlikely that he had thought up that whole You-Know-Who nonsense on his own.

No, Dolores had known exactly whom to blame for such an outrageous lie. Dumbledore.

An old man long past his prime, who had grown far too comfortable with a level of influence he had done little to earn and less to use for the sort of drastic measures their country desperately needed if they wanted to preserve their proud legacy. Who had opposed long-overdue reforms again and again, no matter how necessary they had proved themselves to be. On the grounds of morality—as though you could reason with a raving creature out for your blood! As if half-breeds and muggleborn had the right to walk through the same halls their own people did, her ancestors had built and fought and died for.

It was pathetic. 

Just the thought of it ignited a familiar spark of fury. Thankfully Dolores was used to controlling her less pleasant emotions and pouring them into something worthwhile. Like her twenty-seventh draft of a proposal to bar any non-humans—barring house elves, whom, while certainly lesser beings, did have their uses serving proper magical families, from any public location real magical folk frequented. So far, her forward-thinking suggestions had been rejected every time, but Dolores knew that if she just found the right way to phrase it, a sufficient majority of the Wizengamot would eagerly pass it.

It would be yet another victory over Dumbledore. Perhaps she would even find a legitimate reason to evict him from the school while she was at it.

Dolores was certain that many of her current struggles would solve themselves with the might of the Headmistress title and the school wards behind her. For one thing, there would be no way for that... that... that insult to common decency parading around as a newspaper to find a way in the hands of far too many students.

With how publicly new versions of the disgusting rag spread over the entire castle like a deadly disease week after week, there was no doubt in her mind that Dumbledore was if not outright pushing it then at least facilitating its distribution. Dolores hoped the Headmaster was personally involved though. It would make it far easier to get rid off him once she could prove it.

Or found someone believable enough to claim as such. With how short Cornelius' fuse was these days, that might be enough.

In any case, when the damn paper had made its first appearance, Dolores hadn't been worried. Disgusted, yes. Annoyed, also yes. Satisfied that the Potter boy—who had been far too well-behaved during her first couple of lessons, and to think she had almost been willing to write him off as another disillusioned victim of Dumbledore's whims willing to learn better—had handed her the perfect excuse to ensure he understood that his days of running the school unopposed where over? Absolutely, yes.

But worried? About a pathetic pamphlet that had obviously been created by attention-seeking delinquents with too much free time on their hands?

Ridiculous. It was precisely the sort of ill-thought-out, juvenile nuisance one had to expect from students suffering a lack of discipline and proper moral guidance. Dolores had simply taken it as more evidence that Hogwarts' students desperately needed direction in the form of a firm authority figure to show them the error of their way. Once they experienced appropriate consequences, the silly phase would pass in no time. And Cornelius would have one more reason to be impressed by her efficiency and dedication.

So Dolores had done her level-best to block any access to the terrible material and crack down on its creators swiftly and uncompromisingly.

Unfortunately, her actions had not been as successful as she had expected.

For one thing, no matter how many searches she conducted and how carefully she guarded the exit of the Great Hall after another delivery had arrived, some issues always slipped through her grasp. It didn't help that the silly magazine seemed capable of tempting even properly-raised, usually well-behaved magical children into mischief. The relaxed air of other professors complicated things further. While none of them voiced their support for the pamphlet—had they done so, Dolores would have immediately sacked them but alas—and did in fact make their rightful disapproval known, all too often it fell on Dolores alone to return order and collect the offensive papers.

Truly, what had this place been like before her arrival? Dolores dared not to imagine.

For another, no matter how many detentions she handed out to the Potter boy in particular and the rest of the more problematic students in general, the children refused to stop. This last week Potter had spent every evening in her office, writing lines under her watchful eyes and it had not changed a thing. The Great Hall had been plastered with new pamphlets, each headline more insulting than the last.

Even just a couple of weeks ago, Dolores had been outraged. Increasingly frustrated with the utter lack of repentance, not to mention the cheerful disregard for her words, demands and even threats. It was as though her authority, recognized even by Dumbledore and especially by the Ministry and the Board of Directors, meant nothing.

Dolores hated it. It made her feel like she was fourteen again, pretending not to listen to a couple of Ministry workers make snide comments about her father.

She was no longer that girl. She was a strong, lauded witch with a respectable position and she would make the students see it. All of them. Especially Potter.

The last issues, the most recent one especially, had changed something though. Not that Dolores wasn't still angry—if anything she was incandescent—because she was. However. With every sad imitation of a critical opinion piece, the facade had grown thinner. As Dolores spread out the latest paper in front of her, she could not help but admit, if only to herself, that she had made a mistake.

She had underestimated Dumbledore.

With how painfully insolent the supposed newspaper had been, it had not occurred to Dolores to see it as anything more than a silly prank done in particularly ill-taste and judgement. Dumbledore must have predicted that. Must have counted on blinding her with the insulting name that no sane witch or wizard would ever believe a wizard of Dumbledore's caliber—overrated reputation or not—would ever stoop to.

And she had fallen right into his trap. Had discounted the newspaper as the work of a couple of misguided, potentially mentally-ill students in need of what structure and help she could provide. Thus, she had failed to recognize the publication for what it really was, what this latest edition wasn't even trying to hide to be: a coordinated propaganda campaign designed to undermine the Ministry's authority as well as her own vital work at Hogwarts.

Some children, the Potter boy for one, were undoubtedly involved but the implications went far beyond what a couple of bored teenagers would be capable of. No. This was Dumbledore, using misguided children as puppets as was typical for the detestable man to spread his dangerous lies and supposed "knowledge" of You-Know-Who's return. More importantly, he was spreading seditious material designed specifically to sabotage her own painstaking efforts to bring order and proper oversight into these walls.

This was much worse than simple rule-breaking. It was an active attempt to destabilize the government. Starting at Hogwarts, to then no doubt spread beyond the school's influence.

Except it wouldn't. Dolores would make sure of it.

She would put an end to this. Her misjudgement had led to their current situation and now impressionable children, not to mention her reputation, were paying the price. It was time to take this threat seriously. To deal with the nefarious publication—and Dumbledore by association—once and for all.

And Dolores knew exactly where to start. 

After all, Potter, for all that the boy drove her mad with his blind loyalty to Dumbledore and his unapologetic refusal to see reason, was hardly working alone. If he refused to bend, then she would find someone who would.