AN: Still got no idea where this is going. If you like, please review. If you have any ideas, please suggest them.

Death Eaters, like Nazis, Stalinists, or the Ice Capades*, had three types of members. There were the crazies, like Bellatrix, who believed in the nonsensical ideology and craved violence. There were the corrupt, like Lucius, who were mostly cowards and cohorts looking to ride the coattails of someone stronger than they. And then there were the competent, the smallest group, who joined for any number of reasons but were the same (and unique) in that they were efficient, ruthless, and overall more like bankers than terrorists (far more dangerous for one).

Antonin Dolohov was a member of the latter group. Cool, calm, and collected he was by far the most dangerous Death Eater, holding the increasingly impressive achievements of having survived a duel with Dumbledore, possessing a spells to hits ratio of over 10%**, and never being Crucioed by their illustrious leader. Where others jumped in with cries of Leeroy Jenkins (or would've if they'd known who Leeroy Jenkins was) Dolohov possessed the rare trait of common sense and the ability to think before acting, making him a unique existence in any group. More than anything else it was Dolohov's ability to rationally dissect any situation and choose the best possible path that made him one of the most deadly men in Britain.

Now, as Dolohov watched the Dark Lord screaming and waving his wand furiously at a white bunny while half a dozen House Elves danced around him and hundreds of feathers littered the clearing on fire, floating, or floating and on fire, he had the novel thought that perhaps the word "rational" didn't belong anywhere within a light year of this… whatever this was.

He'd realized, of course, that something was wrong with the newly resurrected Dark Lord, only an idiot wouldn't notice that he'd been acting a bit off ***, but he'd thought it might be a mere temporary side effect of coming back from the dead and that a few rounds of good old Muggle hunting would make things right as rain again.

That was before he'd seen his leader losing in mortal combat to a fluffy rabbit.

Hundreds of possibilities and scenarios raced through Dolohov's mind. Could they win the war with Voldemort in this state? Should he take over the Death Eaters? Could this seeming bout of insanity be a test from Voldemort? But no, none of these things mattered. There was only one path he could walk, one answer to his problems. It was clear to Dolohov that, seeing as his leader had limboed beneath the already low bar of sanity among Pureblood Supremacists, he had but a single choice. Reaching carefully into his Bag of Holding, the world's most dangerous Death Eater summoned a small, pitch-black stone. Carefully he picked up the stone, whispered a few words, and Portkeyed to Fiji.

Dolohov was a smart man and smart men knew when to fold them.

Harry Potter woke up. He'd been having a nightmare.

If this was a movie he would have woken up with a scream or a gasp as his upper body rocketed off the sheets and he stared wide-eyed at the demons that existed only in his mind.

This wasn't a movie so Harry Potter didn't do any of that. He woke up, from a nightmare, sat up, and put on his glasses.

The green flash of light had pervaded every second of his sleep for months now. The blank eyes of Cedric Diggory, the wheezy laugh of Wormtail, and the pale, naked body of his hated foe - his red slitted eyes, his nonexistent nose, his dangling

NO.

But this dream had been different from all the others. This time he'd felt Voldemort's anger, his pure unbridled rage at something, something pure and innocent. He'd vaguely heard shrill voices and seen small, dancing figures as well as hundreds of will-o-wisps floating around the Dark Lord as he wove spells that Harry was sure he could not even begin to understand.

Voldemort was not simply staying idle, Harry knew that now. He was planning something, enacting some horrible ritual, plotting in his every waking moment how to take down the Ministry and Hogwarts and install his own horrible regime. And Harry also knew, with a grim sense of certainty, that Voldemort would be coming for him again, that he would not rest until he'd killed the Boy-who-Lived.

As the images of Cedric's cooling corpse danced before his eyes again, Harry gripped his wand and promised that when the Dark Lord came again, he'd be ready for him.

*By far the most dangerous of the bunch

** The average spells to hit ratio among Death Eaters was .02%, just slightly higher than that of an Imperial Stormtrooper.

***It should surprise no one that none of the other Death Eaters had noticed anything was off. At all.