Summary: (Sequel to "The Price of Wisdom". Harry Potter/APH crossover) As conflicts in the wizarding community come to a head, Voldemort will stop at nothing to have Kirkland in his clutches, just as Harry will stop at nothing to see the Dark Lord dead.

Disclaimer: Don't own APH or HP boop.

England

Two weeks had swept swiftly by since England had first signed on as an honorary "Auror". Even with all that time, the other Aurors still didn't know what to think of him or how to grow accustomed to his unexplained presence in their department. Arthur liked to assume that they were just automatically skeptical by nature, as an Auror should be; but he knew there were more reasons as to why he hadn't exactly been accepted into the fold. For one, he was purely a volunteer with no pay whatsoever, and more importantly, one with no official training that they knew of. Furthermore, the Minister seemed to put a blind, perhaps misplaced faith in him, that was supported by England's uncanny ability to predict attacks either as they happened or shortly afterwards. Adding to all of this bafflement was England's own, reclusive ways. His introverted and at-times-lofty personality didn't exactly inspire comradeship, and so he was somewhat set apart and aloof from all the others.

Jeremy however, had more-than-eagerly extended the hand of friendship, much to England's distaste. It seemed the Geordie-wizard was a bit of an outcast himself, in part due to his overwhelming go-lucky attitude. In that way, he and England were opposites, notwithstanding their shared solidarity. It wasn't that those in his department weren't friendly to Jeremy's face. As professionals, they most certainly didn't descend to the point of petty, outward hostility. To their credit, they weren't on the level of a gaggle of girls in secondary-school. Nonetheless, England did notice that Jeremy unsettled them; though not nearly as much as himself. Altogether, the two of them made for quite the pair of black sheep on the social scene.

Despite Jeremy Charlton's clinginess, England found him reasonably useful in a few ways. All of England's tips and assignments, both formal and informal, came through Charlton first. If nothing else, he made for a good messenger, and was always willing to lend his assistance in whatever capacity that was available. Alas, if only his head weren't so damn empty of anything resembling an original thought, then he might've been a bit more bright.

Much of England's time was consumed by errand-like visits to crime-scenes, wherein You-Know-Who's followers had struck. Such investigations were often grim affairs, full of morbid imageries and messages, most often left for him. He could remember a time when he'd discovered a woman's corpse, with the blood of her broken-open chest, smeared out over the walls to form a single scrawling word: "England". This curiosity flew completely over Charlton's head of course, but England comprehended the bestial gesture loud and clear. He had discovered his involvement with the Ministry, and he wasn't adverse to playing sick mind games with England about it, toying with him...

Nonetheless, England was still prone to bouts of success in his work. He found himself to be quite suited to the role of "detective", and his expertise in the Dark Arts only added to his adeptness and his tendency to uncover valuable insights. It was through England's efforts and experience that the Ministry had discovered evidence of the Dark Lord's use of Inferi, though judging by the body count, it was on a much smaller scale in comparison to his earlier operations. England alone had become aware of some older, dangerous spells that the Death Eaters had been using. Their traces were littered like a sulphuric stench throughout the crime scenes, and only England could seem to sense their keen 'scent'. It made him wonder what other ancient spells the Dark Lord had dug up for his own personal use, and he was morbidly curious as to just how much magical information he'd passed on to his servants. This kind of magic had fallen out of popular use for good reason, and its resurgence was... disturbing.

It was one early morning when England received yet another message from Jeremy. Just as each instance in the past, the actual message itself was preceded by his being rudely roused into wakefulness by a monster of a grey owl. It was times like these that he truly pleaded with the universe for wizard-kind to see the advantages of mobile-phone communication.

"AWF! BUGGER OFF YE-" he bellowed, voice muffled by the feathers of the owl's wings, which beat unrelentingly against him. Owls were nothing if not determinedly dedicated to their work, to the point of brutality sometimes.

He was eventually able to fend the fiendish bird off and retrieve the piece of parchment it'd been delivering. The blockish handwriting was an instant give-away to its author, boldly standing out and rendering the signed '-Jeremy' at the bottom redundant. What was written was scarce in word count but succinct enough that England grasped the meaning and urgency immediately.

'I need you to come over, quick. Something's happened. There's been another Dark Mark sighting. I'll be at the offices. -Jeremy'

England blinked, re-reading it again. Surely he would've sensed a new attack? Sure, he'd been sleeping, but there had been no visions invading his dreams like before. He had to remind himself that it wasn't completely uncommon for him to miss a murder or two these days. His body had been adapting as of late as attacks became more intrepid and frequent, and it'd been a blessed reprieve these past weeks. So, it wasn't totally out of the question that his slow-to-return strength had saved him from the horrors of another one of You-know-who's atrocities.

Regardless, I'd better get there quick. resolved England decisively, standing and simultaneously scaring Brandee out from under the covers. Duty calls.

Harry

Diagon Alley was a sight for sore eyes, or rather, it would've been, if not for the grim transformation it'd undergone. In the short span of time since the confirmation of Voldemort's return, it'd emerged as an entirely separate setting from what Harry was accustomed. A grim atmosphere had settled like a choking smog over the street and its shops, silencing everything. The people darted furtively from place to place, reduced to fretful and fearful creatures. It was a far cry from the bustling excitement of past years that Harry had come to expect. Where once there'd been magic, colour, and life, only wariness was left behind—a highly contagious sense of suspicion that was all-encompassing.

The newly-established 'Weasley Wizarding Wheezes' joke-shop, run by none other than the afore-mentioned Weasley twins themselves, was the one solitary source of Diagon's former enchanting, and at times even ridiculous, spirit. It stood like a beacon amongst the bleakness, a stark contrast to the boarded-up shops on either of its sides. Harry and Ron had been enthralled with the place, with its endless aisles of ingenious products designed by the twins' own wit, each a little more impressive than the last. Even Hermione couldn't resist the store's infectious charm. Often times Harry would spot her examining some invention or other, a smile touching her face. Truly, the twins were more than just tricksters, but geniuses in their own right. Overall, Harry couldn't be more pleased or delighted as to where his Triwizard winnings had went, and how the twins had utilised the investment.

Outside of the joke-shop however, Diagon alley remained as dark, dissolute, and desolate as ever, rivaled only by its twin sister-street: Knockturn. Naturally it would follow that Harry would avoid such a place, and usually he might've. But that day, curiosity compelled him to come to Knockturn, driven by an urge to investigate the doings of an old "friend".

Draco Malfoy. Harry was the first to spot him, drifting suspiciously past the Weasley's front window with surreptitious glances over his shoulder. It didn't take much to convince Ron and Hermione to pursue him under the cover of Harry's invisibility cloak. Knowing Malfoy, he couldn't be up to any good.

And so, against all odds, previous inclinations, and past aversions, Harry and his friends found themselves in this dodgy location, following none-other than their long-time rival. The Slytherin led them to the shop of Borgin and Burke's, somewhat familiar to Harry from a floo-powder mishap in his second year. From what he could remember of the place, it specialised in the trade of dark, tainted artifacts, some of which he secretly suspected were less-than-legal to be sold or casually kept. He could also recall that this wasn't Malfoy's first time browsing in this particular establishment.

Hidden by Harry's cloak, the three students hunkered beside the shop's murky windows. Extendable ears courtesy of the Weasley twins aided in their eavesdropping endeavour. The conversation between Borgin and Malfoy was ominous, if not vague, but the more it carried on the more that Harry grew certain of a conclusion...

England

"Pardon my French, but this is bollocks."

"You're not very optimistic, are you?" noted Charlton meekly.

"It's a bit difficult when there's hardly anything to be bloody positive about, isn't it?"

Jeremy said nothing to that, surveying the skies with that wide-eyed stare of his. It always seemed to England as though the wizard was some dumb deer, constantly caught in a pair of headlights, his eyes paralysed in a state of wondering awe. But like a deer, Jeremy was prone to acting like an awfully naïve animal, not realising that the pretty lights fast-approaching carried with them the promise of certain death.

Drifting like an ominous storm-cloud above their heads was the Dark Mark. If England was to fathom a guess concerning the recentness of the Mark, he would have to deduce that it'd been cast a good few hours ago. This estimation was surmised on the basis by which he judged the dull hue of the curse, and the way that its foggy ends sparked feebly, like a cut live-wire. The snake from its gaping jaw was naught but a blurred tendril of smoke by now, its form unrecognisable as the serpent it was supposed to resemble. However, the empty eye sockets loomed as ominously as ever. Even England experienced a slight chill at their vacant stare.

"I'm hardly familiar with Dark Magic," England lied smoothly, swallowing. "But I believe this is old. Been around for at least two-and-a-half hours. We're much too late I'm afraid."

"There might be a chance-" insisted Jeremy in an uncanny tone that mixed and mingled between the boundary of hope and hollowness. Voice wavering to a halt, he surged forward and followed the Mark as if driven by a jolt of lightning. Arthur wasn't far behind, though his pace was one of demoralised pessimism.

The Mark led them to a house that was unmistakably Muggle in its design, construction, and overall origin. That in itself did not necessary guarantee that its owners were Muggles, though England was not particularly inclined to believe otherwise. In aura and outwards appearance, the house was as ordinary as its neighbours. Nothing, save You-know-who's signature Mark overhead, attributed any sort of magical element to the house. As the pair got closer, it became clear that the door had been a point of violent entry. It hung from its hinges, splintered by a strength that went beyond mortal muscle. Evidence of magic at last.

"I don't like this," uttered Jeremy in an undertone, cringing from the broken-down door as a child does before the sight of a needle.

"Then don't come," Arthur remedied, shortly and bluntly. He was the first to enter, shuddering silently as he passed across the threshold. Flinching from shame, Jeremy lingered by the doorway for only a wee while to swallow his shortcomings, before following after England, as was his appointed duty.

Half-expecting to find a throng of bodies sprawled out on the floor upon entry, with a message scrawled out in their very blood, England passed through the threshold and into the main room. His attitude of caution and cynicism was unwarranted however, or so it seemed. Instead what he found was an empty space, its surfaces dusty, and quiet - almost too quiet for his tastes. No furniture was to be found, and for all intents and purposes the house appeared absolutely abandoned.

Confusion filled him. This was not at all like his other assignments. There was nothing to investigate, and nothing obvious to disclose to the Ministry. Already Arthur was formulating a mental outline of the site, in which he could only describe the lack of features. Perhaps a thorough search through the rooms would yield better results. His mouth opened to give Jeremy Chandler such an order.

Close by, there was an abrupt crash as a closet door swung open at Arthur's side. From the depths of its enclave lunged a masked and robed figure, arms outstretched and wand glinting at its tip. By means of a fair bit of luck, Arthur was able to dance out of his attacker's path, an alarmed cry rising in his throat. The success of his maneuver did not last long, however, as the charging man had only briefly tripped over his own robes and was once more making a direct approach for the country.

The pair collided like an avalanche to an overpass. Their wands fell to the wayside as Arthur's arm automatically connected with the man's face. It was fortunate that the force of the blow had sent both slim, wooden weapons clattering to the floor and far out of reach. After all, the experienced, abnormally strong country would always have an advantage in this area over wizard-kind. It was unlikely that this man had ever lifted a hand against another in that crude, vulgar art of hand-to-hand combat. No, this sort of scenario would be completely foreign to him. He'd be much too dependent on his capabilities with magical acts to properly defend himself in this most helpless of states.

All the better for me...

As quick as his reflexes would allow after disarming the Death Eater, England flipped them over. With their vertical positions now reversed, he proceeded to pummel the wizard in and around his mask. As intimidating as it was to look at, England found that the man's mask was rather flimsy, and did little in the way of shielding his face. If anything it was probably cumbersome for looking through.

And so it went, with England constantly on the offensive and the Death Eater forced into a position of perpetually maintaining his flimsy defense. For a while England wondered if the man would ever end up retaliating, until that elated thought immediately died as his brain went blank. The masked man had bashed him in the skull, too fast for the confident country to properly react. Intercepting or avoiding the punch had verged on the impossible. As England's thoughts cleared, he was filled with rage, a thirst for retribution, fueled by his chagrin at having let the hit through. Whether done by luck or a sliver of concealed skill, the Death Eater's attack had made him furious.

Green, hazy light flooded his eyes as he prepared to unleash a wandless assault, though just then a second strike to the face left him severely disoriented. This time it'd hit his nose, the knuckles coming swiftly to crunch against the fragile cartilage. Blood flowed freely from his nostrils and dripped down to the skull-faced mask below. His head reeled, allowing his attacker to turn the tides by rolling them back over. With his counter-move foiled, England resorted to driving his fists into the Death Eater's sensitive face, throat, and gut. This time the Death Eater had the better position, but his punches were still lacking. It wasn't entirely difficult for Arthur to block them or retaliate with three-fold the force.

At long last, and not without a great deal of delay, Jeremy tried to come to his aid. Beforehand, he'd been hindered by his own clumsiness. Half of his precious attention had landed and locked on the all-too-important scuffle taking place at his feet, while the rest of his divided focus had been dedicated to finding his fallen wand. His hands had fumbled with it more than once, dropping it in his haste to assist his partner. It was times like these that England felt truly concerned with the Auror Department's latest, loose recruitment methods.

For a spell, Jeremy Chandler hesitated. His dithering fingers twitched around his wand's handle, recently-retrieved from the floor. The wand's point wavered in a quandary, drifting across the dueling men. Even in the thick of his brawl, England's eyes picked out the distinct bobbing of Chandler's adam's apple as he swallowed deeply. Chandler's nerves were failing him; England had seen it in other men before, often on the battlefield.

Not knowing what else to do to rouse the rookie back into reality, England snapped, "FOR FUCK'S SAKE. YOU'RE A WIZARD WITH A WAND, USE IT."

It seemed to work, since Jeremy's answering cry was a quavering "Stupefy!". He brandished his wand like a dagger, and the air bled into red. At the very least, the Auror's aim had been true, striking the Death Eater dead-center. At the same time, he'd avoided England with an expert eye. Stiffening at the stunning spell, the Death Eater became easy prey for England, whom pounced on the opportunity to put him out of commission. The country sprang to his feet, gripped the front of the man's robes, and swung him towards a wall with ease. The plaster cracked; the man cried; the air cracked as he apparated away.

"...Fucking Christ," cursed Arthur, mouth agape. All that, and still he got away. "Fucking... Christ."

"Well that was "fun", but we should've waited fo' reinforcements," Jeremy puffed, breathing heavily through his shock "Don't ye think?"

'Load of help they'd be, if you're an indicator of competence, England snorted softly in the confines of his mind, the harsh and hurtful thought locked safely away from Chandler's sensitive ears. Even if he had spoken the thought aloud, England had no doubt that the comment would've flown straight over the man's head in his present state. He was entirely engrossed in channeling his ragged, excited breathing. An asthma attack flaring up, possibly.

Wouldn't surprise me, really. It'd fall just within my regular dose of luck that I'd be paired with the one asthmatic Auror that's never heard of the modern, muggle invention of the puffer.

Keeled over and clutching his kneecaps with a death-grip, Jeremy wheezed, "By the way, what the HELL was tha'?"

"Does it matter? He's long-gone now," England grunted, emotionless above his internal turmoil. Blood ran down his chin like a red river, but he was seemingly unconcerned.

"It was a Death Eater, right?" Chandler inferred instantly, though a little late. The man's gentle eyes had obtained a quality of widened wildness from the experience, and he was in much-changed state. Arthur noticed tremors attacking his knees, the cracking in his high, warbling voice. Perhaps this had affected him more than Arthur had previously reckoned. "God damn... I didn't know..."

"-That they could be so bold? Any ox can be driven past a pack of wolves with You-know-who at the whip."

Processing this grim parable, Jeremy at last questioned, "What on Earth could he want with you?"

"I'm not entirely sure," admitted Arthur. "Though I might have a few ideas..."

In spite of Chandler's expectant muteness, he didn't elaborate further. Without the context of England's nationhood, there was no point. No good could come from vague explanations, for either party.

No, there is definitely no need for that, and especially not when he has a report to write up.

Harry

The more he said it, the more it felt right. It just fit, almost too perfectly. His mouth formed the words again in insistence.

"I'm telling you, Draco Malfoy is a Death Eater."

"Harry, don't be ridiculous-"

"He is! How could he not be? You saw how he acted back there, the things he said... You have to admit it was all very suspicious."

"Yes, but Draco has always been a bully, throwing his weight around with vague threats," Hermione pointed out.

Mimicking said Slytherin, Ron chimed in with mocking accuracy, "My father will hear about this!"

This time, there was no laughter shared between the trio at the imitation. Harry was dead serious, and he would not be persuaded away from his assumption. No jokes, mockeries, dismissals, reassurances, or any other efforts from his friends could distract him.

"I still say he's been recruited," insisted Harry stubbornly, his voice coming out as a low hiss. "Who's to say he hasn't been following in his Dad's footsteps? In fact, the way he held his arm... Borgin was terrified when Malfoy showed him his arm. I'd be willing to bet he's even been branded with the dark mark."

Looking even more dubious than before, Hermione countered, "I didn't know that You-know-who was in the business of recruiting teenagers Harry."

Harry shrugged, unswayed. "You don't know Voldemort like I do."

"Maybe," half-conceded Ron, since that bit was difficult to deny, though he too wasn't completely convinced.

The three of them just let it drop at that, continuing their walk back to the Weasley joke-shop with the conversation all but dead and buried between them. Despite their unspoken vow of silence on the matter, Harry wasn't ready to let the idea go just like that, and it ran rampant in his head the whole while.

Draco Malfoy was a Death Eater.

England

It didn't take You-Know-Who long to make a move. Not long at all... England observed to himself in the quietude of his own thoughts.

Once more the country had made the move to a new spot, and this time he was staying in a snug, vacant apartment. Across from him sat a hot cup of tea, still steaming. He'd made it to calm his nerves more than anything, taking comfort in the routine action of sipping the scalding liquid. It seemed to burn down his throat like a tongue of dragon fire, and in his current state he could hardly register its taste. Be that as it may, he found it soothing and familiar nonetheless. But most of all, it helped him to think clearly, to concentrate, to convince himself that there was no present need for panic.

'Seems that his forces are far more entrenched in the Ministry than I previously anticipated. They'd have to be, since they knew exactly where Chandler was going, and where I'd be as an extension.

He pondered over the dilemma a little harder, lips pursing around the rim of the tea-cup. The muscles in his face twitched marginally as hot tea sunk down his gullet again.

They know that I'm attached to Chandler on missions, dispatches, and investigations. They also knew where Chandler would be today. That means that there's a worm in the Auror department. It has to be the source of the leak; that's the only valid explanation. The information could only come directly from there, and wouldn't be common knowledge amongst the general population of Ministry employees. Hell, it could've been the person that sent Chandler to that house in the first place, knowing that I'd most likely tag along with him. I'll have to ask him who...

Grimacing, England clenched his free hand into a fist - one of the few outward signs of his stress.

We're damn lucky that it was only a one-man ambush. Bit ambitious... Why only one Death Eater anyhow? It's a horrid tactic. It must have been a test to see if the bait would work... a foolish test, one that won't work twice, England resolved, smothering his consternation with false confidence.

He refused to run from the Ministry just yet with his tail between his legs. No matter what connections Voldemort had, how deep his claws were in the Auror Department, or how much danger he directed at England, he was determined to stay a little longer. Leaving the Ministry on his own terms was likely a tad too much to hope for at this point, but England could hold on a little longer. He had to at least expose the corruption that he now had personal proof of. Maybe that would make enough of a difference to turn the tides of this war, however temporarily.

I won't let him win.

Author's Note:

Guess who's back. Back again. Blue is back. To be lynched.

Hi! Hopefully some readers are still straggling along to see this update! Why did I disappear? My only excuse is that I'm a busybusybusy Uni student with familial and artistic obligations (like my own original novel), and this fanfiction has been at the bottom of my massive to-do list for a long time. Since I'm going skiing soon, however, I decided to finally clean up this chapter and let it see the light of day. I'm so sorry for the long wait ;w;

If I continue after this point really depends on whether or not there is still sufficient interest in the fanfiction after all this time, since my motivation has been waning as of late (hence the long absence). Show your support for this chapter if you'd like to see more? If enough people review, then I'll pull together more chapters, I promise. I do have some dialogue written for the next installment, so there's that.

I love you all my lovelies -heart- Review please?