Harry Potter and the Death's Head Mark

CHAPTER 1:

Alphard Black's first clue that something was wrong was the sweat on Professor Slughorn's face.

Horace Slughorn was not the sort to voluntarily exert himself. He spoke calmly, ate slowly, and never opened a door when a wave of his wand would do. He never walked or--Merlin forbid--ran, but ambled everywhere he went. When he had to transport ingredients into the Potions dungeons, he used leviweight carts no matter how light the materials were. (He'd even seen him using the cart for a sack of phoenix feathers once.) He never rode a broom when a flying carriage was available, and apparition was preferable to both.

But now he stood, his hand on the opened door, fingers trembling slightly, his forehead shiny and mouth opened like a fish. Alphard inwardly shivered and wondered what was going on.

Alphard remembered what had happened last night at supper, when the teachers had told the prefects to lead the students back to the dormitories at once and stay there until summoned. While the house elves had served them supper, tea (at two o'clock in the morning--Alphard suspected they had gotten confused somehow), and breakfast since, the confinement had started to wear on everyone. It had stormed outside without a single lull, the crashes of thunder waking those few who were sleeping, and the rain and lightning making the view from Slytherin Tower a muddled mess. Rumors had abounded: that Sibyl Trelawney--that oddball fourth-year Ravenclaw--had gone into a cataleptic fit, that large groups of muggles had been wandering the countryside, that animals were leaving the Forbidden Forest, that Grindelwald's forces had invaded the castle.

The last one had caused all manner of fright.

As the Slytherin seventh-year prefect, Alphard had to do something. The wait was driving him mad--and everyone else too. The lights went out late that night; no one could sleep. As mass insomnia ensued, he tried to organize the younger years. He got some of them shooting Gobstones, asked a violinist's portrait to play some music, and organized an impromptu dueling demonstration.

Alphard had been in the dueling club for over two years, but he had never had to expel a burglar, fight a rogue troll, or defend himself from one of Grindelwald's spies. It was an irony that the best use he'd made of Dueling Club was to entertain a bunch of eleven-year-olds with fancy spellwork.

The other prefects had generally been useless. His co-prefect, Matilda Bulstrode, studied Arithmancy in the corner. Walburga, his sixth-year sister, gossiped with Leticia Lestrange about Olive Hornby's aunt, who had apparently eloped with a squib. They'd tittered all night about it. Geoffrey Goyle, the other sixth-year prefect, was in hospital for something he'd done wrong in Transfiguration. Esperanza Zabini spent the night flirting with a seventh year two years older than her, before the two of them had gone into the Slytherin private library to, ah, read.

But Tom Riddle, the fifth-year prefect, had reacted well. In fact, the combat demonstration had been his idea, despite the fact that he'd been a member of the Dueling Club for less than a month. He had a calming voice, and the first-years were smiling in no time. And his spellwork--Alphard was relieved that he hadn't had to duel him yet. He was sure the boy would be one of the club's top eight in no time--no mean feat for a fifth-year. Alphard was beginning to worry about his own spot in the hierarchy.

It was surprising. He had always been civil to the boy, but never really watched him--halfbloods were rare in Slytherin House, and tended to be ignored, at best. There were too many people like his sister about, which was why Alphard had made it a point to at least greet Riddle when he saw him. He had never cared much about bloodlines himself--his ex-girlfriend, Marcia McKinnon, had a halfblood grandfather or something, a fact that his sister had incessantly harped on about. And in prefect meetings he tended to sit near Septimus Weasley. He was a funny guy, even if his family were blood-traitors and all.

Alphard's family was more pureblooded than most others in England, even Slytherin ones. An example was the Malfoys, who were relatively new and had to keep up appearances at all times. They had been simple merchants in the 1600s, but had since begun the rise into Society. Alphard had status to burn, while Abraxas Malfoy always had to play the pureblood.

Alphard had never set much store by House politics--his status gave him enough leeway for that--but now he was beginning to understand Riddle's position. Despite being halfblooded, Riddle was ambitious and had reacted to his House's disdain like any good Slytherin--he'd studied and worked and now...now he would show them. He was in Dueling Club and taking his O.W.L. courses, hoping for the time to come, the time when they would respect him.

Alphard knew it well. He was the middle child of his family, sandwiched between the lordly Cygnus and the forceful Walburga. At first he had strived to outdo them, but then he had gone to Hogwarts and learned to relax a bit. But the thrill of success, the drive to seize the moment and surpass them all, was still in the back of his mind.

A tiny voice inside Alphard muttered the cynical hope that he, and Riddle--and the rest of them--would live long enough to excel.

He broke from his thoughts. "Is it safe?" he asked Slughorn, dreading the answer.

"You can all come out now," the professor replied, with an answer that was not an answer. He could persuade, he could schmooze, and he could praise--but he couldn't lie worth a damn.

They followed him to the Great Hall. The Ravenclaws were already there, led by the Arithmancy department's Professor Metrikos, but the Hufflepuff and Gryffindor tables were empty.

But there were far more than students in the room. The head table was filled with men, dressed in boots and trousers and tunics with officious insignia. Similarly-dressed men with less insignia were spread around the hall, with strange instruments in their hands or slung across their backs.

"They're dressed like muggles," Walburga sniffed. Slughorn--who rarely quieted one of his own--only had to look at her.

Walburga's mouth closed.

Alphard tried not to look at the strange men, or the machines--clearly muggle--they held.

"Those are guns," said a voice in his ear. Tom Riddle was beside him. "Muggle weapons."

"That's how they imitate the Killing Curse, isn't it?"

Riddle's jaw hardened. "Yes."

"Who are these men?" asked Alphard. They were muggles, but they looked dangerous.

The fifth-year didn't respond.

"Riddle?"

"I will tell you later," Riddle replied, pointedly turning away from Alphard. "Not here."

Alphard stayed silent.

He had a bad feeling about this.

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"What's going on?" asked Minerva McGonagall, staring at the strangers who had walked into the common room. "Who are you?"

"Do not be concerned, please," said one, his voice strange.

"Are you in charge of these students?" the other asked.

"Yes, I'm Head Girl. What is going on?"

"Do not worry," the first reassured. "My name is Roland Hesse, and this is Marcus Holtz."

"We are here to help you."

Their voices were calm and soothing, but oddly precise.

Their accents were foreign.

"If you would join us in the Great Hall, please, we will explain to you everything."

Minerva thought for a moment. She looked to the boys on either side: Septimus Weasley, the seventh-year prefect, on one end, and Alastor Moody, a sixth-year, on the other.

You have two of the best duelists in Hogwarts with you, a voice told her.

Minerva stifled a shiver and wondered why she had just thought that. Then she wondered how two strangers had opened the Gryffindor portrait, how they had been able to get inside.

"Professor Dumbledore told us to wait here until he came back," she informed them.

"And your obedience is admirable," the first replied. "But we have been sent to let you out. Professor Metrikos gave us the password himself."

Metrikos? Yes, he was a professor and professors had all the house passwords, but he was the Ravenclaw Head of House. Surely they could have received the password from someone more...direct?

The second man waved a hand. Out of nowhere, ten men strode into view.

"Our escorts," he explained.

Minerva went cold.

Something was terribly wrong.

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"They're muggles," said Augusta Longbottom, the fifth-year prefect, from her perch above the common room door. In front of her was the peep-hole, which gave an owls'-eye view of the hallway beyond the Hufflepuff dormitories. "I can't tell anything else."

Paul Pettigrew wished his older brother were there. While he was only a second-year, his brother Petronius was a sixth-year prefect. He'd know what to do. But he was in Ravenclaw, which may as well have been miles away.

"Let me see," ordered Jean-Luc Delacour. He was not a prefect, but he acted like one. He was an exchange student from Beauxbatons--Hogwarts had gotten a few of them lately. Petronius had told him Beauxbatons was closed. It was something about the war. Everything was, nowadays--but this especially. Delacour was a "refugee," they called it.

Hufflepuff House had a lot of refugees. Delacour, for one. Then there were Gretchen and Gertrude Goldberg, the German twins. And then there were the two Chinese boys: Ping Yuanjia and Chang Fei-Hung, both fifth years. And Jakob Schneider, another German.

Augusta looked down at Delacour, barely managing to move back as another girl assaulted the peep-hole. "Ludmila's looking," Augusta said dryly, stepping out of the other girl's way.

Then there was Ludmila Dolohova. She was Russian, but she wasn't a refugee like the others. Apparently her father was an ambassador, sent to the Minister of Magic from the "General Secretary of the Union of Soviet Socialist Wizards."

Petronius had told him that. He had also tried to explain something about how Russia--er, the Soviet Union--was important. Something about them once having a nonaggression treaty with Grindelwald and the German muggles, but now being at war with them. Apparently, the British Minister was trying to become friends with Russia.

Paul liked Ludmila, but he was also scared of her. She helped the younger years with Charms a lot, but she also spent time saying bad things about the government, about "its pureblooded aristocracy and fullblooded bourgeoisie." She passed out pamphlets that Petronius called "socialist." Once she'd gotten into a near-duel with the Slytherin Domitian Avery about something political. They'd spent ten minutes trading hexes in the field outside Greenhouse 4. But that was last year, and Avery had since matriculated. Though Paul vaguely remembered a younger brother still left at Hogwarts.

"Dolohova!" called the voice of the seventh-year ladies' prefect, Dolores Umbridge. Paul liked her too, though she tended to act a bit like a professor in the no-nonsense department. "Who's there?"

"They are mixed," Ludmila replied. "Eight muggles, two wizards. You can tell by the wand-holsters, next to their guns. And, Delacour..."

"What?" asked the Frenchman.

"What?" asked Dolores, sounding peeved.

"The men are Nazis."

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"Good morning, students of Hogvarts," boomed a loud voice, once the four houses were in the Great Hall. It belonged to a man with short gray hair and a large round stomach. He was dressed in a muggle-style military tunic and wearing a monocle. "Or, as ve say in Germany--Guten Morgen."

He smiled affably at the world.

The world was silent.

Hestia Hooch (seventh-year Ravenclaw prefect) and Mohandas Patil (Head Boy) shared a concerned look. They'd known it was bad, ever since Professor Metrikos led them from the dormitory.

"My name is Albert Doppelburg," he continued, the smile leaving his face. "Ze men you see before you are members of ze German army and ze corps of sorcerers under Lord Grindelwald and Der Führer."

Two seats down from her, Dedalus Diggle choked on his own saliva.

"Please, do not be panicking," Doppelburg said, his voice growing louder. "Under orders from our leaders, ve have stationed ourselves here to protect you. Your teachers left at sunrise, and you vere all alone.

"You see, Great Britain is now under zer protection of ze German Reich. Zat means zat you, zer magical children of England, Wales, Scotland, and Ireland, are now ze children of Germany as well.

"Most of your teachers left upon hearing ze news. Do not sink too ill of zem--zis past week has been most worrying for everyvone. But you have no need to be afraid. Ve are here to care for you and to protect ze castle. Hogvarts school of Vitchcraft and Vizardry vill not be closed. I repeat: Hogvarts vill not be closed.

"Two of your old professors are here vit us," Doppelburg continued, motioning at Professors Metrikos and Slughorn, who sat not at the high table, but below, with their students. "Please, Mervin, Horace, vhy don't you come up and join us." With a wave of the German's hand, two new places were set at his table.

Metrikos rose and mildly made his way to sit at Doppelburg's right. Slughorn moved with uncharacteristic haste to sit at Doppelburg's left.

"I regret to be saying zat none of your ozer professors accepted our offer to continue teaching here. But be assured that ve vill take care in finding replacements.

"Zis is a trying time for all of us. Parts of Britain are being attacked, as are parts of France, and Germany. You may be vorried for your families, your friends. Myself and my men vill do all ve can to help you. Tomorrow zis week, ve vill be reopening ze owlery, and you can send letters to your families.

"Ve understand zat ve vill be running sings a little differently zan your Headmaster Dippet. Zat is vhy I shall require that everyvone check the announcement board in ze back of zis hall, once every day."

Hestia turned and, sure enough, a bulletin board--liberally speared with pieces of parchment--had appeared on the back wall, just under the hourglasses that kept the house points. Glancing at them, Hestia noticed that the hourglasses had been reset--each house's glass was empty.

"But ve vill be keeping many of your traditions, to ease ze transition. You vill still live vit your houses, but one of us vill be close by, in case you are needing someting from us. You vill still keep your traditions of house points and quidditch, as soon as zer veather becomes tolerable."

Mohandas unfolded his hands and put them on the table. Slowly, lazily, he began to tap.

Hestia smiled. It was Morse code. Broderick Bode, another seventh-year Ravenclaw, had found it in an anthology of muggle warfare two years ago and eagerly set about learning it--he'd always been fond of cryptograms. His enthusiasm had worn on his friends until Mohandas and Hestia had agreed to learn it too. Mohandas did it because he liked languages, while Hestia had an interest in the muggle military--particularly the Royal Air Force, as she had almost run into one of its huge metal aeroplanes while riding Vixen, her first broomstick.

"Ve understand zat perhaps you students have ozer questions. You may ask zem to me now, if you vish." Doppelburg stood back and waited, a placid smile on his face.

N - A - Z - I , Mohandas tapped, trusting that Hestia would recognize the muggle reference. Hestia titled her head to the right in acknowledgement. It was obvious.

Somewhere at Gryffindor table, a student rose.

It was Minerva McGonagall.

"Excuse me, Herr Doppelburg," she called.

Doppelburg leaned back over the podium. "Just to inform you," he began, that same smile on his face, "but my title is 'Kommandant.' You students of course can address me as 'Herr Headmaster,' as you are not members of zer military. But just so all is clear. Vhat is your name, Miss...?"

"McGonagall," the girl replied. "Minerva McGonagall. I'm Head Girl here. And my question is: what provisions will be made for students wishing to return home to their families?"

"I regret to say zat is impossible at zis time," replied the Kommandant--as Hestia knew that was what he was, even if he made some pretense at being Hogwarts headmaster. "Much of ze infrastructure here has been destroyed, and ze fighting is at ze moment too fierce. I vill of course inform you vhen zis changes, Miss McGonagall."

Minerva did not sit. "I see," she said slowly. "Well, in that case, when will classes resume?"

"Tomorrow," Doppelburg replied. "Zis vill be a good time to tell you of ze schedule changes I haf made. Zey go as follows: every day at six-thirty o'clock in zer morning, one of my adjutants vill vake each house. Zen each student vill get dressed and meet in ze Great Hall at seven o'clock for ze morning Appell, or roll-call, in your language. Zen breakfast and classes vill happen. Your Potions and Arithmancy, as taught by Professors Slughorn and Metrikos, vill be at ze times stated on ze board. Zer vill also be ozer classes. For ze young men, zer vill be boxing taught, along vit vhat you haf previously been calling 'Muggle Studies.' Zese vill be required for all students here, and ze girls vill--"

"What is 'boxing'?" called another Gryffindor, Septimus Weasley, without even bothering to stand.

Doppelburg gestured to another man, a blond wearing a black tunic, who looked less than a decade older than the students. "Obersturmführer Spungen vill explain."

The young man rose. "Good afternoon," he said, giving a brief bow. "My name is Karl Spungen. I will be teaching you boys how to fight."

"You mean, muggle fighting?" asked a Slytherin--Abraxas Malfoy, a fellow Quidditch captain. "But we're wizards--we don't need to learn that."

"Who else thinks so?" asked Spungen. A few other Slytherins raised their hands, and some Gryffindors and Ravenclaws nodded.

"All right, I can see that," Spungen allowed. He started walking to the podium, when suddenly he spun, grabbed his wand, and disarmed Malfoy with a lightning-speed "EXPELLIARMUS!"

Malfoy slammed backwards into his housemates. Hestia noticed a grimace on Matilda Bulstrode's face, as she helped Malfoy up while rubbing her own head.

Spungen twirled Malfoy's wand in his fingers. He grinned. "Now you are as defenseless as a...muggle, as you call them. Look at the men in the back of this room," he ordered, gesturing to the soldiers with Malfoy's wand. "They are all muggles, and they could fight and subdue any of you, without your wands or with them." Spungen walked over to Malfoy who had picked himself up and begun dusting off his robes, glaring at the German all the while.

Spungen kept walking at him until they were only an arm's reach apart. Malfoy tried to step back, but the table blocked his path. The other Slytherins moved away.

"Now, what would you do if you were wandless and someone attacked you something like...this!"

A fist flew at Malfoy's face.

Hestia suspected that only five years of dodging bludgers enabled Malfoy to duck it.

"In my class," said Spungen, laughing at Malfoy's undignified evasion, "you will learn how to face attackers like a man."

That comment ignited Malfoy. He had always been a bit of a misogynist, Hestia knew. He had been one of the first to protest against her joining the Ravenclaw Quidditch team back in '38 and so becoming the first woman to play Hogwarts Quidditch since Amelia Aerhardt in 1902. He was a Quidditch captain, a member of the Dueling Club (which Hestia had also joined, much to his dismay), and would have been a prefect, if it hadn't been for the fact that Alphard Black had better familial connections with the Hogwarts Board of Governors (and--not that it mattered--better grades). He regarded himself highly, and his honor would not allow impunity.

However, his honor would also not allow his striking a man without fair warning. So he called Spungen's name before he swung his fist at the other man.

Or tried to, at any rate, before Spungen barreled in and punched him in the stomach. Malfoy doubled over.

Hestia heard clicking sounds as the soldiers adjusted their muggle weapons, pointing them at the boy.

Spungen waved his hand at them, and--to everyone's surprise--slung an arm over Malfoy's shoulders. "Good try, man," he said. "But if you'd actually hit me, you would have broken your hand. Here, make a fist again. No, not like that--turn your wrist up a bit--there, make it level like that." Malfoy blinked, and Spungen laughed. "You've got spirit. You'll do well with boxing. What's your name?"

"Malfoy," the blond said icily. "Abraxas Malfoy."

"Malfoy!" Spungen repeated. "Huh. Are you related to Maria Malfoy?"

"She's the wife of my father's first-cousin," Malfoy replied stonily. It was a close relation, by wizarding standards.

"Then we're blood!" Spungen exclaimed. "Maria Malfoy was born Maria Spungen. My sister. The Malfoys and the Spungens have an old alliance. Started back a few centuries, when we were trading partners."

Malfoy looked disgusted. Clearly, he had known about the Spungens and regarded them as blood-traitors. He probably saw all German wizards as traitors--Hestia heard they all fought alongside muggles and under a muggle ruler.

Plus, Hestia could tell that Malfoy didn't like being reminded of his family's humble merchant origins. They only dated back to the 1600s (or so Hestia read), which was rather nouveau riche when considering other, older wizarding families. Particularly the ones in Slytherin house.

Spungen clapped Malfoy on the shoulder and stepped back to address them all. "I will look forward to seeing the rest of you men in the Great Hall tomorrow before dinner." Then, with a nod, he walked back to the high table.

"Zank you, Karl," said Doppelburg. "Ze rest of the news vill sound quite bo-o-oring after zat, but vhat can I do? Ve vill be offering classes in High German to anyone who vishes to learn--see ze bulletin for ze times. Ve vill also have a course in Saxon Magics, vhich all students vill take. Zis vill start next veek, vhen Professor von Bismarck arrives."

Doppelburg stopped with a smile. "But I have kept you students long enough. It is time for dinner, yes? Vell zen...let us eat." He raised his hands and threw them down again, and the tables filled with food.

Well, all the tables save one--the high table, where the Germans sat.

It appeared that the elves weren't too fond of the occupiers of Hogwarts.

Hestia smiled and waggled her eyebrows (hawklike, Olive Hornby had called them once--she thought them too thick to be a lady's) at Broderick and Mohandas.

But Mohandas only frowned and Broderick merely tilted his head.

G - R - E - Y, Broderick tapped. They would ask the Grey Lady. Surely she and the other ghosts had seen something. Surely they had seen everything--how Hogwarts was attacked, how the teachers must have fought, and how they fell. Surely they knew what the students needed to know.

Yes, Hestia told herself, looking back at the soldiers lining the walls. Surely, surely...

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Harry woke up and reached for his wand, but it wasn't there.

"Welcome to Stalag 13," a man said gruffly.

Harry sat up as fast as he could, only to smash his head on a slab of wood.

He was in a bunk, and there was another right above his head.

Harry remembered. "Grindelwald!" he exclaimed, looking around him. "Where are they?" There were several men in what looked like a large wooden barracks. One man was wearing nothing but long underwear, while another was doing his laundry in what looked like a large tub of soup. "Where...am I?"

"Stalag 13," the man repeated. "I'm John Bartlett. Colonel, Royal Air Force."

"I'm Harold West," the boy lied effortlessly. That was a common pseudonym of his.

The man waited expectantly. Another man was not so patient. "Well, what service are you in?" a blond man asked, raising his eyebrow.

Harry cast his mind about. "I'm..."

"Obviously not at liberty to say," said another man. American, by the sound of him. "Don't pester him, Carter." The man turned to Harry. "I'm Colonel Robert Hogan, American Air Force. This man," --He gestured to the man who had asked to know his service.-- "is Andrew Carter." Carter grinned widely, like a child. "And this is Louis Labeau."

"Hello," a Frenchman said lazily. He was reclining on the bunk above Carter's.

"Hogan's a bit...bonkers," Bartlett muttered into Harry's ear. "Just thought I'd warn you."

"No need to warn him," Hogan replied lightly. "He'll find out soon enough."

Bartlett made a show of ignoring Hogan. "Over there, doing laundry, is Blondie. And at the table are Hoffie and Animal--" Animal was the man in the underwear. "--and Shapiro and Tryzynski. Kinch and Newkirk are out organizing something to eat, and Sefton's probably out trading with the Jerries again (the bastard) and the rest of the men are either pacing about outside or trying to get a peek at the Russian women." At Harry's confusion, the man explained: "The Jerries shipped in some new Russian kriegies and a lot of them were women. Pilots, snipers, that sort of thing."

A man--Shapiro--whistled. "Some of them are real lookers too."

"Not as good as my Betty Grable," argued Animal. "But I'll take 'em."

"Russian women?" Harry repeated. "Kriegies?"

"We're kriegies," said Hoffie, a barrel-chested man with sandy blond hair. "German for 'kriegsgefangenen,' for prisoners of war."

"I'm...in a prison camp?"

"Smart one, he eez," muttered Labeau. "Only took 'eem three tries to get it." Carter shot him a look.

The other men began whispering.

"Damn, he looks like a kid."

"What is he--a partisan?"

"England must be desperate now."

Harry straightened his back and stood.

"No, he can't be a partisan," another man--Hoffie--argued. "Britain was invaded less than a week ago--there's no way they could capture him and get him over here that fast." He turned to Harry. "Is there?"

It was hardly a question, but Harry answered it: "No. In fact, I don't know what's going on in Britain." He tried to ask what they were talking about, but his throat had suddenly gone dry.

Hoffie's gaze softened. He looked at Bartlett. "I'm American," Hoffie muttered. "I can't explain this. You tell him--you're his countryman."

Bartlett nodded once, then turned to Harry. "We've been invaded, my boy," he said softly. "The Nazis flattened our cities with the Luftwaffe, then sailed in through the Channel. There's still fighting going on, but paratroopers have taken London and I don't expect the others to last much longer." His shoulders slumped and he shook his head. "God, I never thought they would do this. If they wanted to, they could have done it back in '40, but they didn't. I thought they were going for Russia."

"Guess Hitler realized Russia was a bad idea," Hogan supposed. "Some of the enlisted men already have."

"You should hear Schultz going on about the Russian Front!" Carter muttered, in the tone of a man quoting an old joke that wasn't very funny at the moment.

Harry ignored the two of them. "They...they invaded?" Harry repeated, his voice soft.

"Yes," Bartlett replied. "Happened six days ago."

"But this didn't happen..." Harry murmured. "Not before..."

Bartlett put a hand on Harry's shoulder.

Harry remembered Mueller doing the same before sticking the chloroform over his mouth. He jerked back, and Bartlett settled back into his chair, glancing at Harry with concern.

"Bad things happen when wizards meddle with Time, Harry," Hermione told him. Harry told her voice to shut up, then saw a vision of her death.

Harry put his head in his hands. It felt so heavy, like the drug hadn't quite worn off.

"Shouldn't have told him like that," someone was whispering. "He's just a kid."

Harry's head snapped up. He smoothed back his hair and straightened his shoulders.

He looked at Hogan. Bartlett was fine, but Hogan had a shrewd look in his eyes. It would be best to ask him.

"Tell me how this works," he said. "This camp, the Nazis--all of it. I need to know."

Hogan opened his mouth and began to speak.

Harry listened.