Power Plays Chapter 25 (First Chapter of Part 2) (Patreon)

AN: Hello everyone and welcome back to Power Plays! After a month-long break, we're finally returning to having this series come out every month. As stated in the title, this chapter is the first one in Part 2 of this story. 

Part 2 of Power Plays will include many new women that Harry will sleep with. They will be introduced over time, but you can expect Part 2 to have a little bit more smut in it compared to Part 1. However, I do need time to establish the initial sequence of events, so it may take a couple chapters before the smut returns.

This chapter will hopefully set up what you can expect from Part 2. There are a lot of key plot points introduced throughout, and I hope it isn't too overwhelming. 

I hope you all enjoy! I'm looking forward to putting out more Power Plays chapters in the upcoming months alongside all of my other stories and one-shots!

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Amid the rolling green hills of the French countryside, dozens of screams could be heard as men slowly bled to death in the dead of night. Their blood seeped into the earth, which had been lined with crushed lavender, and was drawn forth into an opulent basin. 

Cyrus Greengrass stared down at the basin, which sat nearly twenty metres below him. The lavender-washed blood formed like condensation along the walls of the pit they had built and slowly dripped down. The basin was lined with gold and filled with liquid mercury; each was carefully portioned out in accordance with the proper alchemical principles.

Flickering torchlight drew closer, and Cyrus reluctantly looked away from his masterpiece. 

“How goes it, Cyrus?”

The man’s French accent was strong, but he spoke English quite well due to his time spent living in America. Cyrus was grateful that Euphemia Rowle had managed to locate the man before she was captured by the Aurors back in Britain.

Still, Cyrus chaffed at the man’s casual tone. It reminded him of why he hated spending time in France. The pure-bloods here had no sense of decorum like their British counterparts did. 

“It is going as expected, Lord Delacour,” Cyrus replied, injecting as much emphasis as he could in the formality of his tone.

The tall, pale, bald man pulled at his white moustache and cracked a wry smile. “Please, Cyrus, I’ve told you to call me Emile. Besides, my elder brother is Lord Delacour, not me.”

“After he married that Veela,” Cyrus spat the word out. “He is no longer worthy of being recognised as the head of such an esteemed house.”

“Still, wants are not necessarily reflective of reality,” Emile pointed out. “Until the world sees things our way, I’d rather not get ahead of myself.”

At least the man was prudent. In that regard, Cyrus could find solace in a like-minded soul. 

Emile leaned over the edge of the pit, holding his torch low to see the progress. He tisked, as he so often did whenever something wasn’t going according to plan. Instantly, Cyrus was alert and leaned over to see what was happening.

The blood was nearly halfway up the basin now, and the screams hadn’t abated. Cyrus searched for whatever had made Emile upset, but he couldn’t find anything.

“It’s not as efficient as it should be,” Emile explained as his eyes scoured the scene. He pointed down to the rim of the basin. “You see the blood just there? It should be stable, not rippling like it is.”

Cyrus looked close, but the blood seemed stable enough to him. It was as calm as a peaceful pond. “If you say so,” Cyrus replied slowly.

“I do say so,” Emile snapped suddenly, his friendly demeanour gone in an instant. “Or are you doubting the words of one of Nicholas Flamel’s very own apprentices?”

Pride was the one thing that transcended national borders. Cyrus reminded himself that he mustn’t forget that French pure-bloods were just as proud of their histories and skills as British pure-bloods were.

“I meant no disrespect,” Cyrus said placatingly. “I merely meant to express that my eye is not as well-trained as yours, and I find it quite easy to miss the intricacies of alchemy.”

Then, like a switch had been flipped inside of his mind, the angry look left Emile’s face and he was back to his usual, jovial self. “Of course, my apologies for the misunderstanding. Regardless, I believe that we’ll have another failure again tonight.”

Cyrus bit the inside of his cheek until he drew blood. He was so damned sure that they had gotten it right this time. The moon’s phase was perfect, the lavender purified the blood in the earth exactly as it was supposed to, and the basin was a work of art that had cost him thousands of galleons—something which he was quickly running in short supply of. How could it have gone wrong?

He knew not to doubt Emile’s assessment. The man knew his alchemy, that was for certain. He was always perfectly happy to explain things to Cyrus like he was nothing more than a schoolboy listening to a wizened professor’s lecture, and he was always right about knowing when another experiment was bound to fail.

“What went wrong this time?” Cyrus asked, knowing that Emile would have told him regardless.

“Hmm, it is difficult to say for certain,” Emile replied as he craned his neck from side to side, looking at the basin at odd angles as though it would help him decipher the issue. “It could be that their blood wasn’t pure enough. The Dark Lord descended from the Slytherin line, yes? It must be that his blood is far purer than any of these supposed pure-bloods.”

Cyrus wanted to curse and rage and spit on the bodies of the fools they’d slain for tonight’s ritual. It had taken months of planning to break into the French Ministry’s vaults to uncover the records of pure-bloods living in the country. They’d selected prime candidates: men who lived alone or in dangerous areas where it wouldn’t be too surprising if they turned up missing. Still, the entire operation had a great deal of risk to it, and Cyrus wasn’t foolish enough to believe that the French Aurors hadn’t pieced together the fact that someone, or someones, was kidnapping French pure-bloods.

“We’ll need to turn to the old families then,” Cyrus sighed angrily.

The old families were the ones who gave the most to his cause. They gave funds, their young adult children joined his ranks, and they gave him contacts that he’d otherwise lack any access to. However, they were the only ones with blood as pure as the Dark Lord’s must have been. Cyrus had never quite managed to confirm the Dark Lord’s parental lineage, but he was certain that it must have been an old and powerful line to create a wizard of his calibre.

Cyrus knew his support base would be loathe to sacrifice any of their members, even if it was so that they could succeed in their ultimate goal. It would be a difficult task indeed to convince them to commit themselves fully to the cause.

“Yes, I fear that you are right,” Emile nodded in agreement.

Suddenly, there was a gurgle down below in the basin. Cyrus and Emile both immediately turned to watch as a dark form took shape in the pool of blood below. The screams in the fields around them rose to a high pitch and then suddenly fell into complete silence as the form below reared its misshapen head and tried to stand up.

One of the legs gave out beneath the form, and it unleashed an unearthly howl as its jaw smacked off of the edge of the basin. The form started leaking the dark substance that gave it shape; it mixed into the blood like ink would, creating intricate, swirling patterns that mesmerised Cyrus’s eyes.

“Avada Kedavra,” Emile whispered solemnly.

The jet of green light struck the creature, and it collapsed dead in the pool of blood.

Emile placed a comforting hand on Cyrus’s shoulder. “Our Lord will return to us one day. We merely need to find the right combination of participants to make this ritual a success.”

Yes, one day, Lord Voldemort would return to them in flesh and blood. He would rise to even greater heights than before, and the world would tremble underneath his might.

It was for the greater good, after all. Cyrus had no special love for the Dark Lord like so many of the other British pure-blood families did. He’d supported the man financially in exchange for safety and certain guarantees, but that had been all.

But now, he had the chance to finally get what his heart truly desired. 

All he needed was to bring the Dark Lord back to life.

Months Later

“Head Auror Potter, is it true that the Wizengamot is moving to censure you over your alleged bias against ancient, pure-blood families?”

“Sir, will the Parkinsons manage to escape prison time given their most recent testimony at their trial?”

“Are you planning a bid to become the next Minister of Magic in next year’s election cycle?”

“How has the ongoing reports of unrest in France affected British-French relations? Do you give any credence to the rumours that the dark forces that are afoot there are headed by former Death Eaters?”

“Will you be in attendance at the memorial remembering the Battle of Hogwarts for its upcoming six-year anniversary?”

Dozens of voices shouted question after question at him while camera bulbs flashed rapidly, filling Harry Potter’s visions with dark spots that obscured his view. The Atrium in the Ministry of Magic was as packed as ever, and the Aurors on duty were struggling to control the massive crowd.

Really, Harry knew that he was to blame for all of this. If he hadn’t made such a spectacle out of announcing all of his department’s arrests to the press like this, there’d be much less intrigue at these weekly conferences. Well, given his status as the youngest Head Auror in history and the vanquisher of Voldemort, it might still be a little chaotic, but nothing to this scale.

As trying as it might be to wrangle a massive crowd of reporters who were eagerly salivating over any morsel of news Harry was willing to dole out to them, they also served a very important purpose: they kept the public on his side.

If there was one thing Harry had learnt from his time as a teenager, it was that the British press controlled the flow of information throughout the country. Witches and wizards, due to the Statute of Secrecy, made up countless fragmented communities throughout the British Isles. While some may travel around—visiting places like Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, and the Ministry of Magic regularly—most stayed in their neat little bubbles. The only way they learnt much about what was going on across Britain was through friends, family, and the press.

Harry smiled charmingly at the press, giving them enough time to snap a handsome photo of him, and waved his arms in front of him to get them to settle down. They did so obediently, knowing that he’d answer most of their questions in time. If there was one thing Harry was known for during his tenure as the Head Auror, it was his transparency with the public.

It took several moments for the buzz to die down in the Atrium, and even then it didn’t abate completely. Witches and wizards who were passing in and out of the Ministry often stopped and stared from outside the cordoned-off area to watch and listen, prompting several Aurors to move over and secure that area.

“If you’ll give me a moment, I’ll be happy to answer all of your questions,” Harry told the crowd as he spoke into the Sonorous Charm, which had been placed on the podium he was standing behind. Harry’s eyes scanned for the voice he’d recognised earlier and pointed to the young wizard who represented the Lancaster Times, a small publication in the northwest. “Jerome, your question please?”

The young wizard stood, clearing his throat and straightening his robes. “Yes, I was asking about the Parkinson case. At trial earlier today, they insisted that they were unaware of the secret room beneath their dungeons and that all artefacts within were simply relics from their ancestors. If the Wizengamot were to accept this as true, do you believe the Parkinsons would be able to avoid being sent to Azkaban?”

The reporters went hush as their heads swivelled back to Harry, eager to hear what he had to say on the matter.

“I believe that the Wizengamot will not accept this as true in the first place,” Harry replied easily. “Most of them are aware of the extensive wards placed on ancestral manors like the Parkinson’s, and those wards enlighten the current head about every single room on the property, hidden or not. There is no doubt that Leopold Parkinson was aware of the room, and it is likely that he informed his wife, Pleasant, and his daughter, Pansy, as well. Beyond that though, our investigators on the force have confirmed to me that they have found definitive proof that Leopold had been physically present in the room no later than three months ago.”

There was a flurry of activity as quills scratched across parchment and the reporters whispered to one another about this bombshell. Harry had to suppress a grin to himself; the investigation had concluded this little piece of information two days ago, but he’d been waiting for the Parkinsons to leave enough rope out at the trial so that Harry could hang them with it. He’d introduce the information formally at the trial tomorrow, sealing the final nail in the coffin of this trial. 

That would be his seventeenth major success in the seven months since he’d become the Head Auror; it was a record that far surpassed all of his recent predecessors.

Hands shot up in the crowd as they waited to be called on, and Harry pointed to the next reporter he had in mind.

“Sir, will you be in physical attendance at the Wizengamot tomorrow then?” The middle-aged witch from the Daily Prophet asked.

Harry nodded his head. “Yes, I will be.”

The witch leaned forward and followed up with another question before anyone else could speak up. “Are you sure that’s wise given the growing animosity between the Wizengamot and the Auror Department?”

That was putting it mildly, and too simply for Harry’s liking. Since he became Head Auror, he’d been finally cleaning up Britain the way it ought to have been after the war instead of just sweeping all of the issues under the rug to fester. 

Many pure-blood families had escaped punishment for supporting Voldemort. Families who staunchly supported him and victimised innocent muggleborns and half-bloods were let off with a slap on the wrist. Well, Harry was determined to ensure that they saw some punishment for their crimes.

It was a difficult thing to manage though. He couldn’t charge them for the crimes they committed during the war, due to legislation passed by Kingsley and the Wizengamot, but he could charge them for crimes committed since then. It was unfortunate that so many of them kept to their dark pasts. 

Naturally, this ruffled a great many feathers in Britain. Much of the public supported him now that he’d shown evidence of these families wrongdoings publicly at these talks with the press, but the pure-blood faction of the Wizengamot loathed him now. They used any excuse they had to try to restrict his powers and to prevent him from fulfilling his duty. That was why he always had to keep his work as Head Auror as spotless as could be. Anytime even a small part of one of his operations went awry, he could guarantee that he’d be called into the Wizengamot the next day to explain himself.

It was a farce, really. They wanted blood because Harry was targeting their interests. It didn’t matter to them that those said interests were often illegal, immoral, or vile remnants of Voldemort’s rule. All that mattered was that Harry was slowly shifting the balance of power away from them, and they were willing to fight back.

Luckily, Kingsley remained a steadfast ally of his. After the debacle that came with removing Dawlish from office, Kingsley’s grip on his position as the Minister for Magic remained as tenuous as ever. He latched himself onto Harry, using his broad public support to bolster his ratings in the polls. Unfortunately, that left him as an easy target for the incredibly divisive Wizengamot.

“Regardless of the sentiments of a few vocal members of the Wizengamot, I will not shy away from seeing justice carried out!” Harry announced loudly to the press. “When Voldemort rose to power, many chose to hide, flee, or deny his return. I stood up to him then, and I’ll stand up to any dark witches and wizards in our country today! If we want a prosperous tomorrow, I will see my duty done, no matter how difficult or challenging it may be.”

Another flurry of quills left scratching sounds that reverberated throughout the Atrium. Harry could see many pleased and happy looks on the reporters’s faces. They thought that he was doing good work and chartering a proper course forward, which he was. It was a shame that so many still stood in his way, but he was done playing passive. 

Susan’s death had showed him what would happen if he didn’t confront evil and wrongdoings head first.

Harry’s eyes scanned the crowd. He didn’t have long to stay, and it was always better to leave the press wanting for more rather than giving away too much and accidentally revealing something that he didn’t intend. It didn’t take long for him to find his favourite reporter, the one whom he rarely called upon except for when he wanted a specific piece of information to come out.

Rita Skeeter stood up in her bottle-green robes and gave Harry a sultry smile. “Mr Potter,” she practically purred, “I’ve heard rumours about an upcoming, joint investigation between Britain and France into the recent string of disappearances that has plagued France over the last few months. Is it true that you will be travelling to France yourself to oversee this investigation?”

Before Harry could even answer, hushed whispers rose up from the crowd. Harry was sure that it was the first time that any of them had heard about this investigation; in fact, it had only been finalised earlier this morning. Kingsley had done his best to keep the discussions secret, but he never expected that Harry would leak the news to Rita himself.

Harry smiled and waved at everyone to get them to settle down.

“Yes, it’s true,” Harry confirmed. “France has suffered greatly from a number of former Death Eaters fleeing Britain since the war, and their Auror Department suspects that they are behind the recent disappearances. Our two governments have to come to an agreement that a joint operation will take place to root out these former Death Eaters and their French associates and put a stop to their terrible crimes. I will be in charge of the case personally, and I will be coordinating with the French Head Auror, Sebastian Delacour, whilst this operation is ongoing.”

As cameras flashed pictures and reporters all leapt to their feet with a hundred questions on the tips of their tongues, Harry gave them all a regretful smile.

“I’m afraid that’s all the time I have today,” he announced over the noise. “I’ll be back next week to answer any more of your questions.”

Aurors rushed to his side as he stepped off of the small stage and started heading towards the elevators. They encircled him, providing a shield from the ravenous reporters who literally chased him all the way to the lift. 

Harry stepped in with his Auror escort, and they were soon flying down to the Department of Magic Law Enforcement.

As the lift moved, Harry could see the curious looks from the Aurors around him. None of them had heard about this upcoming operation either, and all of them were wondering what it all entailed. More than a few were probably hoping that Harry would take them with him when he went.

The lift dinged, and Harry stepped out. “You all did good work today,” he told the group. “Go on and get some rest now.”

The Aurors disembarked happily, all eager to go get changed and head home for the night. Harry watched them go before he headed into the quiet Auror Department.

It was peaceful as Harry stepped inside. Gone was the chaos and disorganised leadership of Dawlish. Now, Harry had things perfectly under his control, and he ensured that he doled out the work fairly and gave everyone enough time to rest and recuperate in between their shifts. And he never left the Senior Aurors to do the work that he was supposed to do.

Harry headed for his office, eager to finally head home himself, when he paused mid-stride upon hearing voices around the corner ahead. They were hushed, but anger was definitely present in the tones of the two individuals who were speaking.

Harry crept forward slowly until he could just peer around the corner. Just outside of his office, Tonks and Proudfoot were leaned in close together, fury on both of their faces.

“I’m telling you to get your head out of your arse,” Tonks snapped at him in a whisper.

“Just because you don’t want to see it doesn’t mean that it isn’t true,” Proudfoot insisted. “The whole story is bogus! Dawlish never went out drinking; he just went home back to his wife after work. There’s no way he was leaking information to the Death Eaters! I think Potter had something to do with this mess. It’s all just too damn convenient!”

“Save your conspiracy theories for someone else,” Tonks retorted. “Dawlish admitted it all himself, and Harry’s been nothing but good to this department since he became the Head Auror.”

Proudfoot opened his mouth to speak but closed it just as quickly. Then, he shook his head sadly. “I thought you had potential here once. Guess I was wrong.”

The sound of Proudfoot limping away rang out loudly as he left towards his own office. Once he was far enough away, Harry stepped into view.

Tonks spotted him instantly. “Harry, I—”

“It’s alright,” Harry assured her. “I heard some of it.”

Tonks lips curled in disgust. “I wish he’d just drop the whole thing.”

“So do I,” Harry sighed.

Tonks was the second person he revealed the truth of the night that he took Dawlish into the Ministry. He gave her the entire memory of the night to watch, and he’d waited at her side. When she’d come out of the Pensieve, she’d immediately agreed that he had done what was necessary.

Still, they both knew that they still had a leak in the Department. Someone who had leaked secrets directly to the Death Eaters. But with the remaining Death Eaters effectively run out of Britain, no department secrets had been leaked since as far as they were aware.

Proudfoot and the mysterious leak were the two issues remaining in the Department. Tonks and Harry tried to stay as vigilant as possible, but they both knew that they’d be fools to believe that they knew everything that went on within the Department’s walls.

“Are you still coming to supper tonight?” Tonks asked Harry as he unlocked the door to his office and stepped inside.

“Yup,” Harry called back. He snatched his cloak off of the back of his chair and threw it around himself. “You’d better hurry home and get ready. You don’t want to be late again.”

“That was only twice,” Tonks replied as her hair turned red.

“Three times,” Harry corrected. “And Teddy will be mad if he misses out on any more time with me.”

Tonks snorted and nodded in agreement. “Maybe the two of us can come over for a sleepover before you go to France.”

Harry smiled at her. “Daphne and I would like that.”

Tonks waved goodbye and hurried off to her own office to get everything that she needed for the day. Harry closed up his office, locked the door, and lit the fireplace again. He tossed down some Floo Powder and stepped into the green flames.

“Greengrass Manor!”

In a whoosh, Harry flew through the Floor Network and was spat out of a fireplace.

“My my, what a hello,” Daphne laughed beautifully as Harry stumbled over his own two feet and right into her waiting arms. She was dressed up in a beautiful green robe, and her hair was nicely done up in an elegant bun.

Harry kissed her then, feeling that same rush he always felt ever since the first time he kissed her. She kissed him back with just as much passion until she suddenly pushed him away.

“We’re late,” she told him with no small amount of amusement in her tone.

“I know,” Harry apologised with a slight smile. “I got a little caught up at work.”

“I heard,” Daphne chuckled. “A few complaint letters came in from my colleagues on the Wizengamot about you.”

“I hope you told them to sod off,” Harry joked.

“Not yet, but if they keep testing my patience,” Daphne smirked. “Speaking of which, I might tell someone else to sod off if they keep giving me extra work to do.”

Harry dodged her playful poke at his side. “I wanted the evidence on the Parkinsons to make a big splash.”

“You could have done that the first day and saved us all the trouble of this tedious trial,” Daphne pointed out.

“But then it wouldn’t have had the drama it needed,” Harry insisted.

“Ah, yes, the drama,” Daphne teased him. “You really are turning into the attention-seeker that Draco always thought that you were.”

“Maybe I am,” Harry joked back. His arm suddenly shot out and wrapped itself around her waist, pulling her close up against his side. “Now, let’s get going to dinner. I’d hate to tell everyone that you made us late.”

Daphne just rolled her eyes and giggled at him.

Together, the two of them stepped back into the floo and were off.

With Daphne holding on tightly to him, she was able to step out of the floor and onto the marble floor without any issue. Harry still stumbled a bit, but Daphne’s firm grip on him kept him from falling over himself.

“I can see that your better half still needs to hold your hand coming out of the floo, eh, Potter?”

“Be nice, Draco.”

“Glad to see you haven’t stopped being an arse since I saw you last week, Malfoy,” Harry retorted playfully as he turned to face the assembled group. “And Narcissa, I’d just like to apologise again for having to spend nine months carrying a baby inside of you just to have them grow up to be like that.”

Harry couldn’t dodge when Daphne drove her finger into his side this time. He winced lightly, but kept up the cheeky grin on his face.

Draco snorted, but before he could respond, his betrothed, Astoria Greengrass, pulled him in for a kiss. She looked nearly identical to Daphne except for the fact that she had dark brown hair instead of blond and she was just a tiny bit smaller. 

“If you two spend the entire night bickering again, I’ll send you both into the kitchen to wash the dishes for the house-elves,” Narcissa chastised them lightly as she stepped forward. She looked as beautiful and elegant as ever with her long blond hair being knotted into an intricate braid that rested over her shoulder. “And if you two aren’t at supper, then you know that Delphini will get upset.”

As her name was spoken, the young girl stepped out from behind Narcissa’s legs.

The young, six-year-old girl looked much cleaner since the night that Harry and Susan rescued her from Rowle Manor. Her curly, black hair was almost as messy as Hermione’s used to be back her first year at Hogwarts. She had a cute button nose, high cheekbones, and a mischievous smile on her lips that seemed so different from the scared, quiet girl that Harry had first met. She held out her hands for Harry, and he bent down to pick her up.

“Oof,” Harry groaned jokingly. “You’re getting heavy.”

“Am not!” Delphini insisted. “You’re just weak.”

“You tell him!” Draco chuckled.

“If you’re going to be mean to me, I won’t show you my new trick,” Delphini told him with the petulance that only a six-year-old child could muster.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” Harry smiled encouragingly at her. “What’s the trick?”

That wicked grin came back. “I need to reach behind your ear.”

“Go on then,” Harry replied.

Delphini leaned forward, reaching behind his left ear. Harry heard the most subtle ruffle of something as Delphini giggled in excitement. She pulled back then, showing off the stuffed Augurey toy that was now in her hands.

Harry’s eyes widened, impressed. “Did she—”

“She did,” Narcissa nodded with an approving smile. “Proper conjuration at only six years old. We have quite the little prodigy on our hands.”

Delphini basked in the praised and impressed looks from everyone. Then, she shoved the stuffed Augurey against Harry’s chest. “You can keep this one,” she told him kindly. “I have my own in my room.”

“She has eighty-nine at my last count,” Astoria told Harry with a giggle. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d made more since.”

Narcissa laughed quietly to herself as a sad smile came across her face. “She’s just as talented as her mother was.”

Or her father, Harry thought to himself.