The bar was seedy, just as bad as any of the places that the agent had visited, but it was necessary for the cause to infiltrate such locales

The bar was seedy, just as bad as any of the places that the agent had visited, but it was necessary for the cause to infiltrate such locales. Still, the agent compulsively placed a right hand over the pistol shoved in stowed in a jacket pocket. The agent didn't like carrying the gun - it was loud and clumsy, and the silencer he had wedged on it wasn't even effective - but it was necessary for the cover. There was a job that must be done

The agent took a few steps towards the grimy bar and rapped the smooth wood sharply. The bartender, an old fellow with squinty eyes and a haggard demeanor, staggered over. From the agent's disgusted view, it appeared the bartender had been helping himself to his own stock.

"Yeah, whaddya want?" the old man slurred. "Place is closing up in a few minutes anyway, so go find some place else -"

"But only when daggers fly at midnight do we have such a travesty," the agent replied smoothly. "Sheaths are always necessary to prevent unnecessary distractions."

The bartender cast an uneasy glance around the nearly empty bar - it was indeed late, and the only patrons were slumped over a corner table, long passed out from overindulgence. He leaned closer, and the agent quickly recoiled at the stench - the old man reeked of spirits and the common, foul stench of fear. "You shouldn't be here. Antonin said -"

"And how many times have I made it clear to you that I don't give a rat's ass what Antonin said?" the agent hissed, slowly sliding the gun out of his leather jacket. The bartender's face whitened when he saw the pistol, and the thin veneer of blood smeared across the muzzle.

"You don't realize how dangerous this is," the bartender mumbled into his scraggly beard. "Antonin is risking much by dealing with your type... the Dark Lord already suspects the treachery..."

The pistol rapped twice on the bar before being angled to point at the bartender's eyes, which widened pitifully in horror. "I believe I already made it clear," the agent whispered coldly, "that I do not care about Antonin's minor problems. This is but a side business for me, my work makes me plenty. He needs me more than I need him, you know.

"But you also know," a cold, sneering voice said from behind the agent, "that this is but a side business for me as well, and you remain just as expendable." The agent turned to see, to his satisfaction, a hooded and masked figure, pointing a wand directly at the agent

The agent nodded slowly and gestured towards a side table. The masked figure quickly sat down and rapped his knuckles on the table, his eyes now on the bartender. He shuddered, but slowly began to fill two glasses.

"Well?" the figure began, pulling back his hood and removing his mask with a wave of his wand, to reveal a twisted, sneering face, the face of the man the agent knew as Antonin. "What's the price this time?"

The agent scowled. "I have procured everything you needed, but there was a minor setback. The men I dealt with from the gang refused to bribed and threatened to rat out our little relationship."

Antonin sneered. "So what happened? What did you do to them? Where are they?"

"Tell me, Antonin, have you ever visited a cinema, a Muggle theater?" the agent asked lightly, pulling off his gloves and examining his fingernails.

"And why would I have such a desire to defile myself in such a way, by entering one of those... places?" Antonin snarled.

"A pity, then," the agent replied distractedly. "You see, I possess an old film - a sort of moving picture that tells a story - called The Godfather. It has some rather interesting correlations to what happens in parts of my industry."

"And why would I care?"

"You should," the agent hissed, his calm façade dropping as he leaned closer, "because then you would understand what I say when I note that the gang members are sleeping with the fishes."

Antonin's eyebrows raised, giving the man a peculiar look of confusion. The bartender, who brought the drinks to the table, noticed this look and gave the agent a peculiar glance, almost questioning. "And what," Antonin asked quietly, "is that supposed to mean?"

The agent gave a cool smile, almost daring Antonin to ask for clarification. "Let's just say that the gang had to send a few new negotiators to deal with my latest requests."

Antonin finally smiled, and it was a twisted evil thing. "You killed them, then?"

"Not exactly," the agent replied with a knowing smile. "Rather, I made them wish they had never been born."

Antonin's smile grew wider. "You should have been a wizard, my friend. If you were a wizard instead of Muggle slime, you'd have been inducted into our little fellowship straight away."

"Well, I'm not," the agent replied coldly, taking a swig of the drink. "We're here to discuss business, correct? I have nearly all of the illegal ingredients you want... and a little something more."

Antonin pulled out his list. "Nightshade, puffer-fish extract, death lily, coca, cannabis, and vodare?"

"Those were the easy ones," the agent sneered. "The coca I got from my dealer in Cuba, and the vodare was easy enough to import from the States. However, I didn't manage to get as much puffer-fish extract as you said you needed -"

"It was a high estimate anyway," Antonin said with a shrug. "The fact you got any puts yourself far ahead of any of my contacts. You said you got something more?"

"Two things, actually," the agent replied with a slight smile. Two packages were removed and tossed lightly on the table. Antonin looked at each with some trepidation.

"You open them."

The agent gave Antonin an exasperated glare. "My partner, would I poison you now? I have too much cold cash wrapped up in our business dealings. But I'll just tell you what they are, for simplicity's sake. The one on the left are prismatic Orgis seeds, which, as you know, are used in -"

"Felix Felicis," Antonin breathed. "Dear God, where did you find these?"

The agent shrugged again. "My agents out of Scotland found a small island off the coast that had a few plants. The harvesting operation was tricky, and the delivery even more so, but I got it. The second packet is one you might interesting. I got it from Germany, from one of my old contacts there."

"So, what is it?" Antonin asked impatiently. "Nothing that comes from Germany can be that interesting these days."

The agent leaned forward. "Are you sure you want to know? This is a Class-F Restricted Substance according to your Ministry laws. "

Antonin waved a hand even as he leaned closer and dropped his voice. "I hear that all the time. Trust me, the folk I work with deal with such materials everyday. What is it?"

"Luhix."

Antonin pushed himself away from the table and drew his wand with a shaking hand. "Damnit, don't scare me like that, you know that it's just a myth."

"No myth," the agent whispered. "My German agent has several thriving plants and he's willing to export here. That's just a sample, the largest he could send me - about one hundred doses."

Antonin shivered involuntarily, which didn't surprise the agent. Luhix was perhaps the most powerful drug known to wizards, far stronger than anything that Muggles had created. Obscenely rare, it had powerful magical properties of a very Dark nature, but its addictiveness made it very easy to overdose, which only resulted in a painful screaming death.

Antonin, carefully sliding his wand away, examined the luhix package more closely. "Are you quite sure that it is luhix? You know the stories -"

"No stories, but fact," the agent replied coldly. "Luhix can only grow in an area where there has been genocidal slaughter and the murder of several wizards. I am pleased to tell you that my German agent easily found a place: Auschwitz."

Antonin nodded slowly. "The old Nazi camp. That Muggle bastard Hitler knew about us, but he also knew not to tell. He worked with Grindelwald to kill any wizards or witches who got in his way. After Dumbledore had beaten Grindelwald, it wasn't long until Hitler killed himself. Old history."

"Not so much any more, if your Dark Lord wants to spread luhix in Britain," the agent said indifferently.

Antonin looked up swiftly. "Do you think that wise?"

"Of course," the agent replied with a sly smile. "The Dark Lord needs our little smuggling operation, so he wouldn't be adverse to the idea. Besides, you know how desperate luhix addicts are when they need their fix. They'll do anything, Antonin. Anything."

Antonin finally got the gist of the idea, and he grinned widely. It was an eager, evil smile, and he knew it. "Are you thinking we use it instead of Imperius, to control? That's not a bad idea, my friend. Not bad at all. I'd have to clear it with my comrades and the Dark Lord would have to approve -"

"He will," the agent replied confidently, satisfied that the deals had gone well. "He wants more control, not less, and the luhix throws the tangy scent of utter desperation into the mix. However, for such imports, I'll need both advances and bonus, especially if the luhix will become regularity."

"I believe it will," Antonin mused, idly flipping a stack of Muggle money to the agent, who flipped through it quickly, and, satisfied with the amount, tucked it into the worn leather jacket. "I owe you a great deal, my friend. You're a source of wonderful ideas. You know..." he lowered his voice, "the Dark Lord could give you a position of some esteem. He has his methods, and he doesn't want to lose your business. When the Ministry falls -"

"When that happens," the agent cut him off coolly, "I'll be the first one asking for my justly deserved payment. Now, I must be going - I have friends in this district I need to talk to." And with that, the agent got up, zipped up the heavy leather jacket, and strode out of the bar.

Antonin sat in silence for a minute, and then waved a hand quickly. "It's okay, you two can come out now." A second later, two Disillusionment Charms were dropped, and two cloaked figures sat down in the booth with Antonin.

"Well?" the shorter, blonde lady asked, her face pale. "What did you think?"

"I think, Narcissa, that our agent friend is hiding something from us," Antonin said, not looking at either of the figures, his eyes instead trained on the door. "I don't think that our little friend is trying to cut us out of something, but that smuggler must have plans of some kind? I mean, giving us luhix? What do you think, Severus? Is it really Hell's Leaves?"

The sallow-skinned black-haired wizard shrugged. "I've never seen it before, although before I was forced to flee organized society, there were rumors floating around that someone had been cultivating the plants. I'd like to see it in a potion or two properly, but to find the right recipes, I'll need renewed access to Hogwarts."

"That will be arranged, you know," Antonin replied with a twisted smile. "More and more of the Ministry fall under our wands, and soon the Minister will be ours or dead." He was struck with a sudden thought. "You know, I just thought of the perfect use for this luhix... just to prove to us that it works..."

The agent pulled open the heavy metal door of the stairwell and began climbing, boots pounding rhythmically up the cheap concrete. Within a few seconds, the door with the scratched number 4 came into view, and the agent yanked the door open. A few seconds later, the door of room 422 was pulled open, and the agent slumped on the bed. With an impatient shrug and a deft motion, the agent removed the hood of the sweatshirt to reveal a tired, disheveled face. Lank black hair hung thickly over her eyes, and she could feel the coldness of sweat stains beneath her armpits. With disgust, she shrugged off the heavy leather jacket and vest that concealed her gender - a necessary precaution when dealing with pigs like Antonin - and tossed her pistol on the filthy bedside table.

She hated her life. Ever since she had graduated from Hogwarts three years ago, she had dropped out of sight, living wherever she could, trying to scrape together enough to pull herself out of the dull morass of poverty. Her parents were dead - killed by Muggle gangsters while she was in her fourth year. She had sworn revenge, but now was becoming just like what she hated - a smuggler, a thief, a killer.

A gangster.

She was trying to put her life back together, but it was impossible to live as a Muggle the way things were going. Her university rejection letters lay in a pile in the corner of her filthy apartment - they wouldn't accept any of her forged letters or references. But she couldn't get a job at the Ministry, for he had infiltrated it. It wouldn't take much for some enterprising Death Eater to drop her under the Imperius Curse - just because he could. Being an attractive girl at her age tended to get her kidnapped or killed - or worse.

For now, the drug business offered her way out - enough cash to start over. It was steady, and had an element of dark riskiness that she guiltily savored, but she knew that her demon deals wouldn't last long. She didn't trust Antonin, and sooner or later she knew that he would order her killed.

So she played the role of badass agent and drug dealer, smuggler with thousands of contacts all over the globe, and with a ruthless streak to boot. She pretended to be a Muggle, for if she knew Antonin thought she was a witch, he'd consider her untrustworthy and have her killed. It was much easier to mask herself as something less, and hide behind the cover of insignificance, puerile though it may be.

But she knew that it couldn't last much longer. The Dark Lord was going to gain ascendance, and when it happened, the world was going to change. Darkness and depravity would be the only currency in his realm. And that would mean, she thought sullenly, that I'd rank rather highly, given what I've done.

She hated herself.

I may be as bad as the Dark Lord, for concealing the truth about who I really am, she thought, but I'll be damned if one of his foolish slaves takes me down. No, my Lord, if you want me, you'll have to deal with me yourself.

Rufus Scrimgeour was sweating. It was trickling down his face, down his neck, down his chest. At least he thought it was sweat - he hoped it was sweat - but deep within he doubted it.

Was it tears? He doubted that too. He didn't cry - he was an Auror, and he would never show that sort of emotion when he was on the job. He would never show that sort of emotion, period. But if he would cry, it would be that it was under his tenure at Minister of Magic that it had all been overthrown, that everything had gone wrong.

Was it blood? Now there was a likely guess. He had seen enough of his own blood to recognize what it was like. The pain, though, seemed curiously muted, as though his mind was detached from his body. Even Disarmed, pinned on the ground in his own office by a triumphant-looking Bellatrix Lestrange, he didn't feel the pain.

He could see the room he had come to rather like in crystal clarity, as well as the faces within. Bellatrix, her flushed skin betraying her ecstasy in inflicting pain and suffering. Antonin Dolohov, his twisted face showing malice and triumph. Severus Snape, his detachment and coldness bringing an unnatural chill to the room. And, standing alone in the corner, was Pius Thicknesse, his face curiously blank. Imperiused, Scrimgeour thought acidly, and the one who let them all in. I should have seen it coming. I should have seen it.

"Now, we should really be talking, Rufus," Bellatrix said with a wide smile, her eyes gleaming with madness. "Tell me: where is Harry Potter?"

Scrimgeour shrugged, bringing waves of pain to his shoulders and arms, waves that didn't seem to bother him much. "I don't know," he rasped. "The Order of the Phoenix stole him from out of our protection, and I don't know where he is."

"Liar. Crucio!"

Scrimgeour tensed as the curse seared through his nerves, but strangely, the pain didn't seem to bother him as much. "I speak only the truth, Bellatrix. You know everything there is to know - Pius Thicknesse has taken care of that."

"I think you're lying to me," Bellatrix hissed, leaning closer. "Be careful, Rufus. I really want to hurt you some more, but don't make me kill you."

"Oh, don't waste your time, Bellatrix, he knows nothing," Snape snapped impatiently. "Either kill him and incinerate the body or Imperius him and be done with it."

"I'll resist the curse, Snape," Scrimgeour whispered, "and unlike you, I have some strength in character that will aid me there."

Snape did not respond, only turning to Dolohov. "Well? What do you think?" he asked coldly.

Dolohov shrugged. "We've tortured him for a good half hour, and he has given us some information, although not as much as the Dark Lord wanted. However..." the twisted smile growing larger and larger, "we could use this one as an opportunity to experiment with our new supplies."

Bellatrix turned to look at Dolohov, confusion on her face. "What new supplies? What plans have you two come up with? The Dark Lord said -"

"That we could kill him if he proves useless," Dolohov said pointedly, "but he gave us a bit of leeway regarding how."

Snape looked at Dolohov. "The luhix, then? A forced overdose?"

"Luhix?" Bellatrix scoffed. "It doesn't exist. It's a myth."

"Not anymore," Dolohov said softly. "Severus, slash his wrists. The legends say Hell's Leaves have to be absorbed into an open wound. A small sprinkling into both wrists should be enough to create an overdose."

Snape pointed his wand at Scrimgeour, and, with a quick, slashing motion, muttered, "Sectumsempra!" The Minister gasped as blood spurted from below his hands. Then, with the quick efficiency only used by a master potion-maker, Snape bent down next to the Minister and shoved something into his thigh with a deft twist of his wrist.

Deaths from Hell's Leaves tend to be obscenely painful, Scrimgeour heard Snape's voice in his head, but although you may die, consider my little sedative an act of mercy. A bit of proof of my character you ridiculed.

Scrimgeour began to sputter a response, but it was already too late. Dolohov had bent over and was gently sprinkling the dark green particles into the Minister's slashed wrists.

"Does the Dark Lord know you have this?" Bellatrix asked furiously. "Why wasn't I informed that you had acquired this substance?"

"Dear Bellatrix, we simply did not have the time to tell you that our agent acquired the substance from Germany but a scant few days ago," Snape replied smoothly, putting away his wand. "As for the Dark Lord, he knows already. Haven't I already made it clear that I cannot hide things from him?"

Bellatrix only glared, but then she turned away, to watch the Minister. As convulsive spasms began to tear through Scrimgeour's body, the female Death Eater sighed in ecstasy. Bending close, she looked into the Minister's wide, pain-wracked, bloodshot eyes.

"Now, before you die," she whispered, "tell me where Potter is."

Scrimgeour only looked at her, his eyes glazed with pain, and gave her a glance that clearly said 'make me.' A second later, he slumped over, blood spraying from his mouth, nose, eyes, and from beneath his fingernails.

Snape was rapidly taking down notes in a ledger. "Hmm, very efficient, this luhix is. The Dark Lord will be most pleased with it. Depending on the dosage, it might make a good poison too..."

Dolohov bent and felt for a pulse. "He's dead, all right. Nasty way to die too, and nobody will ever suspect the poison -"

"Because they'll have never seen it before," Snape finished curtly, snapping shut his ledger. "I doubt even St. Mungo's has an antidote for it, either for the addiction or the overdose."

"It looks... interesting," Bellatrix whispered, finally getting to her feet, her eyes fixed on the corpse. She abruptly turned to Dolohov, her voice all business. "Do you have a steady supply of this drug?"

"It has not been finalized, but it can be," Dolohov replied simply. "My agent is good."

"This agent better be," Bellatrix said icily, "because I want a supply for myself, and the Dark Lord will want some as well."

Dolohov finally smiled, and it was an evil twisted thing. "Then I guess I'll have to make more business than, shall I?"

"Yes, I think you should."