HOOK ONE: RIDDLE WRAPPED IN AN ENIGMA, PROLOGUE
Dear Diary,
Today I dealt with a most curious gentleman. He seemed very interested in who I was, and offered me a job working as his underling. I naturally enquired as to the content of the work, and the salary, and he apologetically told me he couldn't discuss that unless I accepted. Needless to say, this secrecy annoyed me highly; curious as I am, I attempted to glean whatever morsels of information I could through subterfuge. He plays his cards very closely to his chest, and I am ashamed to admit I made no headway.
If there's one titbit of knowledge I managed to gather from him, it's that he came to seek me out, and as such has a means of keeping tabs on me. He also clearly requires my considerable ability. I can therefore rest assured that he will return to attempt to convince me once again.
"2nd of February, 1940", The Diary of Thomas Marvolo Riddle
BAD WRONG
if i survive remind myself never to do this agin
shit shit shi
I DONT WANT TO DIE
"21st of December, 1941", The Diary of Thomas Marvolo Riddle
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And the world burns, as it does when some idiots decide to pour paraffin all over it and toss in a match. Blood politics seemed fine to start with, blaming the Muggleborns for the problems of Wizards. Blood politics transmute into blood feuds and rapidly degenerate into genocide. And no-one bats an eye. That was the world's great mistake. The devil had convinced the world he didn't exist, but neither the devil's mind tricks nor the weakness of Good led to the fall. It was the indifference of the bystanders.
To paraphrase what a great man once said, "as the true opposite of happiness is not sadness but boredom, the opposite of love is most likely not hatred, but indifference". "It was Somebody Else's Problem", another great man explained. And a third great man said "Wibble wibble wibble." One supposes that greatness is a matter of opinion. But the point of what I'm trying to say is that the inaction of those who do not think themselves concerned is the principal motor for the destruction of the world. This doesn't mean that Evil is not to blame for acts of Evil. Boys will be boys, Evil will be Evil, and Snorkacks will be Crumple-Horned.
There's another matter of opinion. Boys can be girls if they want. Or they can decide to be something else. That's the joy of free will. Evil isn't necessarily Evil; such Manichean thinking is so unbecoming of the twentieth century, and though some would try to tell you that the line between good and bad is blurry, it is actually inexistent. And there are more than fifteen as yet unknown varieties of Snorkack, none of which are Crumple-Horned, much to Oddment Lovegood's chagrin. But I continue to digress.
The following tale is not a tale of heroics. This is a tale of a young man trying to make his way despite overwhelming pressure. There will most likely not be a happy ending. But it won't be a sad ending. And it sure as hell won't be a boring ending. You may love it, you may hate it, but here's hoping you won't remain indifferent.
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AN: A tale of darkly woven political schemes in a wartime Britain.