A/N: I've been working on this re-write for a while. I think it's pretty damn good once it gets going, and I hope you enjoy it.

I admit the first few chapters are a bit trope-y and nothing super exciting happens but, ya know, plot development, so stick with it ;)


Something Wicked This Way Comes

0. Prologue


The air was warm and summery. It was July. A gentle breeze carried the light scent of pollen - pollen always made James sneeze, but despite the tickling in his nose his petrified muscles would not allow him relief.

A sharp heel dug into his ribs and then a face lowered into his line of sight; heart-shaped and pale with hollow cheeks and heavy-lidded eyes that searched his with cruel purpose. A wand prodded between his eyebrows, it was crooked and bent like its owner, digging hard and scraping at his skin.

"Imperio..." She hissed, almost sweetly as if speaking to a lover...

James Potter awoke with a grunt, sitting up straight in bed and breathing hard as the dream bled away and reality slid into focus. He looked around nervously, trying to remind himself where he was. Remus was asleep on top of the duvet beside him, snoring loudly, which he only did when he was drunk. Through the open door James could hear the tell-tale sounds of Sirius and the witch he'd met in the pub having a lark in his bedroom down the hall. Peter was either passed out on the couch or splinched somewhere near his mum's house in the Cotswolds - it was never wise to apparate after a night of drinking in Diagon Alley.

James eased himself back down on the bed, his head falling limply onto the ratty pillows Sirius had outfitted his spare room with. Running his hands through his hair, he tried to calm his breathing and rapid pulse. He tried forget the face that made him never want to sleep again.

Tomorrow they would travel to Hogwarts, and James knew he needed to rest. It would be his first day as Head Boy after all, a completely mad concept that made him wonder if Dumbledore had lost his bloody mind.

He exhaled loudly, blocking out the sounds of Sirius and his lady friend, instead focusing on Moony's loud but familiar snores. James willed himself to fall back to sleep, first trying to clear his mind, then imagining the sea and the sound of gulls, anything to keep his thoughts from drifting to the dark spaces it so loved to reside in.

Eventually when the sun started to rise over Diagon Alley and the witch from the pub snuck out with her shoes in her hand, it became clear to James that the serenity of sleep was not an option and he watched, unhappily as the spare room filled with light.

He was exhausted but a peaceful night's sleep eluded him, as it had all too often lately.

In truth, James feared that it was peace itself that would forever elude him.


As late afternoon settled on the village of Godric's Hollow a cool breeze swept up the high street indicating that summer was over and autumn was on the way. The little cottages, with their front gardens cramped full of rose bushes and slowly changing foliage, looked sleepy and peaceful in the dimming light. Most of the shops had closed by the time Albus Dumbledore appeared near the church cemetery with a loud crack. He watched the villagers meandering home with parcels of food for their Sunday Roasts.

Just three miles south there had been an attack on the family of a Muggle-born ministry official. The news reached Godric's Hollow within hours, so dusk found the village streets emptier than Dumbledore remembered them being from his childhood. The residents of Godric's Hollow were clearly following Ministry advice not to stay out of their homes beyond dusk.

Dumbledore glided up the high street past the small shops and down a side street of houses towards Bathilda Bagshot's home. Godric's Hollow always filled him with warring senses of sadness and fond memories from his unfortunate youth. Presently the heavy book he carried weighed more intensely on his conscience than any past regrets, but all the same it represented so many of those regrets perfectly.

Bathilda's home was a narrow but tall cottage with a front garden that looked like it rather could do with being tended to; the flower beds overgrown with weeds and thorns cropping up from the uncaredfor rose bushes. A pear tree Dumbledore remembered always looking regal and full of fruit was now crooked and half dead. Passing through the front gate, which was hanging slightly off its hinges, and up the garden path, he could not help but feel a sadness and momentary trepidation at the state of Bathilda's house.

He knocked twice and when the old woman came to the door she was wearing slippers and a musty house coat that smelled of moth balls. She was an old woman, older than Dumbledore, and though she had always had slightly batty and eccentric tendencies she was decidedly springy for her advanced age,.

"Albus," she crooned, upon seeing her old friend, her eyes darted to the book in his hands. "How are you?"

"I'm well, Bathilda," he said, inclining his head towards her. "May I come in?"

"Of course, of course," she beamed as he stepped over the threshold. "I must warn you the place is in a bit of a state. Not as sprightly as I used to be so doing the cleaning is getting a bit hard… I may get someone to come and help me, the young lad who just moved into the Goodge's old house—you remember Conrick and Susanna?—well, he seems helpful enough, always bringing me my post and milk…." She nattered on happily as she led Dumbledore into the sitting room and summoned a cup of tea into his hand.

"I am so glad that you are getting on alright here," Dumbledore interjected, retrieving the heavy book she had lent him from the depths of his cloak.

"Ooh, did you find it helpful, Albus?" Bathilda asked, sitting across from him on a dilapidated green sofa. "It really does have a remarkable bewitchment, this book. Certainly panders to pureblood mania, as they call it—a half-blood or Muggle-born marriage would result in a family line dying out completely as far as the enchantment is concerned. Rather old fashioned if you ask me, but how did you find it?"

Dumbledore pursed his lips, searching for the most delicate way to phrase his next words. "Well, that does seem to be the problem. I'm looking for a young man whom I have ample proof to be Salazar Slytherin's last living heir—however it would appear that there must have been some... Muggle interaction at some point as he's no where to be found in here." He gestured to the ancient book. "Have you any advice, Bathilda?"

Bathilda stroked her chin a few times, and Dumbledore noticed a few long hairs that had been neglected there. "What was this young lad's nae, Albus?"

"Tom Riddle," he informed her solemnly. "I must learn everything I can about this man. It is crucial."

"Tom Riddle," Bathilda mused. "Well, I don't know about any Riddles, but there is one family line decedent from Slytherin—though I very much doubt they even know it! Are you familiar with the Peverell family?" She cocked her head to the side, smiling kindly. "I would imagine you are, since you were so very interested in the Deathly Hallows when you were a lad. Peverell was, of course, the family name of the three brothers who met death on the bridge."

Dumbledore nodded, placing his teacup and saucer on the spindly table beside him; it was covered in a yellowed lace doily with a dead spider trapped beneath its folds. "I am aware that Peverell is thought to be the family name of the three brothers from 'the Beedle and the Bard' fairy tale," Dumbledore mused calmly, not giving anything away as he sat back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap.

Bathilda reached for the heavy tomb between them. The cover was made of ancient leather and a titled printed in flaking gold script read: A Genealogy of Pureblood Wizarding Families in Britain. Carefully, she lifted the cover, the bindings creaking as she scanned the pages with a crooked finger.

"Of course, the fairy tale itself is nothing but a myth, perhaps with some truth to it. I assume you are here to learn the facts about the Peverells." When the Headmaster inclined his head to show he agreed she continued in excited tones, "You must know of the rather tragic history of the Peverell family, always dying in mysterious circumstances or getting themselves into some kind of trouble. They often died young or without children, which is why the family name died so long ago. Some might say it's the nature of the elder wand and resurrection stone, always getting those boys into trouble."

Dumbledore's fingers remained steepled as he listened intently.

"—But really, it was the secret marriage of Tristan the Foolish and Daphne the Lovely in 1324 in Cornwall. What many people don't know—aside from those of us who study the History of Magic—is that the Peverell family are direct descendants of both Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin, through Tristan and Daphne."

His curiosity peaked, Dumbledore leaned forward to look at the yellowing pages of the book where she was pointing, and saw indeed that the names Tristan the Foolish and Daphne the Lovely were conjoined by a line insinuating marriage, and as one traced their names through their parentage eventually came to the original heads of Slytherin and Gryffindor. He sat back again, and listened intently to her, his lips pursed and eyebrows raised.

"I am ashamed to say I did not know that, Bathilda," the Headmaster admitted softly.

"Very few people do. I dare say it's been covered up! In fact, if my book wasn't so enchanted and I hadn't had access to the Department of Mysteries back when the Ministry allowed we scholars to explore their vaults, I doubt I would have discovered this at all!" She paused to take a deep breath, considering the book thoughtfully. "It was an unnatural marriage, of course. Their families were both opposed to it, especially the groom's side who were horrified at the prospect of Tristan marrying a woman with a Muggle-born mother. There's a chance the groom's father cursed the marriage and their decedents... So, perhaps it was the Hallows, which you know so much about, of course—or perhaps it was a curse, or maybe just good old fashioned rotten luck, but the name died out and now only two decedents remain."

"You don't say," Dumbledore murmured, leaning farther over the coffee table to see each of the yellowed pages she flipped through.

"Indeed!" She beamed, her finger trailing down the page. "Here we we have the last of Slytherin's pureblood line—the Gaunts. Awful family. So dreadfully inbred." She paused to take a sip of her tea before returning to the book, opening to its last pages before pushing it across the coffee table. She pointed to a name on the page. "See here? There are only two pureblood decedents of Peverell alive today, though I doubt very much they know their own history. It's all fascinating, but why does it interest you so, Albus?"

Dumbledore hesitated, his eyes focused on a single name written in curling black ink upon the yellow page. He nodded once as the knowledge he'd been searching for began to form a coherent concept, one that was both terrible and promising.

"It is simply scholarly curiosity that peaks my interest, dear Bathilda." He lied, smiling kindly at her, noticing for the first time that she had a lone curler tangled in her hair near the back.

"Not trying to collect the Deathly Hallows again, are you Albus?" She teased good-naturedly, and Dumbledore wondered if in her old age she'd forgotten who his partner in that tragic quest had been.

After saying his goodbyes and thank yous, Dumbledore swept back down the garden path and out into the street. He mulled over what Bathilda had told him and considered the potential dangers this new information held in store should anyone discover it.

There was a rattle of metal, like a garbage bin being knocked over across the street near the cottage Dumbledore recognized as the house the Goodge family used to inhabit in his childhood, now apparently occupied by a helpful young man according to Bathilda. A slight figure stepped out of the darkness of the front porch, he was tall with dark coloring and a broad flat nose. The man offered a small wave to Dumbledore which he returned slowly.

And with that, he turned on the spot and disapparated.


A/N: Please review!