THE YEAR OF THEIR WAR

PART I: SUMMER'S SHADOWS

Chapter One

Shadows Stretching

May 1 1944, Hogwarts Castle, Scotland

The Headmaster's Office

The old man was sitting at his desk when the knock sounded, a confident rap-tap-tap, and he looked up to see the boy at his door.

"Tom." Old brown eyes smiled warmly, the edges crinkling. "Do come in."

"You said in the note that you wanted to see me, Professor," The boy smiled back, entering the office. "I assumed it was urgent."

"Not… urgent, as they say it." Headmaster Dippet said. "Sit, sit." He busied himself with the sheaf of papers at his desk as the boy sat. "Tom… you know I've always taken a bit of interest in you. This may strike some as partiality, but I do regard you as one of the better students Hogwarts has seen this century – ever, some would argue. Your Head of House agrees with me."

"You are too kind, Professor," The boy replied with the merest hint of a blush.

"Nonsense, my boy, nonsense," The old wizard laughed, "Give an old man some credit at recognizing true brilliance, will you? I've seen students come and go, Tom – I can safely say I have not seen one more skilled than you at magic all these years I have taught. Why, Horace thinks someday you may grow up to be Albus' rival!" He sobered at that, quickly. "I agree with him. You have power, Tom. Enough power to be a threat to our enemies in this cursed war. You have always loved dueling, as far as I know, and you are good at it. Far too good."

"I like knowing how to fight, Professor," The boy chose his words carefully. Pressing his lips, he continued, "There have been times in the past when I haven't been treated… well, to say the least. It has become important to me, Professor, having the knowledge, mastering the art of dueling – in case I am attacked someday again."

"Yes, yes, those wretched ignorant muggles, I know, Tom," Dippet said hurriedly. "You know how sorry I am about it. We should have taken you out of there long since."

"It's not important, Professor." The boy smiled quietly. "Not anymore. I spend all my time at Hogwarts now, anyway – and the muggles usually stay out of my way during the summer, and I return the favour."

"Well, you are going to spend your last summer there, Tom. After you reach your age of maturity, you won't have to go back to those people. That is one of the reasons I called you here, in fact… Horace mentioned that you have finally chosen a career. I was quite surprised hearing about it, quite."

"Mr. Borgins has an excellent reputation, sir – "

"As a bookkeeper?" Dippet interrupted with a snort. "You would be welcome to the Auror program, Tom. I've talked to some people about it. With your record…"

"The Aurors, sir?" The boy raised his eyebrows, startlement etched plainly on his face.

"Haven't you given this a thought?" Dippet frowned. "For Merlin's sake, Tom – with your skill and your dueling prowess, it is only a matter of time before the Dark Lord's faithful see you as a possible recruit – if they do not already. We know they have spies on our land. If they fail to subvert you – of which I am sure – then they wouldn't hesitate to kill you, Tom! You need to learn more. You need to know the advanced aspects of power. You need protection, above all else. Believe it or not, Tom, you are in grave danger. The Auror program is your best bet."

"But they say that the war is coming towards the end – that Britain is winning. Then there'll be no need to – "

"Oh, Tom, Tom…" Dippet shook his head sadly. "I don't know if I should be telling you this, but never believe what the Prophet says, not completely." He sighed deeply. "We might not win as easily as many assume, especially if our colony cousins refuse to intervene… but enough of that. The threat to you is serious, Tom. Promise me that you shall think on this."

"Yes, sir." The boy stood up, a little frown now marring his handsome features. "If that is all?"

"Of course, of course. You may go."

May 5 1944, Castle of the Pure, Nurmengard, Germany

The Black Chamber

"I do not wish to hear this!" The Dark Lord raged, his anger almost a palpable force distorting the air. He waved his hands, spreading them wide, and the wizard kneeling before him flinched. "Failure, failure, failure! One task I gave you, Lessing. One task. I trusted you to perform it, trusted you to be competent. And you failed." Red eyes narrowed, and his right hand came up sharply, the Wand of Destiny clenched in a secure grip. Its tip rested on the kneeling wizard's forehead. Lessing tried to avoid giving away any reaction, but fear was written in his eyes.

"M-Master. Forgive me, but I – " He stammered.

"Do not beg my mercy." The Dark Lord hissed. "I find myself in short supply. Have you any information that may assist me in my search? Speak only if you do, Lessing. My patience wanes."

"One name, M-Master." Lessing gasped. "One name. Salazar Slytherin."

"What about him? Did he have the stone at any point?" A speck of interest had crept in the Dark Lord's tone.

"The scrolls are rather obscure, Master." Lessing began to talk rapidly, trying to prevail upon the cold fear that had him in its grip. "He was of Peverell blood, as are many other pureblood families on the British Isles. But there is a legend – a legend about his son."

"Orpheus."

"Yes, my Lord. The alleged necromancer."

"I see. I see indeed." Grindelwald sighed. "That is all you have, Lessing? An obscure tale about a supposedly dead-raising wizard himself long since dust?"

"I have searched for any mention of Orpheus in the history section, m'Lord. There is none." His voice took a secretive tone. "Which suggests much."

The Dark Lord raised an eyebrow. "I was under the impression that it is usually so because there is no relation between the two."

"You must speak in jest, my Lord." The kneeling man tried to let out a bark of laughter, but the sharp tip of the wand digging in his forehead stopped him short.

"Must I?" The voice was mild, not threatening or stressing, radiating power held under careful control. "Do not try levity, Lessing. You cannot afford it. Tell me what you know."

"Among the British, my lord? In that time? Saxons, Normans, Wizards and muggles in their last open magical war on the British Isles… and legends of Orpheus, stories about the necromancer that raised an Army to protect his land. Obscure perhaps, but still legends, legends that have passed into tales for children." Lessing tried to speak slowly. "And yet no one recorded this in official history. All of the few wizard records of that age we have still mention Salazar's son, but only in passing. We are known for glorifying our own, my Lord. The British wizards had mastered it long ago. Yet they refused to make a martyr of someone. The question is why."

"Then answer me this, Lessing." The red gaze pinned Lessing as a fly trapped in a spider's web. "Answer me why."

"Orpheus' descendants had prevented his passing into history, my Lord." The kneeling wizard replied in a hushed whisper. "They did not wish to tell the world how he had succeeded in raising the Inferi. They did not wish others to know of the Slytherin ring."

"A ring," The Dark Lord repeated. "A ring."

"With a stone that is marked, my Lord. With Orpheus' own mark, the legend goes. A triangle. One could almost think of your own mark -"

"And would it be too much to hope for any proof, my servant? Apart from the fact that there is no way of knowing what Salazar's son achieved -"

"There is one who should know how, Lord," Lessing interrupted, flinching at the narrowing of his Master's eyes. "There is the Heir of Slytherin."

"A myth, Lessing. A myth, as I found to my disappointment in my youth, when I had tried to track the legend to its source. It was a story that came into being long after Salazar's death." The Dark Lord shook his head. "There is no Chamber of Secrets."

"With all my respect and humble obeisance, my Lord, the Chamber of Secrets was opened months ago." Lessing enjoyed the little widening at the edge of the eyes, the red cooling into a simple and cold violet.

"You are sure."

"My Lord and Master, I am. The British Ministry hushed it under the Wartime Information Act, but they couldn't have hidden the murder. A girl was killed, somehow transformed into dead and petrified flesh."

"Slytherin's monster. Parseltongue – a serpent of some sort." The Dark Lord whispered. "Petrified flesh – of course. Of course."

"My Lord?" Lessing asked, confused.

"Who opened the Chamber, Lessing?" Grindelwald now demanded. "Who is the Heir of Salazar Slytherin?"

Lessing blinked. "He was caught and expelled from the school, Master. Apparently the boy has not inherited his ancestor's skills. His name is Rubeus Hagrid."