"You know quite well, deep within you, that there is only a single magic, a single power, a single salvation…and that is love."
-Hermann Hesse
Author's Notes: I can't believe it's been over a year since I updated! I appreciate the patience of all of you readers who have commented and encouraged me to continue writing this novel-length fic.
This story is basically canon compliant through Order of the Phoenix.
As always, heartfelt thanks to my beta, hobtheknife.
From the moment of his discovery that he was a direct descendant of Salazar Slytherin, Voldemort had recognized himself to be a man of unique destiny. He had set his mind accordingly to accomplish extraordinary things. He had attained top grades at Hogwarts, travelled the world in search of nearly-forgotten forms of magic, and become the youngest wizard ever to receive the title of Dark Lord. His name was feared, his power was respected, and his will was obeyed by loyal followers throughout the world. He was well on his way to achieving the greatness of his illustrious ancestor.
Or so he had thought until now.
When Harry had Disapparated and left him standing alone before the timbered cottage in the shadow of towering yews, a feeling of utter desolation descended upon him. All at once he felt completely irrelevant to the world he'd sought to reinvent.
He needed to banish that feeling before it drained his will. He closed his eyes and began the basic grounding exercise he'd learned as a young man from Enusat, the ancient Master of Dark Arts who had grudgingly accepted him as a student. First he visualized the massive planet under his feet anchoring him in the present, and slowly exhaled all trepidation and negativity. When his lungs were completely empty, he drew in a deep cleansing breath. Now he was ready to assess his position with objectivity.
Although his defeat was serious, it wasn't the most catastrophic loss he'd ever experienced. Unlike the debacle at Godric's Hollow, his Horcrux had functioned properly this time, and he still possessed the supreme advantage of inhabiting a corporeal body. Furthermore, his agenda in the wider Wizarding world had taken a decidedly favourable turn, with his followers having achieved a major victory in the European Wizengamot. When the Order of the Phoenix had invaded the Riddle manor, he and his Death Eaters had been in the process of removing the final traces of their occupancy before departing for the new headquarters that had been prepared for them on the Continent. He had been on the brink of triumph when Fate had once again disrupted his plans in the guise of Harry Potter.
It was pure luck, he reflected, that the bond between himself and Harry generated by the rebounded killing curse all those years ago had made the younger wizard hesitate in taking his life. Sheer good fortune that Harry's inability to make a decision had led them both to Merlin.
Merlin.
He could still hardly believe that he had seen and spoken with the most revered figure in the history of Wizarding Britain. As Dark Lord, he knew that it was absolutely essential that the news that Merlin still somehow still lived and continued to influence people and shape events should reach his counterpart, the Hierophant.
His mouth twisted in a grimace. Whatever awaited him inside the cottage, it would be best to meet it and get it over with. He squared his shoulders and strode up the flagstone path to regally ascend the steps to the house.
The bizarre creature who had greeted him now curtsied deeply. "Welcome, your Lordship! Welcome to Spellton Yews!" Viewing her more closely, it was evident that she was a Hobgoblin; the stature, pointed ears and tusks were definitive of the species. She wiped tears from her eyes with a corner of her apron. "I thought this day would never come!"
"How do you know me?" he asked at his most charming.
"As if I wouldn't recognise Merope Gaunt's son, when me and my husband have looked after your people for generations! What did she call you, then?"
"I am Lord Voldemort," he replied with customary arrogance, but what his ears heard was quite different. "I am Ophion Gaunt." What the hell? he thought. And then, Damn you, Merlin! when he recalled the Mage's decree: ...bereft of name...
"Ophion!" Mrs. Hatchet repeated fondly. "A fine name for his Lordship's successor. Oh, but if he had only lived to know you!" She became a bit misty-eyed again, and blinked away a tear as she held open the door for him.
'Ophion' felt a headache coming on, and wondered whether he would be permitted any respite from the Housekeeper's solicitude during his enforced visit. He glanced about the foyer while she closed and diligently locked the ancient wood door with a key from the chatelaine at her waist.
"I am Allie Hatchet, Housekeeper of Spellton Yews. Let me show you through the house, and I'll answer all your questions." She bobbed her head, and escorted him through the rooms, gesturing to the arches and doorways as they passed. "This is the parlour, here's the dining room, and the kitchen's just through that door."
He followed in silence. The house was cosy rather than grand, and he winced inwardly at the small rooms crowded with antique furniture and potted plants, the walls densely embellished with framed prints and drawings, the windows curtained with ruffles and lace, and the floors heavily cushioned with carpeting and exotic rugs.
"Me and Mr. Hatchet have a room just beyond, back near the pantry and laundry." She gestured for him to follow her down a short hall. "You'll find the private facilities in here, and further on are the bedrooms. The small one here is for company, and the larger one at the end of the hallway is yours. And this," she paused portentously before a closed door, "is the stairway to Lord Cornelius Eldritch's library and work room, him being the brother of your great-grandmother and the last wizard to inhabit Spellton Yews."
His eyebrows registered surprise and ,as he digested this information, she detached an ornate silver key from her chatelaine and placed it in his hand. "This belongs to you now," she told him, with a teary-eyed sniff. "I suppose you'll wish to spend most of your time up there, as did your Great-grand-uncle."
"My Great-grand-uncle?" he asked sharply. He had devoted years during his youth to exploring his bloodline, scrupulously documenting every branching of his family tree, and discovering as much information about each ancestor as possible. It was incomprehensible to be informed, at this late date, of the existence of a previously unknown relation, much less that he was the missing heir of said relation's estate.
Mrs Hatchet beamed at him, an expression that her impressive tusks rendered something less than reassuring. "His Lordship's sister Lucretia was the mother of Marvolo Gaunt's wife, Cloelia, who was your grandmother. Lord Eldritch was left a widower when he was yet a young man. His dear wife died before they could have children…"
So that was it! he thought. He could almost visualize the genealogy charts, and the notation 'Decessit sine prole' beneath the name of Cornelius Gaunt, could nearly recall dismissing as irrelevant to his search the brother of Lucretia Eldrith Gaunt, who had died without issue.
"…but His Lordship enjoyed all the nieces and nephews and often had them to visit. He was particularly fond of your mother, young Merope, so much so that he encouraged her to come away and live here after her mother's death, what with grief driving her father mad, and her brother growing up evil-tempered. His Lordship was greatly distressed when he learned she had run away from home. He hired his own investigators to find her, and he never gave up hope right up 'til the end. With Marvolo and Morfin squandering what little gold they ever had, his Lordship arranged to leave his estate to Merope, so she and her children might have a home after all was said and done." Mrs. Hatchet's ugly face gaped in a rather horrible smile. "And so his magic finally scooped you up and brought you here!"
"All this time, and I never knew..." He stared in fascination at the key in his palm.
While I was all alone, growing up among strangers, someone had been looking for me, had even worried about what might have become of me. He tried to imagine for a moment how different his life might have been, growing up under the guidance of a benevolent bachelor Uncle, and then gave it up, banishing that fruitless train of thought with a shake of the head. The Housekeeper possessed information he needed to survive here and now and, in spite of a headache and growing fatigue, he applied himself to obtaining the details he required. "Noble titles are quite rare in the Wizarding world, and yet you say that my Great-grand-uncle was reckoned a Lord?"
"Spellton isn't of the Wizarding world," she informed him with some pride. "It sits on the verge of the Witchwood, and the paths that wind through this forest lead to farms and villages hereabouts - and beyond them, to other places entirely. My kind journeyed in the great migrations of the Faery folk, and some of us settled here, near the passages betwixt the worlds. Wizarding kind arrived next, and made alliances and settled down. Much later it was before mortals stepped foot on this island, and long before they ventured to the fringes of the Wood. Cornelius Eldridge was himself a mighty wizard, and was made Lord of Spellton by one of the Elvish families for great services he performed for them. But you'll have time to learn all about the history of the place now you've come to claim it."
"Mrs. Hatchet," he asked, deciding that directness was necessary, "what are the terms of my occupation of Spellton Yews?" He fixed his eyes upon hers, depending on his innate talents to determine whether she spoke truthfully.
"Why, I know of none! You are master of the house now, and may do as you wish."
He nodded, satisfied by the sincerity of her voice and eyes that she was ignorant of the injunctions Merlin had set upon him; he would have to discover for himself what further limits, if any had been set upon him in this place. "Very well. I would like to see the upstairs now."
"It's tucked right beneath the eaves, so watch your head when you go up. There's a fire laid in the hearth, should you want it. I need to attend to my chores but, if you need anything, just say so out loud and it will be taken care of." She favoured him with another of her horrible smiles, and walked back along the hallway with a tread that was surprisingly light for a creature of her bulk.
His Great-grand-uncle's study beckoned, and Voldemort fitted the ornate key into the lock. The door swung out, revealing a narrow stairway lit by sunlight filtering down from an unseen window. Anticipating a welcome respite, he ascended and stepped into the refuge of Cornelius Eldritch's inner sanctum.
The room appeared, like the rest of the cottage, no different in essence from those others he had occupied over the years, houses that had been provided by his followers, or uninhabited abodes, like his father's mansion, that he had temporarily occupied. The differences were in the details, and he was curious as to what sort of Wizard his uncle had been.
The walls of the workspace ran the length of the house, with a ceiling that angled sharply down to meet low side walls. At one end, a small winged dragon had been stuffed and hung suspended from the roof beam, wings spread over a table with a large brass orrery that rose above a disarray of books and charts. An ornate telescope stood nearby, aimed upward toward a skylight. Another table held a small rack of glass flasks and vials, and a large alembic. He picked up a bound notebook and flipped through pages of notations on various alchemical experiments. Over against the wall were shelves stocked with jars, their hand-lettered labels listing botanical ingredients that he recognised as having medicinal uses. The fireplace occupied the centre of one of the long walls and, across from it on the opposite wall, was a large desk. The rest of the room was filled with well-ordered bookcases. Perusing a few of the titles, it was apparent that his Great-grand-uncle had largely been interested in Wizarding history and the magic of the natural world.
Having made a full circuit of the room, he returned to the doorway and began to examine it in detail. Just how circumspect a wizard had Cornelius Eldritch been? He craned upward to scan the door frame and stooped down to inspect the threshold, where he found a ward of protection incised into the floor.
It took him by surprise. The device was the Sigil of the Prince, a powerful and ancient device that was seldom used in the modern Wizarding world.
The boy was being pushed along by the crowd of other First Year students as they passed through the doors of the school. They waited, blinking in the brilliant light of candles and torches, while the elderly professor who had introduced himself as Merrythought counted heads. Tom Riddle gazed about with interest at the castle that was to be his home for the duration of the term. A large staircase faced them, lined with paintings, and leading up past the shadowy ceiling to dimly-seen balconies high above. From a large doorway nearby there issued a dull roar of voices, while to either side other doors, closed and dark, lined the long hallway. The aristocratic blond boy from the train, Malfoy, wandered away from the group to stand before one alcove, and the Italian, Sabini, or something like that, followed him. Since they had included Tom in their conversation on the way up from London, he drifted along behind. He heard Sabini whisper, "Malfoy! What have you found?" Malfoy stood looking up at a shape like a sideways figure eight carved in the stone above the door. Tom saw him trace the shape over his forehead. "Look, they have a chapel," Malfoy said. "You'll have a chance to learn about real religion now, Riddle, instead of those ridiculous Muggle superstitions."
The scene changed and he was a young man standing in the Citadel's most ancient temple, wearing robes that were heavy with strands of darkened gold used to embroider the symbols of the office to which he had been invested. A shaft of sunlight shone through the stained glass panels high above, tinting the curling clouds of sweet incense green, purple and orange. The fiery Sigil still hung burning in the air over the Prince's altar where the Hierophant had traced it with his wand, and he heard the old man intone, "Lord Prince, make him worthy."
"Make me worthy." His whispered words were loud in the silence of the attic room. It was difficult for him to believe that he had once been so desperate to gain status that he had subjected himself to that naive ritual. As it turned out, even though Malfoy had chosen to remain at the Citadel, no one had questioned his claim to the title of Dark Lord when he'd returned to Wizarding Britain.
His hand hovered above the ward, sensing that it was still active and potent. He stood up, dizzy for a moment but not unduly alarmed. He would not allow fatigue to distract him from that which still needed to be done...
He had been distracted so many times before from the vow he had sworn in his youth to the Prince...
Myth and legend, he thought impatiently, dismissing the notion. Turning back to the room, he carefully investigated the walls, the corners, the windows and beams and nodded in approval: the room had been adequately warded. He would inspect the rest of the house later, though he thought it probable that his Uncle Cornelius had secured the entire dwelling just as thoroughly.
He shrugged out of his borrowed robes, and tossed them on a chair. From the shelves of medicinal ingredients, he selected a jar of henbane and carried it over to the alchemy bench. He removed everything but the massive alembic from the counter, and carefully placed a single leaf from the jar in the centre of the cleared area.
He regarded the leaf for a long moment, raised his dominant hand to direct the power, and made the simple gesture that was part of the first spell taught to students at Hogwarts. "Wingardium Leviosa!
The leaf did not so much as quiver in the current of air generated by his passing hand.
Still pondering the problem, he looked about the room and noticed a bundle of sticks laid in the fireplace. "Spellton Yews," he muttered. He strode to the hearth and knelt to examine the kindling. As he'd suspected, most, if not all, of the twigs were of the wood of the eponymous yews that surrounded the property, and he selected one that was about eleven inches long. He held it between his hands and, failing to sense any liveliness in the makeshift wand, tried to infuse it with whatever power remained left to him.
He returned to the workbench and ordered his thoughts. Then he brandished the stick with all the authority he could muster."Wingardium leviosa!"
The leaf remained undisturbed.
He set the yew twig down next to the leaf, and leaned against the workbench while he reassessed his predicament. He had put Merlin's judgement to the test, and he was truly without name and power in the home of his ancestors. He still needed to determine whether he would be permitted to leave Spellton Yews, or able to send messages outside the Witchwood, but his vanity had been wounded enough for one day, and those things could wait until tomorrow.
The Dark Lord collected his robes, and wearily walked down the dim stairway. It seemed to take an inordinate length of time to reach the room at the end of the hall. He had the presence of mind to close the door behind him before collapsing on the bed. Sleep engulfed him and his consciousness, exhausted from the experience of near-death, rested dreamless while the molecules of his body completed the process of regeneration begun by the activation of his final Horcrux.
When he awakened, the sunlight in the half-open window had a strong, late morning quality and a cool breeze fluttered the curtains. He turned over on his back and stretched out with a feeling of physical well-being he'd not known in years; in fact, not since before the events of Godric's Hollow.
And then he remembered: he was a prisoner. Although the bed was clean and comfortable, the curtains were of elegant lace and the furnishings were fine antiques, his Great-Uncle's cottage was as much a prison as if it had been a stone tower guarded by an iron portcullis, drawbridge and moat.
He still needed to determine the physical limits of his confinement. Was there any part of the cottage to which he would be denied access? Would he be permitted to venture outside the cottage walls? And what of the Witchwood and the otherworldly paths that lay so tantalizingly near?
Assuming all Merlin's injunctions held as true as the ones he had already tested, how could he turn the situation to best advantage? Much, probably too much, depended upon Harry's cooperation, but in the meantime he could sift for information about the approach of the 'great peril' in the newspapers. He should also determine what sorts of assets his uncle had left him, and arrange the financial and magical resources so they would be available when needed. And he definitely needed more information from Mrs. Hatchet.
He sat up in bed, wondering whether it would be possible to accomplish the task to which Merlin had bound him in time to join his followers on the Continent for the meeting of the International Confederation of Wizards, and reluctantly shook his head. It was better to take things one day at a time than to indulge in planning a future which might never come to pass.
He managed the necessity of having to shave and, afterward, found that his clothing had been cleaned and laid out for him while he bathed. He made a mental note to ask Mrs. Hatchet about acquiring a wardrobe sufficient for his needs.
As he passed the tall clock in the hallway, he noted that it was past ten o'clock. He almost expected to see Harry sitting at the dining room table, but it was unoccupied. However, the day was still young, and he permitted concern to tinge his thoughts for but a brief moment.
The housekeeper bustled in with a cup and saucer. "Do you prefer coffee, tea or chocolate?"
"Green tea, thank you. I'm expecting a visitor today, Mrs. Hatchet. Please show him in as soon as he arrives."
"Of course, your Lordship. Would you like eggs for breakfast? I can whip up a nice omelette, if you like."
He found that he was voraciously hungry, which was quite unusual. Obviously, his body needed extra sustenance as well as sleep to replenish his vigour. He devoured six eggs and two plates of toast, which provided the opportunity to put more questions to the housekeeper.
"I wonder, Mrs. Hatchet, how you knew to expect my arrival?"
"A message arrived yesterday from the estate's solicitor, Laurel Greengrass. It were a right surprise to me and Mr. Hatchet, and we hurried to make the house ready for you."
"Would it be possible to arrange for a meeting with Mrs. Greengrass to discuss the estate? I would like to know what, exactly, I have inherited."
"Of course, I'll send her a message this very afternoon."
"Do you use owls?" he inquired. If so, he wondered whether there might be a roundabout way to let Lucius and the others know of his predicament.
"Goodness, no!" she replied with a laugh that sounded disconcertingly like a pig grunting. "Owls avoid the Witchwood. Their sense of direction gets confused by the forest paths that lead to other realms. Spellton village proper is as close as they'll approach. The post office there keeps a few owls to use for mail."
...the forest paths that lead to other realms...He mustn't place too much hope in that route of escape. Nonetheless, he tucked it away for future consideration.
"And I must arrange to have your personal belongings packed and delivered," she continued.
He assumed a wounded expression. "Sadly, Mrs. Hatchet, my home was ransacked and destroyed by vandals the night before I arrived. They set a fire, and everything I owned was destroyed."
"Oh, you poor dear! The moment I saw you I thought you seemed like a man who had recently seen calamity. It was a right fortunate time for you to be brought here!" She smiled in what was probably meant to be a reassuring manner. "Don't you worry about a thing. Make a list of your sizes, and I'll arrange to have everything you need delivered." She collected the teapot and plates, and soon returned with more tea and a fresh stack of toast. "You're so much like your Great Uncle that I suppose you were greatly attached to your books. He had accounts with all the booksellers, so you can order replacements for what you lost."
He beamed at her. "Thank you, Mrs. Hatchet. I feel as if I belong here." He hurriedly took a swallow of tea to rinse the taste of those saccharine words from his mouth. "You call me 'your Lordship' as if you are certain the title is hereditary."
"Well, 'tis true that the Fae keep much to themselves these days but, truth be told, they make little difference between this mortal and that. Should your Great-Uncle's patron appear, I doubt it would even occur to him that you weren't Lord Cornelius and, if he should notice, it probably wouldn't make a difference to him. The Fae are rather nearsighted in that respect. I suppose it has to do with being immortal. Why, just a few weeks ago, one of them returned to the Witchwood after being away for a hundred years, and came to the Spellton market looking for her favourite candle maker. Of course, the candle maker had passed away, but one of her granddaughters was there, selling honey and beeswax as her family has always done, and the Fairy just chattered away and bought her candles, calling her by her grandmother's name all the while." She laughed again, and he winced at the sound.
The clock began to chime noon. "Will you take anything else, your lordship?" she asked, gathering the empty plates from the table before him.
"Nothing else to eat, but I would like to read the daily newspapers and weekly news magazines."
She nodded. "I'll arrange to have them delivered." She returned to the kitchen.
Voldemort stood up from the table, and wondered whether Harry had forgotten about his promise or whether he had been detained in some way. That thought carried with it some anxiety, because he knew how arbitrarily the Ministry of Magic could operate. Perhaps with the Dark Lord out of the picture, the Minister now believed Harry himself to be a threat, and had ordered him arrested on some trumped-up charge. His pulse quickened in anger as he pictured himself trapped in this cottage, unable to fulfil Merlin's judgement because Harry had been sent to Azkaban...
With a loud thump, a pile of newspapers and magazines appeared on the table. He expelled a breath he'd not realised he'd been holding, and ruefully shook his head to clear it of those negative thoughts. He obviously needed to take extra care to maintain his equilibrium until he was quite settled in this new body.
A glance at the headlines revealed that the news of his defeat had not yet been made public. He gathered the papers under his arm, and went upstairs to peruse them in his uncles' study.
Three hours later, he pushed aside the parchment and quill he'd used to make notes. He had read the speculations as to who might be appointed to replace Minerva McGonagall as Head of Hogwarts, the description of a protest demonstration that had disrupted a retirement tea for a Ministry Undersecretary, who had won the Daily Prophet's lottery and was retiring to Malta, and an analysis of the possible impact Gringott's choice of a new Chief Financial Officer might have on the value of the galleon. As he scanned the pages, a suspicion formed in the back of his mind and began to grow stronger as he skimmed through reports of the innumerable trivial incidents of the past few days. On the face of it, nothing yet seemed to have occurred that might signify the impending doom of the Wizarding World. What if the threat Merlin had foreseen was years, or even decades, away?
Sheets of newsprint slipped from his suddenly numb fingers, and his skin felt clammy as panic gripped him. He was a prisoner who could only be freed by a conjunction of future events. Without magic to reverse the effects of aging, it was quite possible that when the time arrived and he had fulfilled Merlin's terms, he might be too old and feeble to resume the task he had begun as Dark Lord. Without his presence as their leader, his followers might well abandon the cause they had sworn to uphold. It was even possible that in his enforced absence a new Dark Lord would be created to replace him.
"No!" He pushed away from the workbench. He was the Heir of Slytherin! It was inconceivable that his life's work would only amount to a minor footnote in the history books. He stared wildly around his Great-Uncle's work room, desperately seeking something among the array of books and magical implements that could be used to demonstrate the validity of his existence.
But he had been deprived of the use of magic. How could he continue as Dark Lord if he was as powerless as a Squib?
He started at a loud noise from downstairs. It was repeated a few seconds later and he realised someone was knocking at the cottage door. In an instant he knew who it was. "Harry!" He breathed the name like a prayer of thanksgiving. Harry had kept his promise and returned. Voldemort could sense Nagini's presence as well.
His turmoil evaporated. His abandoned his research, and hurried downstairs. He experienced a brief feeling of disgust at having tormented himself with groundless fears, but that was quickly replaced with his old confidence. He was still in control and, with Nagini to advise him and Harry acting as his agent, he would soon be free to resume his place in the world.
"Oh, yes, I remember you from yesterday," he heard Allie Hatchet say. "Come in! His Lordship is expecting you. Oh, my..."
Harry was holding the door open for Nagini, who took her time entering the house, sniffing the air with her forked tongue and looking about. Voldemort couldn't suppress the tiniest smile of satisfaction. It was very good to have Nagini back with him. "This is Harry Potter," he informed the Housekeeper. "We are working on a project together. The serpent is called Nagini She has been my companion for many years, and will be staying here with me."
"Of course, your Lordship. Will you and your friends take refreshments?" Mrs. Hatchet asked. "I'm sure there will be plenty of rats in the barn for your friend."
"I'm not hungry, thanks," Harry informed her.
Voldemort looked at the young wizard sharply, but the humour in his remark seemed to have been unintentional. "Later, perhaps," he answered the Housekeeper. She curtsied and swept from the room.
Nagini slithered closer and circled around her Master. She stretched up until her face hovered in front of his own, and studied him closely.
"She threatened to kill me if anything happened to you," Harry complained in Parseltongue.
"She is the most loyal of my servants," Voldemort answered. "I am very glad you brought her to me."
"You look and sssmell like a Muggle," the serpent declared. "How did thisss happen?"
"I will tell you everything - later." Voldemort stroked her head fondly while she stared into his eyes. He felt her sifting his thoughts in her familiar, not quite reptilian fashion. After a long moment she slowly lowered herself to the floor, and sought a corner of the parlour in which to arrange herself in graceful coils.
Harry took the opportunity to drop into a chair. "Do you know what time it is?"
"Past three o'clock. I expected you much earlier," the Dark Lord chided. Now that he was able to focus his attention fully on Harry, he saw signs of strain on his handsome features.
Harry ran a hand through his unruly hair. "I didn't sleep very well, and I had to get up early to meet with the Minister of Magic."
Voldemort tensed slightly as he recalled his earlier worries along those lines, and wondered if he'd had a premonition. "And how is the Honourable Rufus Scrimgeour?" he asked carefully.
"Prickly as ever." Harry said, grimacing. "He didn't take the news of your death very well at first."
"Of course," Voldemort answered, mollified. "You had the impertinence to achieve what the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had not been able to accomplish. Not to mention that the news of my death was extremely premature."
Harry ignored that last part. "I had to negotiate."
"Oh? And what did he offer you?"
The younger man shifted uncomfortably. "It was more like what I had to offer him."
Voldemort raised an eyebrow. "You bribed the Minister for Magic? What a delightful surprise!"
"You make it sound like I did something illegal." Harry sounded annoyed. "I just agreed to start publicly supporting the Ministry: make appearances at events, be upbeat when reporters ask me questions. I thought it would be a good idea to stay in his good graces, what with Merlin predicting dire catastrophe and the end of the world."
The Dark Lord sensed that Harry wasn't telling him everything and, although the younger wizard's Occlumency had never posed a challenge, he welcomed the opportunity to test his skills. He leaned forward in his chair and met the younger man's eyes. "Did you learn anything that might have some bearing on our task?"
"Other than that the Head Auror's about to be sacked for using official records to hide that he's been cheating on his wife, no." Harry paused. "There was something else, though, something that doesn't have anything to do with what Merlin said."
Voldemort waited with an expression of patient understanding. He found that he was obscurely comforted by the younger wizard's presence, and felt that he wanted to prolong his stay as long as possible.
"I found out that there's still a chapel at the Ministry. I don't think many people know about it. It's almost like a museum." Harry frowned as he continued. "There's an old picture of the Prince in an alcove that was a gift from the Hierophant centuries ago." The younger wizard hesitated. "I don't know how to say this, but...he talked to me. The Prince, I mean. He said I belonged to him...and I don't know what that means." It was obvious that Harry was still disturbed by the experience. "I don't suppose that happens to everyone, does it?"
Voldemort felt a twinge that might have been jealousy. He had never been a mystic. The few strange things he had experienced had always occurred when he was in a half-conscious state while activating a Horcrux, and had been easily explained away later as hallucinations brought about by lack of oxygen. Still, he found it irksome that the Prince, if indeed he existed, seemed so often to favour ordinary wizards with his presence yet had never once spoken directly to his Dark Lord.
"I cannot explain what you experienced today," he said at last, "but if I have to hazard a guess, I would say that if the Prince wants you to do something he will tell you so plainly."
"What makes you think that?" Harry prompted.
The Dark Lord hesitated, unused to sharing his past with anyone. "Because an old friend once confided to me that the Prince had appeared to him in the Hogwarts chapel, and told him exactly what he wanted him to do with his life."
Harry's eyes widened. "Did your friend do what the Prince told him?"
"Yes. Not at once, of course. He was a prudent man, and he told his family that he was going to go on a long expedition from which he might not return. He made out his will so they would be able to live in comfort, said farewell to his friends, and made the journey to the Citadel. He was accepted into priestly studies and, for all I know, he dwells there still. Perhaps he has even become Hierophant by now."
"So you never saw him again?" Harry sounded wistful, and Voldemort guessed that he was trying to imagine himself leaving his friends and taking up studies in a distant land.
"Just once, when Nagini saved my life after I had been disembodied by the Killing curse. She brought me to the Citadel and I recognised his presence, although I was not in any condition at the time to renew our friendship."
"Don't you miss him?" Harry persisted.
Voldemort sighed; time had given him a perspective that Harry was simply too young to grasp. "I have lost many friends over the years. Some of them drifted away, some of them died in my service, and one or two turned against me and tried to kill me. As Dark Lord, I do not have the luxury of regret. The past is over and done."
Harry looked sombre. "Two of my friends died the other night. One of them had no living family, so only his friends and co-workers from Magical Law Enforcement will miss him. The other one, the one you killed, was the son of the members of the Order of the Phoenix who were hexed out of their minds by the Lestranges. When I got home from the meeting with Scrimgeour today, there was an owl waiting for me from his grandmother inviting me to dinner tonight. Do you know what she wrote? She thanked me - " Harry swallowed and squeezed his eyes shut several times before continuing in a shaky voice, "she thanked me for giving him the opportunity to die in such a noble cause." He looked around the parlour, blinking rapidly, and when his gaze returned to Voldemort his eyes were moist and his expression accusatory.
"You must visit his family, of course, and tell them how deeply you have been touched by his brave death," Voldemort said in a soothing voice. Inwardly, he was alarmed that the younger wizard might become so taken up by events in his friend's lives and the wider Wizarding world that he would forget that the Dark Lord needed him in order to fulfil Merlin's decree. "While difficult, such things are expected of leaders, and I have made my share of condolences to those who have died for me. Those who mourn will lean on you for strength and will expect words of comfort at the funerals to soothe their grief through the years. I can help you through this."
"You caused all this in the first place," Harry said with quiet rage.
Voldemort knew he needed all the charisma he possessed to deflect the younger wizard's anger, so as to retain him as an ally. "There have been far too many deaths, on both sides of this conflict," he said, his voice tinged with the sadness of decades of lost comrades. "But to whom should we assign ultimate responsibility? To you, his role model? His grandmother, who expected him to win the battle his parents lost? Bellatrix and Rodolphus, for cursing his parents? Dumbledore, who enlisted his parents in the Order? Back to the origins of this conflict, the establishment of the Statute of Secrecy?"
"Is that where it all started?" Harry asked, confused, as Voldemort had intended.
"It tends to be glossed over in History of Magic because it makes most Wizarding folk uncomfortable these days to remember that we have engaged in a War against ourselves which began in the seventeenth century, and of which the latest skirmish was fought two days ago."
Harry leaned forward in interest, captivated by the tale, and so Voldemort continued.
"Wizarding folk had long been held in awe and respect by Muggles, but in the cultural upheavals of the fifteen- and sixteen-hundreds, they began to look to the use of magic as a possible edge in their religious wars. Of course, all the courts of Europe employed wizards and witches in various capacities, but many of them refused to use magic against their countrymen, even when threatened and tortured. There followed attempts to convince schools of magic to accept Muggles as students, but these were naturally refused, as the use of magic is not possible without the underlying genetic spark. As a result, Wizarding folk came to be regarded as enemies of the ruling powers, and the Muggle civil wars spilled over into persecution of witches and wizards.
"The International Confederation of Wizards, having failed in their attempts to secure protection from the monarchies, proposed the Statutes of Secrecy to conceal the existence of practitioners of magic from the Muggle population. As a result, civil war – our War - broke out between the Wizarding factions who supported the Statutes, and those who held to the superiority of our people and believed that we should overthrow the Muggle governments and take control of the world ourselves."
"That's where all of this came from?" Harry asked, incredulous.
"Exactly. The War has continued down through the years between those who support the Ministry and prefer to continue to live safely in hiding, and those who desire to live openly and practice magic as freely, as did our ancestors."
"Now I know why they have Binns teaching History of Magic," Harry said. "He's so boring that no one ever really pays attention to what he says. If people really knew what had happened all that time ago and how that's the reason why their kids can't play Quidditch in the streets, they would be outraged." He paused, eyes aglow with sudden realization. "That's why the Muggle-born and half-bloods are such big concerns of yours, isn't it? Theoretically, some of them could blend Muggle technology with magic and wreak havoc."
The Dark Lord nodded. "Now you know the dirty secret the Ministry tries to keep quiet."
"Merlin! This is too much all at once." Harry took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "It's making my head hurt. Hermione reads everything. Hasn't anyone written a book about this?"
Voldemort knew he had to move forward to capitalise on his success thus far. "The information is carefully suppressed by the Ministry, of course. But my Great Grand-Uncle had an extensive library, and I believe I saw one or two titles that have bearing on our discussion." He stood up, permitting himself the luxury of a smile. "Come upstairs with me, and I'll show you. In fact, that's where the supply of potions ingredients are kept. I'll put together something for your headache."
Harry stood up a bit unsteadily. "I don't feel very well right now. I think I'll ask your Housekeeper for that cup of tea, if you don't mind."
"The kitchen is just through there." Voldemort pointed out the way and hurried along the corridor to the stairs. He wondered whether he might be able to convince Harry to stay the night. The longer he could hold the younger wizard's interest, the likelier it seemed that he would help him fulfil Merlin's prophecy.
A candle burst into light as he entered the study and he quickly found the books he was looking for. As he scanned the labelled jars of herbs, he thought he heard an unfamiliar voice downstairs. He supposed that he was probably about to meet the hitherto unseen Mr. Hatchet. He carried the books and herbs downstairs with a spring in his step.
The parlour was empty, so he set the books down and took the herbs to the kitchen. Mrs. Hatchet was busy at the stove and turned as he entered, wiping her hands on a towel.
"Where is Harry?" he asked with unaccustomed directness.
"Oh, your Lordship, it were the most amazing thing! One of the neighbour lads stopped by, sent by his mother with some preserves. He'd found a bedraggled owl along the way, exhausted and bewildered, poor thing, and what do you think? When your Harry took a look at it, he found that the creature had carried a message for him!" She chuckled to herself.
The Dark Lord set down the jars of white willow bark and lemongrass on the kitchen table, feeling a dull ache begin at his temples.
"The boys left together, and Harry said to tell you that he'd be back in a few days to continue your project. Would you care for some tea? I just made a fresh pot."
"No, thank you," he managed after a moment. "But I will take some of that hot water. I feel I have a headache coming on, and I need to brew a potion for it."
Notes: The Witchwood is based on a real place: The Royal Forest of Wychwood in Oxfordshire, England, which is a vestige of the primeval forest which once covered Britain. The area has been settled since at least 3000 B.C.E. The remains of Neolithic barrows, Roman villas, and Saxon settlements indicate the long history of human settlement of the Wychwood. Rich local folklore attests to the belief that Otherworldly creatures have also inhabited the landscape.
Many interesting villages have grown up around the ancient forest. Spellton is my own invention, but is very loosely based on the real parish of Spelsbury.
I strongly endorse The Wychwood Project, an organization that aims to raise awareness of and appreciation for the history of the forest, to maintain and enhance wildlife habitats, and ensure a sustainable future for the landscape. You can support the Wychwood by volunteering, becoming a member of the Friends of the Wychwood, or dedicating a tree at the Wychwood project website: www dot wychwoodproject dot org
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