NOTES: There have been a few concerns regarding the Legilimency in this story. Consider my Legilimency as non-canon. Hopefully we'll learn more about it as well. Also, the dominance game between Harry and Riddle willgo back and forth. One chapter, Riddle will be superior. Other chapters Harry will be. It's a trade-off, I'm afraid ;)
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Thanks so much for your reviews.
9. Chapter Nine
Lily smiled emotionally, unshed tears clinging to her eyelashes. Besides her, James Potter was still unconscious, having put up the largest fight amongst the three. A deep gash on his forehead and the broken leg was proof of his failed efforts.
Harry began to stir, frowning at the pitch darkness around him. He didn't remember much, just the sudden attack at their home in America. "Mum?" he murmured, squinting into the dark at his mother. He didn't have his glasses, but he was able to make out her blurred figure. Her hand was stroking his hair, an attempt to soothe him.
"Hush, Harry, go back to sleep. You… you will need your strength for later."
She began humming, stroking his face and hair lovingly. Harry, still suffering from a head injury, began to drift off to his mother's wretched lullaby.
"I'm so sorry…" she whispered brokenly.
Harry jerked awake, inhaling harshly as his mother's humming echoed in his ears. He kept his eyes closed as he bowed his head forward, refusing to 'awaken' until he gathered his bearings.
Feigning consciousness was a trait he picked up during his time in hell. He would feign unconsciousness and mentally brace himself for what waited for him on the other side of slumber.
The events from before he lost consciousness came back at him with a rush of extreme disappointment. He breathed evenly, acknowledging his foolish capture. Bloody hell, it was such a simple trap, albeit an effective one. The way Harry hunted his victims was well-known, even to the general public. He went after criminals who had been released from the Ministry. It could have been anyone who'd set that trap and he'd fall for it.
He had been too predictable, just like Cormac bloody McLaggen.
How… sadly disappointing...
Harry hung his head further, fury licking and burning his chest. It was the first and last time he'd make that mistake. What made his lack of foresight shoddier was that Riddle set it up, as if the man knew Harry would fall for it that easily. Even if Malfoy was a bloody ponce, he had been right.
Hunters always caught their prey with the right type of bait. How could Harry resist a man as tainted as Macnair?
Though, it suddenly dawned on him that Riddle might know he was an Empath. The Dark Lord had several tainted cult-like followers, but Macnair was by far the worse. He was as bad, if not fouler than Erik Slore. Riddle had to have known that Harry could feel the taint from Macnair.
So who told Riddle about Harry's Empathy? Was the man really that smart to figure it out himself? Empaths weren't very common, and when they were known, they weren't nearly as powerful as Harry.
He rolled his neck, bringing his attention back to the present. He was magically bound to a chair, his feet restrained and his arms charmed to hold motionless behind him. Riddle's magic was noticeable and oppressive as it hugged his skin. Vaguely, he was aware that his wand arm was healed marginally, taking away the earlier pain and sting.
Riddle must have healed it, or attempted to.
Carefully, he opened his eyes, expecting a mocking Dark Lord looming in front of him. Fortunately, only a lavish office met his assessment. It was comfortably warm with colors of rich browns and deep greens.
Narrowing his eyes, he immediately noticed a portrait of a woman. It was a rather large portrait, evidence that Riddle held this woman in high regard. The frame itself was gold, most likely costing more than all the gold in Harry's heaping vault. The painting was extremely life-like, making it appear more like a woman gazing in a mirror rather than a piece of artwork.
With critical, but blank eyes, Harry stared at the woman.
She appeared in her late thirties, but that didn't necessarily mean she had passed away that young. While one eye looked at him, and the other eye pointed in a completely different direction, she still possessed a sort of unique appeal. The dull, black hair fell to her elbows in kinky waves, bringing attention to her thin and gaunt face. Her eyes were brown, mirroring Tom Riddle's shade almost exactly.
She appeared like a shy and quiet woman, even bordering on timid and damaged. Yet, Harry stared deeper, noticing the hardness to those eyes. It was if she had to struggle through life just to accomplish the simple feat of staying upright.
This woman was most likely a strong and capable witch when the situation demanded it. The question was; what kind of woman earned the position of Tom Riddle's highest regards?
Really, the brown-colored eyes were a dead giveaway.
While mother and son had little similarities, the similarities were still there. Their noses, for instance, had the same curve and their lips were both thin yet shapely. They even oozed the same majestic air, the kind of air nobility carried. This was Tom Riddle's mother, a direct descendant of Salazar Slytherin.
She was most likely a witch, yet didn't have the option of fixing her unaligned eyes. Harry once read that wizards who interbred amongst their own family often produced children with cross-eyes or similar defects. Healers could never fix the eyes because the incestuous genes were too strong to counterattack.
Harry kept eye contact with her. She stared back at him, strong intrigue and amusement on her features.
"My mother, Merope Gaunt." Riddle's voice cut through the silence like a dagger. Harry remained facing forward, away from Riddle's advancing form on his left. "She seems rather fascinated with you. I daresay that I had something to do with piquing her interest."
Riddle had shed his outer-cloak and was left in his black slacks and grey-collared shirt. Even from the corner of Harry's eye, he was aware of the man's porcelain pale skin.
He had his hair parted to the side, the same hairstyle Minister Riddle wore during the day. But the wrinkles were gone and the cheekbones were stretched taunt over flawless skin. The Dark Lord appeared younger once again and Harry couldn't understand why the man was parading around as a younger wizard in his free time.
Unless, of course, it wasn't a glamour at all.
Had Riddle truly grasped the gift of immortality? Harry scoffed mentally, refusing to let his mind wander over Riddle's appearance any longer. He had larger issues to deal with.
"Are you giving me the silent treatment, Harry?" Riddle inquired, his silky voice pitched lower in amusement as Harry remained mute and motionless.
Green eyes stared listlessly ahead, ignoring the tall form as it came to a stop next to his chair. Harry may have been magically bound to a chair, but he refused to give the man any satisfaction whatsoever, including the satisfaction of attention.
That was all the Dark Lord wanted anyway, for Harry to give some sort of reaction.
No, Harry was and would remain stone-faced.
A hand reached out and covered Harry's cheek in entirety, as if cupping it gently. When Harry refused to react, the hand curled and the fingernails raked across his face possessively. The nails didn't break the skin, they only left hot trails in their wake.
Something warm and tight coiled Harry's belly at the claiming stroke. He itched to return the favor to Riddle, to show the man that he wasn't the only one capable of dominance. He refused to admit he was aroused, simply because he hated this man and what he stood for. Yet, Harry couldn't deny the conflicting emotions when it came to Riddle.
The man was just fun to interact with, to challenge, to fight. He was also intelligent and enigmatic. Harry never felt quite as alive and sharp as he did when he was in Riddle's presence.
Riddle raked his nails across the underbelly of Harry's chin. "You're a whole different person without your clumsy façade." He forcibly tugged Harry's chin to the side, forcing the younger wizard to make eye-contact with him. Riddle smiled thinly, looking pleased with himself for catching his intended prey.
"I knew it was you all along, Harry."
Harry simply stared, mentally snarling. Riddle had not known it was him all along, Harry could attest to that much. If Riddle had known, he would have acted sooner. He wouldn't have kept a safe distance after each attempt Harry had executed to shake him off his trial
Riddle hummed deep in his throat, pushing Harry's cheek away from him and breaking eye contact.
The man walked carefully around his seated form, as if debating on what method to execute in order to break Harry's silence. As he circled, his long fingers trailed tauntingly across Harry's chest and around his shoulders and back. His steps were silent and lethal. If it weren't for the fingers raking across his torso, Harry would have trouble pinpointing the man's whereabouts.
The Dark Lord's smugness was incredibly potent. He was parading around his captured prize, preening at his success.
Harry stared stubbornly at the door across from him, his eyes zeroed on the doorknob. He had no one else to blame but himself. He should have been more mindful of his surroundings and he shouldn't have been so focused on the end result of getting his hands on Macnair. He had to accept his stupidity, get over it, and do something to remedy it.
"Are you chastising yourself? Is that the reason for your silence?"
He broke.
"No," he whispered softly, "You simply aren't worth my time."
Riddle acted, taking a handful of Harry's hair in his curled fist and yanking his head backwards. He leaned in close, their faces so close as they breathed the same air.
"Liar," the man exhaled. His crimson eyes captured and held Harry's stare. "If I wasn't worth your time, you wouldn't have spent days scoping the traffic in and out of my manor. If I wasn't worth your time, you wouldn't kidnap associates of mine and directly challenge me."
Harry clenched his teeth together in a smile. "I was returning the favor."
"I'm surprised to hear you admit that you were threatened, Harry."
The man kept using his given name. Harry didn't quite understand the implications of that. Was he trying to intimidate him further? Was he rubbing it in that he discovered Custos' identity? Either way, it certainly wasn't getting on Harry's nerves. It took a great deal to ruffle him.
"I never said anything about being threatened, Minister. I only said I returned the favor." He was keeping special attention on the hand curled in his hair. Once it gave way…
Come closer, Riddle. I dare you.
Riddle smiled thinly, his eyes drifting down to Harry's lips just briefly before he looked back up at him. "Doubtless, we both got what we wanted. I have you in my possession finally."
"And pray tell," Harry growled lowly, "What did I get in return?"
The hand loosened only a fraction in his hair, but it was enough. His eyes dropped from Riddle's crimson gaze to the bridge of his nose. He mentally calculated the distance and the height he would need to get a successful hit.
"I answered your silent pleas for help."
By Merlin, the man was a smug bastard. He certainly didn't feel bad about damaging the man's face.
Harry pulled marginally away from Riddle's looming face, giving himself accelerative momentum and straightening his torso in the process. He stiffened his neck muscles and clenched his teeth before using his body as weight to thrust his head forward.
He slammed the hard part of his skull against Riddle's nose.
The crack that sounded was almost as pleasing as Malfoy's was earlier. Riddle didn't make a sound, but he did back away quickly, turning his back on Harry and pressing his hands to his face. The sight was highly amusing to Harry.
He snickered coolly, his eyes flashing with glee as he considered Riddle's turned back.
"Didn't Merope ever warn you not to provoke caged predators, Riddle?" Harry crooned. He suddenly turned serious, losing his mirth. "I don't know what you want from me. If it's to turn me in, then do so. But if it's conversation you want, I can assure you I won't cooperate while I'm tied to a chair." The magical binding around his ankles and arms turned almost painful in their restraint, a direct correlation to Riddle's silent but lethal anger.
"Are you even capable of carrying on a conversation?" the Minister whispered darkly, his back stubbornly facing Harry.
"With the likes of you? No."
Riddle kept silent for a moment, probably trying to heal his nose. There were a few drops of blood that dripped between his fingers and onto the floor at his feet. The crack that echoed across the room signaled that Riddle set his nose back in order.
A moment later, a small object sitting on the desk issued a low beeping noise and emitted a flash red light. He had seen those before. They were similar to Muggle pagers; they were especially used at the Ministry for the employees and their Departments.
Harry's smile tightened.
The Ministry was calling for their Minister. It appeared as if this conversation would be postponed. Perfect.
The Dark Lord glanced at the object from over his shoulder, his face expressionless. A crimson eye then peeked at him. "Then you can sit here until you are capable of speaking to me."
Like that would ever happen.
"You're overcompensating," Harry taunted softly, watching as the man made his way to one of the doors. "You think binding me to a chair and making me sit here will make me feel inferior?" Even if the bindings were cutting off his circulation, he hardly let it affect him. "It's a rather large compliment for me to realize you have to hold me down in order to extract your will. How… disappointing, Riddle. I had expected more of a challenge from your intellectual side."
Riddle's shoulders stiffened and a low hiss escaped past his lips. "You aren't in the position to belittle me when I'm the one holding the ropes." While he was angry, his voice was controlled and calm. "You will sit here until I return. Do try to be a good boy."
And just like that, he swept from the room.
"Say hello to McLaggen for me," Harry murmured after the man.
Narrowing his eyes, Harry caught sight of the other side of Riddle's door. It looked like an exact replica of the Minister's office at the Ministry.
Did the man have doors leading to different places? Harry took another look around the office. He couldn't see the entirety of the perimeter, the bindings prevented him from turning fully, but he counted at least five separate doors spread across the office. Each one must lead somewhere else, a convenient way for Minister Riddle and the Dark Lord to be places quicker.
The Minister of Magic could be 'in his office', but no one would know he had taken another passageway inside the Ministry to come here and be a Dark Lord in between meetings.
This was also a clear violation of the Ministry bylaws. Creating doorways like this was almost as bad as tearing a sector in the Ministry wards and creating a location where enemies could Apparate and Disapparate inside without detection.
Harry exhaled slowly, glancing at the other doors and wondering where they led. This could also explain why there was more traffic going inside Riddle's manor than outside. Followers may have another door that led to another base. Or Diagon Alley? Anywhere, really.
Slowly, green eyes rotated around to stare at Merope. The woman disappeared from her frame, giving Harry stark solitude. He didn't know what Riddle actually planned with him. The method of Harry's captivity indicated Riddle didn't want him to suffer just yet. Still, Harry wasn't one to sit and wait for someone to come back to control the situation.
Harry was the one who controlled situations.
Granted, he had a brief slip earlier that resulted in Riddle having the upper hand. The man was too haughty if he believed Harry would sit meekly and take this sitting down.
Harry frowned. While he hated to admit it, he did have a disadvantage with Riddle.
The Dark Lord knew his identity and he had the willpower to do anything he wanted with that knowledge. But what Riddle didn't know was that Harry always had options. He refused to be blackmailed into anything when he could just run. And depending on the type of blackmail, Harry may even surrender himself up to the Ministry's custody.
Though, those options of freedom wouldn't be available to Harry if he was forever in Riddle's possession. His Doppelgänger was posing as Harry Potter and no one would realize he was gone. He could be locked here until he was forced to accept Riddle's terms.
No, it was best to have Riddle approach him, in Harry's turf where a Doppelgänger was not giving the Dark Lord an advantage.
Thinking of his Doppelgänger reminded him of a small accessory he had forgotten. He had added a little something extra to his copy for a possibility of something like this happening. Harry's lips twisted in a smile. It could be risky and he could fail, but he'd try anyway.
Riddle wouldn't see this coming, surely not.
He settled his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes, reaching out to the link he shared with his double.
. . Dreams . .
She entered a smaller portrait hanging on the wall of his Ministry office, her eyes critical as she watched him fix the swelling around his face. She wouldn't ask him if he was alright, simply because he wouldn't respond with a fair answer.
"Who is calling for you?"
"The Aurors," he replied in a clipped tone.
The blood was magically eliminated from the front of his robes and face. He turned, searching for the tie he kept at his office. Slowly, as he pulled out a simple black tie, his features began to wrinkle and age. She watched him, surprised he succeeded in reining his temper in front of the boy.
Their first encounter certainly hadn't gone according to his plans.
"You seem uncertain, mother," Tom drawled tightly, placing his tie around his neck.
The young woman twisted her hands slightly but stopped when she remembered Tom had once told her that it was an unbecoming gesture. She lifted her chin, gazing softly at her child. "He's unstable, broken…"
"Broken," he agreed smoothly, "But not shattered. I've seen much worse." The elderly man peered in the mirror, beginning to knot his tie. "Currently, all his problems are linked to one tragic and horrific event. He didn't have anywhere to put the blame for what happened to his parents, so he's subconscious blaming any criminal he can get his hands on. His lack of Occlumency and his strong Empath gift isn't helping matters either."
"Currently?" she pressed, frowning. He looked over at her patiently. "You said currently all his problems are linked to his parents' death, Tom. What do you mean by that?"
His lips twitched.
After straightening his suit, he turned to lean his palms against his desk. "My first goal is to teach Harry that his victims are not his unknown captives. Killing should never be emotional. If he continues to see his victims as his captors, he will lose himself. This realization will surely destroy him. We'll have an entirely new set of problems to deal with when that happens."
"He'll hate himself." Raised by the Light, the boy would surely struggle with the knowledge of what he'd done. With Tom Riddle leading him, the boy would eventually overcome his self-loathing and see it as something productive.
"Undoubtedly, if he doesn't already," Tom agreed. "Harry's locked into his flawed morality. Presently, he doesn't see himself as a killer, but as a wronged child extracting revenge and saving the citizens of Britain. He'll need to see that he's no hero, that he has committed crimes the same depth as the people he's hunting. After hisself-destruction, it will be a difficult step to dance, but I'm sure I can put the pieces back together the way I want them."
She looked at the clock, knowing he needed to speak with the Aurors but he would postpone long enough to address her concerns. "You want to build him as your assassin…." she began hesitantly, still uncertain as to what her son wanted with Harry Potter.
Tom seemed to take interest in collecting useful witches and wizards. And he also made a habit of fixing things that were broken. Yet, he had never taken a direct interest in something of this caliber.
He seemed amused and only answered vaguely. "Yes and no."
Merope thought back to the interaction between Tom and Potter. The tension between the two had been thick, and so was the challenge. She had never seen her son as passionate as he was when he was interacting with that boy. "He's very handsome," she remarked, remembering those vivid green eyes surrounded by thick eyelashes. The boy was a beauty, holding the same flawless exquisiteness around him that Merope had once seen in the elder Tom Riddle.
Dark eyes slanted in a predatory light. "Mother, what are you insisting?"
"Only what I witnessed," she shot back, standing her ground. "You're completely smitten."
"Smitten," the man repeated quietly. A mocking smile lifted the corners of his lips. "You make it so—"
"Innocent?" she interrupted. "Perhaps smitten isn't the right word for it, Tom, especially for someone of your… character. You're obsessed; completely intoxicated by the prospect of having someone that can challenge you and outwit you." Her smug smile turned down into a frown. While Tom had mentioned that Potter was indeed that challenger, she still didn't see it. "You have never taken on a lover before, only trysts. You don't truly believe he's your match, do you, child? You are so much more powerful than him, you deserve better."
"Not everything is measured by magical prowess, mother." Tom's face closed. "Watch over him, make sure he doesn't try anything. If he does, call for someone to assist you while I'm with the Aurors." He pushed away from the desk and swept gracefully toward the door. "It shouldn't take long to finish here. The wards will prevent him from physically touching any of the doors in my office."
She crossed her arms over her chest.
"And would you be displeased if he didn't try something?" She tsked as he shut the door, refusing to answer.
. . & Darkness . .
He stormed into the Department in a foul mood.
Of course, he didn't appear to be in a foul mood, but Kingsley could see the tense lines around his mouth and eyes, as if he were holding something back. Usually the Minister was cloaked with enthralling magic, drawing in people around him. This morning, Riddle seemed to project an aura of unapproachability.
Nevertheless, the Aurors still turned their heads, watching as the man swept through the maze of desks.
For his part, Riddle wore a gentle expression on his face and greeted a few Aurors who were close to his proximity. They melted, returning the welcome with far more enthusiasm. Sirius Black just grimaced when Riddle turned his charm onto him.
"Minister Riddle," Kingsley greeted carefully, sweeping careful eyes down the man's attire. Prim and proper as always. "I hope you weren't too busy when I called for you."
The deep brown eyes wrinkled further as the Minister smiled at Kingsley. "If I had been busy, Auror Shacklebolt, then I wouldn't be here, now would I?" He smiled pleasantly, placing a hand on Kingsley's shoulder and steering them away from the front of the Department. "Have you finally gotten possession of Mr. McLaggen?"
"Yes, we finally have McLaggen and… his newly acquired tan. He didn't return home until yesterday after a four day vacation to the Virgin Islands. Conveniently, there hadn't been any more murders for that stretch of time." Kingsley shook his head as they headed toward the interrogation room. "I understand you weren't particularly interested in being present for the interrogation, but I thought I'd invite you anyway. He seems friendly enough, open enough."
Riddle chuckled, patting Kingsley once on the shoulder before dropping his arm. "Custos, when caught, will most likely be smooth with the questioning until backed into a corner. Don't let his political sophistication fool you."
Kingsley had thought of that. He just wanted to hear the Minister's input. The man was giving the impression that he was interested in the case once again.
"So you'll stay for the questioning?" Kingsley wondered as the came to a stop outside the closed door. "I had thought you weren't impressed where the case was heading."
The taller man rotated his body to face Kingsley, his expression morphing into one of patient understanding. "I understand my actions in the past may have indicated otherwise, but I am truly anxious to see this case move forward. There have been… distractions on my end, forgive me if I had appeared preoccupied, Auror Shacklebolt."
It was plausible. Kingsley wanted Riddle around for his intellectual mind and his quick thinking, but he also had to understand that the Minister had other duties to attend to as well. He nodded, accepting the answer.
"I too would like to get this case solved."
Indeed, he wasn't accustomed to work like this. Solving mysteries and crimes weren't his or his Aurors' specialty. They left those finer details to the Unspeakables. The Aurors, on the other hand, dealt with direct aggression or an investigation into an abuse of Dark Arts. They always knew their suspect before acting. Kingsley couldn't remember a time when their suspect was able to fool the fine-toothed investigation from the Unspeakables.
Though, the situation with Erik Slore reminded Kingsley that there were other serial killers out there besides Custos.
He opened the door to the interrogation room, immediately spotting Cormac McLaggen sitting properly in his chair. The boy's blond hair had grown lighter and his skin had darkened due to his stay in the Virgin Islands. For the life of him, Kingsley couldn't conjure up the image of Custos lying in the sun with a glass of finely prepared liquor beside him.
His excitement at having such a prospective lead was beginning to dissipate. Cormac didn't seem like their man, though, the boy was certainly arrogant enough.
"Auror Shacklebolt." Cormac nodded sharply before turning to Riddle. A subtle lift to his eyebrows was the only indication of his surprise. "And Minister Riddle, it's a very pleasant surprise to see you. I hope you're faring well?"
It was a politician's voice. Kingsley deadpanned, hearing the boy's obvious effort to deepen his voice.
Riddle appeared just as unimpressed.
"Perhaps not as well as you, Mr. McLaggen. I heard you recently took a trip to the Virgin Islands." Riddle walked toward the seat opposite of McLaggen and sat down. "Needed a vacation away from it all?"
Kingsley shuffled the parchments and photographs inside his folder and approached the chair next to Riddle. From the corner of his eye, he watched as the bright expression on McLaggen's face darkened considerably into wary politeness.
"Of course, I think everyone deserves a few days away from the stress of reality." McLaggen clasped his hands coolly on top the table, smiling lightly at both Kingsley and Riddle. "What can I help you with, gentlemen?"
Withdrawing the photograph of Lady Zabini and Erik Slore, Kingsley placed them on the table in front of them, making certain they were angled in McLaggen's direction. "Are you familiar with these people, Mr. McLaggen?" Kingsley tapped the photograph of Lady Zabini. "Of course, everyone of high standing should know Lady Zabini, but what about him?" He motioned toward Slore.
Cormac frowned deeply. "I… yes, of course, he was one of Custos' victims. Erik Slore, a sick bastard who cut up living humans just for his potions." The boy's gaze jumped from Riddle to Kingsley. "And Lady Zabini was also a victim of Custos. But she was never convicted of any crimes."
Riddle leaned forward. "Do you follow the Custos case closely, Mr. McLaggen?"
"A lawyer of your standing must be watching the case closely," Kingsley added to Riddle's query. He opened his folder, peering at Cormac's turnover results. "You have a good victory record for someone as young as yourself. A success rate of ninety-eight percent isn't bad, in fact, it's suspiciously good."
"What can I say?" McLaggen wondered, a smile on his lips. "I am good."
Riddle and Kingsley exchanged a meaningful look.
"You're good friends with Hermione Granger, am I correct?" Kingsley continued tensely, deciding to skip the pleasantries and go right to the questioning. "Despite her earning higher marks than you in education and accreditation exams, her current success rate is at fifty-six percent. Does this… bother you? Surely, you feel some sort of resentment for the discrimination she experiences with her cases."
"Now wait just a second," McLaggen argued, his face turning red with anger. He held up a finger. "Just because Hermione is book smart doesn't necessarily make her a better attorney than me." Here, he held up a second finger. "Secondly, her discrimination is a direct correlation to the prejudiced members of the Wizengamot. It's not up to me to fix that discriminatory problem, it's up to your Minister." He jabbed a third finger toward Riddle. "Thirdly, I know what you're getting at. I am not Custos. I've never killed a man in my life. I have never handled a dagger or practiced physical combatting skills. You should really look at your Aurors-in-training, Mr. Shacklebolt, or look at the ones that failed the magical combating examinations. Custos is a Muggle-loving idiot who will meet his end when he's faced with a magical-capable wizard. And to think people worship him because of his perverse sense of justice."
Kingsley raised his eyebrows, remembering Riddle's earlier words about Custos being political smooth until backed into a corner.
This certainly was a corner.
"Magic is traceable, McLaggen," Riddle said smoothly. "It's one of the reasons why Custos has been avoiding detection. His physical ability is certainly not viewed as a handicap, but as an advantage." He smiled suddenly, appearing far more sinister than comforting. "Unfortunately for you, sometimes the perfect crime cannot be executed without a little magic, no matter how much you'd like to muffle it."
Cormac shook his head, still angry and now perplexed.
Kingsley cupped a contemplative hand against his mouth. "Have you experienced any unusual circumstances as of late, Mr. McLaggen? Has anyone threatened you? Have you noticed any of your items gone missing?"
McLaggen shook his head again. "I've been busy at work, completely away from Custos' victims, away from civilization, away from any crimes."
"You may want to rethink that," Kingsley mused, sliding a piece of parchment toward McLaggen. "Your magical signature was found at the only crime scene that involved magic being performed by Custos." He watched as McLaggen leaned forward, grasping the parchment close to him. "A wand muffler was used over the wand, but our Unspeakables were able to extract a string of signature that was matched to your wand."
"The brother of my wand—"
"Is a man pushing his two-hundreds, Mr. McLaggen, and completely unable to engage in physical activity."
McLaggen chuckled bitterly, pushing the results away from him. "I'm not Custos. These results won't hold up in court."
Here, Kingsley leaned forward, reaching in the space between him and the boy. "Perhaps not on its own, and perhaps we even have the wrong man. All you need to do is give us an alibi for the night of December 9th, Friday evening around eight o'clock." It was exactly when Erik Slore had been proclaimed dead.
Cormac paled and his eyes widened slightly. "I- I was at home."
Riddle chuckled. "Oh? And can anyone confirm that?"
McLaggen looked back and forth between the two men, his arrogance gone and falling victim to controlled nervousness. Kingsley took pity on him and offered him an out.
"Will you permit us to use Truth Serum and memory—"
"No, that's illegitimate," Cormac growled, leaning back against his chair and crossing his arms. "I want a lawyer."
Kingsley considered the boy, viewing him in a new light. This could be it. This could actually be it. McLaggen fit their profile as of now. He had no alibi for the night of Erik Slore's murder and his magical signature was traced to Lady Zabini's crime scene. Kingsley also knew a store owner in Knockturn Alley had sold a wand muffler the same day and time that Cormac took his lunches. And in that same day, the restaurant waitress confirmed Cormac had left earlier than he usually did.
McLaggen was also connected to Hermione Granger. He had a position of power during the day and he was intellectually smart. Even if McLaggen turned out not to be Custos, he was certainly guilty of something.
Yet, even when the pieces began to fall in place, Kingsley still felt uncertain about the way things were going.
. . Collide . .
Harry shuffled down the path to Riddle's manor.
He was trying his best to make his movements fluid and normal, but he was finding it difficult to take full control of his Doppelgänger's mind. He had established a sloppy link with his Doppelgänger when he created it, means for a last resort. The link was weak and it was fragmented, a direct consequence of constructing it when he had been magically drained.
There were times the Doppelgänger was able to nudge Harry away, but it was brief and fleeting.
Like now.
His stomach clenched in nausea as his consciousness slipped, causing the Doppelgänger's body to crumble to the ground. Harry then rocked forward in the link, establishing rule once again.
When he was in his Doppelgänger's head, he didn't feel as if he were in control of a body. Instead, the sensation of controlling his Doppelgänger felt as if his head was full of hot air and his body was sluggish, moving with a mind of its own.
The Doppelgänger was Harry Potter, after all, and an alien presence in his mind was clearly unwelcome.
Harry pushed himself off from the ground, sweat dripping the back of his neck. He had pulled his Doppelgänger out of the Ministry this morning before making his way to Riddle's manor. He was trying to go quickly, simply because he knew Riddle could return shortly.
Luckily, the gates were inching closer. Harry just hoped the Doppelgänger wouldn't push forward at a vital moment. If he had one misstep, he would be stuck in the chair at Riddle's office and his Doppelgänger would be in the Dark Lord's possession.
He reached out and tapped his knuckles against the wards to Riddle's manor, using the same three strikes he had seen the visitors use those days he had watched the manor. Someone would be out shortly. He knew. Harry only hoped he could pull this off in a believable and nonchalant manner.
It was difficult focusing on the outside world when he was already engaged in a mental battle.
Imagine his delight when he saw Lucius Malfoy sweep from the manor's entrance and approach the gates. As soon as the blond spotted him, his eyes narrowed and his expression darkened into one of disgust and suspicion. Harry grimaced lightly, wishing he could use his Empathy to feed Malfoy hints of trust.
The Doppelgänger only had a sliver of the ability, but Harry refused to attempt to use it, simply because he could lose grip on the Doppelgänger's mind.
"Potter, I had thought you were in the Dark Lord's office."
"Your nose healed nicely," Harry drawled, leaning against the stone pillar next to the gates. "Only the best medical treatment for a Malfoy, no?"
"When the damage is caused by a Muggle infliction, any injury is easily erased and forgotten." Lucius stopped in front of the wards, appearing as if he would rather kiss the ground a Muggle walked on than allow Harry entrance. "I ask again, what are you doing here, Potter?"
Harry's lips quirked.
His Doppelgänger was currently compliant, most likely curious to know what was going on and how it would unfold. "Riddle wants me in his office," Harry growled lowly, playing the act of an exasperated man forced to follow directions. "I had to check in at work earlier this morning but our business has not concluded as of yet."
Lucius' eyes narrowed further as he considered Harry. Before long, a smug smirk lifted his lips.
"It didn't take too long to control you. Pity, I would have thought you'd put up more of a fight." Malfoy skillfully moved his curtain of blond hair over his shoulder in a surprisingly non-feminine way. "Though, it shouldn't come to a surprise, considering what information he has over your head."
Time was passing and Harry was growing impatient. Nevertheless, he refused to let it show on his expression.
"Careful, Malfoy, so far Riddle hasn't warned me away from harming his followers." He pushed off from the wall, his steps stumbling just slightly as the Doppelgänger struggled against him. "Are you going to show me through? Or should I let Riddle come to me?" He grinned broadly, showing his teeth. "Because I certainly wouldn't mind it if Riddle had to come searching for me."
The blonde's eyes were still narrowed but he reluctantly reached out and pressed his hand against the wards. They glimmered before the gates opened for Harry. "I will show you to his office and keep an eye on you until he is back from the Ministry."
He pointed his wand at Harry, apparently having attained a back-up wand. His original one had been sliced in half by Harry's dagger.
It was clear that Malfoy didn't know about Harry's double, his Doppelgänger. Riddle most likely hadn't had the time or the sense to tell his followers that there were two Harry's walking around Britain. In fact, he didn't know if Riddle believed Harry had created a Doppelgänger or used another sort of Charm.
Evidently, Riddle hadn't seen it as a threat and it was understandable that he hadn't. Doppelgängers weren't usually controlled through a mind link by their creator, but Harry had taken special liberty of making his own.
As Malfoy led Harry inside the manor, the younger wizard kept close attention to their path.
Without major incidents with the Doppelgänger, Harry finally came to a stop in front of a closed door. Through lowered lids, he eyed Lucius' drawn wand, mentally scoffing at the idiot. Malfoy liked to boast that Muggle's were inferior to wizards. And while that was the case the majority of the time, wizards were also far more ignorant and arrogant when it came to survival.
The blonde's arm was extended and in close proximity to Harry. It would take a second to twist that arm, far quicker than what it would take for Malfoy to utter a curse.
He stood stationary as Malfoy unlocked the door to the office. As the door clicked open, Harry felt his adrenaline kick in. Was Riddle already there? Had his body been moved? Disturbed? Or worse, would he be able to transfer his consciousness back to his real self?
Malfoy pushed open the door, taking his eyes off Harry just briefly to glance inside the office. As soon as his eyes took in the bound and slumbering Harry Potter, the man's body tensed and twisted hate and confusion flickered across his face.
Harry smirked, reining control of the Doppelgänger's body and attacking. He gripped Malfoy's wrist, twisting it around completely and yanking the man's arm out of its socket. Malfoy roared in pain and dropped his wand.
At the sight of the unconscious Harry Potter, the Doppelgänger began to fiercely resist Harry's control. It made Harry's movements sluggish as he reached down to collect Lucius' fallen wand. Unfortunately, Malfoy took that moment to embrace the Muggle art of combat and kicked him squarely in the face, breaking his glasses. Harry grunted, pushing the Doppelgänger's consciousness away before grasping Lucius' leg.
Using his pent-up strength, he forcibly flipped Malfoy around and slammed the man against the ground face first.
His fingers fumbled with Malfoy's wand, but he was able to get a slack hold on it. His mind was acting quicker than his resisting body and it made his vision spin. The shattered glasses on his face didn't help matters either.
"Immobulus," he slurred, aiming for Merope's portrait. It missed and she quickly raced to escape the portrait. "Immobulus!" Luckily, this time his wavering aim had hit her portrait and she froze.
Harry pointed his wand at Malfoy, smirking and frowning at the same time. The blond hissed, raising to his feet and lunging for Harry.
"Stupefy," Harry murmured.
The man went down, and before the Doppelgänger attempted to gain control again, Harry magically sealed all the doors in the office with the exception of the one currently open. Riddle would receive a nasty surprise when he tried to enter through his Ministry office.
He groaned as the Doppelgänger attacked his mind again. The bloody thing!
Landing on his knees, Harry began to lose whatever grip he had over the Doppelgänger. His mind floated for a moment, lost in limbo. For a second, he lost his identity, his purpose, he didn't know he had an existence. And when he thought he'd never be whole again, he was suddenly forced back into his own body.
"Fuck," Harry growled, jerking awake and staring at the Doppelgänger across the room. His breath was erratic and he knew there was no point in trying to convince the Doppelgänger to release him. The Doppelgänger was already stumbling up from the floor and pointing Malfoy's wand at him.
"I am your creator, damn you," Harry breathed darkly. "You bend to me."
He reached out again, refusing to be thrown from his own creation's mind. The link was shredded, but it was still there. He vowed this would be the last time he would do anything half-arsed again. The Doppelgänger resisted, but eventually fell to its knees, unable to slip past Harry's control.
Crawling across the floor of Riddle's office, Harry shakily reached for the bindings around his unconscious body's ankles and wrists. He froze the magic into ice-like particles before shattering them. The magic had been strong, there would have been no way he would have been able to escape them without magic.
As soon as the bindings fell to pieces on the floor, Harry's consciousness leaped away from the Doppelgänger's mind and into his own. It felt wonderful to be in his own body again, with complete control over his limbs. He stood up from the chair, stretching his body like that of his Animagus form.
Through critical eyes, he watched as the Doppelgänger stood up, the wand in his hand the only defense.
"Who are you?"
Harry frowned, feeling… feeling a bit remorseful. There was no way to reverse the creation of a Doppelgänger, no matter how much the idea appealed to him. And he couldn't just let the Doppelgänger wander. He'd created the Doppelgänger in his moment of desperation. Now he had to deal with the consequences.
"I'm sorry," Harry murmured, taking a step closer to his double.
Green eyes blinked in confusion behind broken glasses. "For… for what? Who are you?" The Doppelgänger raised his wand, a familiar stubborn tick to his jaw.
Closing himself off, Harry reached out and twisted the Doppelgänger's arm as he had done to Malfoy. "I really am, sorry for creating you and taking your life away." He placed his hands on either side of the Doppelgänger's head and twisted sharply, breaking the neck instantly.
The body fell to the ground, broken and dead. Harry stood above it, staring down at the mirror-image of himself. At the time, he hadn't really thought of the Doppelgänger as another human being. It had been a mere convenience in his plans to thwart Riddle. But he had taken a man's life to create this, albeit a tainted man, but a man who hadn't proved his wrongdoings before Harry killed him. There hadn't been proof of his taint.
He breathed deeply, rolling his neck and staring at the ceiling. His face then hardened and he stepped over the Doppelgänger's and Malfoy's fallen form. The man had been tainted. He'd been tainted like the rest of them.
Just like them.
Pausing in the doorway, Harry turned back around, grabbing Malfoy's fallen wand on the ground. "Accio Harry Potter's wand and dagger." He hadn't expected to see the items, but surprisingly enough, they flew at him from behind Riddle's desk.
Dropping Malfoy's wand, Harry caught both items in each hand. He cast a sweeping look around Riddle's office before escaping the room.
It was almost disbelieving at how empty the manor was as he traveled down the stairs and out the front door. In fact, he kept his guard up as he approached the gates, expecting something or someone to attack him. Yet, as he pushed past the gates, free of the wards and free of Riddle, he was left unscathed.
Harry clutched his wand in his fist, Apparating directly to his flat. He would need to firecall the office and inform them that he was sick. He needed a day or two to brace himself before going back to reality.
Reality, a life full of masks, deceit, and false gratification.
Harry landed on his feet in his living room, looking toward the kitchen. Before the voice greeted him, he was already stiff and ready, his senses having identified the intruder.
"Congratulations, Mr. Potter. I truly am impressed."
He turned marginally, giving Riddle a look of blank contempt. The man sat on his sofa, paging through a photo album, the very same one Harry had stuffed beneath the piles of untouched books. Seeing the photos upset him more than Riddle's presence. Nonetheless, he kept his expression clear as he twirled his dagger between his fingers.
"Somehow, I'm not even surprised to see you here," he said dispassionately.
Crimson eyes finally looked up and a snake-like smile stretched the man's lips.
Harry readied himself mentally and emotionally, knowing this might be one of his largest battles yet.
