Everyone, I am so sorry for being this late!
I love writing this fic, but unfortunately, it's just a hobby. Life caught up with me in the form of computer problems, a new job (yay!), travel time, internet malfunctions, and a minor case of writer's block. Again, I apologize most wholeheartedly.
Don't worry, though. I've got a special surprise to make up for it.
Other announcements: This series is over a year old! Happy birthday to Sisith, Saysa, and the entire saga!
How long will you simple ones love your simple ways?
How long will mockers delight in mockery and fools hate knowledge? -Proverbs 1:22
The Wizarding world did not take kindly to its daughters' disappearance.
There was a lull for the first two days, of course; the reporters hadn't managed to type out their stories yet, but by the day after Harry explored Founders' Isle, the kidnappings had begun to inspire hysteria in the public.
THIRTY-TWO PUREBLOOD GIRLS MISSING, FEARED DEAD! screamed the headlines of the Daily Prophet.
On November 23, the students of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry filled the streets of Hogsmeade. They separated into small groups, intending to spend a rare and precious day away from the stresses of academic life. These small, unsupervised groups proved easy prey for the largest kidnapping to take place on British soil.
When the students returned to their school, they didn't notice that anything was wrong. By dinner, though, many realized that several of their friends were missing.
Headmaster Albus Dumbledore (Order of Merlin, First Class, Supreme Mugwump, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, etc.) immediately ordered the four Heads of House to tally up their students. They did, and the results were staggering. Fifteen Slytherins, six Gryffindors, eight Hufflepuffs, and three Ravenclaws had vanished.
While his students were being counted, Headmaster Dumbledore began heightening the school's security and summoned head Auror Rufus Scrimgeor. In a late-night meeting between Hogwarts staff and Ministry officials, Potions professor Severus Snape (head of Slytherin House, which had lost over a dozen girls) noticed an eerie similarity.
"All of the missing students had two things in common: they were all females of impeccable pedigree."
"We know all this already," Blaise grumbled, interrupting Daphne's recitation. "Is there anything else in there we don't know?"
Daphne's eyes scanned the paper. "It has a bit more on the security measures…. Here's a paragraph about yesterday's blood withdrawal…. A statement from Gilderoy Lockhart…" She flipped to the next page. "Nothing here….Ah."
"What?" demanded Harry.
Daphne resumed reading. "No one knows how or why these innocents were kidnapped, but their disappearances are undoubtedly linked to heritage."
"No, really?"
"Hush, Blaise. So many pureblooded girls would have only been kidnapped by someone who despises purebloods."
"They're pinning this on Muggle-borns?" Harry blurted incredulously.
"It appears so," sighed Daphne. Her eyes flickered over the words. "Look; it's an interview with the Senior Undersecretary. She thinks that they've been kidnapped by a 'radical mob of Muggle-rights activists.' Apparently the activists are going to kill one girl each day until the Wizengamot passes more pro-Muggle-born legislation."
Harry blinked. "Where did that come from?"
"Other potential culprits include werewolves, goblins, vampires, Death Eaters… anything but another pureblood. It says here that almost a hundred homes were raided yesterday."
"Those accusations are so stupid they don't even deserve a response."
"Oh?" sneered a boy's voice. "What makes you think that, Potter?"
The speaker was Theodore Nott, a quiet boy in Harry's own year. Nott wasn't very active, preferring to wait in the shadows and gather information and pass it on to older students, especially the prefects.
Harry sighed. "Werewolves are guarded all day by a group of Auror thugs. Goblins are too conspicuous; unless all of those girls went into the woods, they couldn't have kidnapped so many. Vampires can't go out during the day. Death Eaters are too stupid, not to mention that they'd kidnap Muggle-borns, not purebloods."
Nott frowned, thinking. "And what's your excuse for the Mudbloods, Potter?"
Harry opened his mouth, but Daphne cut him off. This was her territory. "The girls had three things in common, Nott, not just two." She met his eyes; he flinched away, undoubtedly remembering that Daphne Greengrass was heiress to one of the most powerful families in Britain. "They were all either neutral or pro-Muggle. If these imaginary Muggle-born fanatics wanted to kidnap someone, wouldn't they take someone like Parkinson over there? Her parents rabidly support pureblood rights; most of the kidnapped girls' parents either don't vote on those issues or vote in favor of Muggles."
Nott's face was expressionless. Abruptly, he stood up and walked purposefully away, undoubtedly intending to confirm Daphne's claims.
They were true, of course. Daphne had done her own research.
After all, as a pureblooded neutral girl herself, she had reason to be concerned.
Albus Dumbledore glared in frustration at the thin, delicate vials of blood before him.
He had not wanted to take all the samples, yet there was no other way. The Sorting Hat swore on Gryffindor's grave (an oath it would never break) that it had never Sorted a girl who thought herself Slytherin's Heiress.
And so he had resorted to collecting the blood of every pureblood and half-blood girl in Hogwarts, supposedly to place a tracking charm on them but in reality to find Riddle's target. Dumbledore had spent the past day and night performing the complicated, exhausting spell which would reveal a witch's bloodline. Whenever the bloodline encountered a Muggle, it would stop recording that branch of the family tree; if the ancestor was a wizard, the wizard's parents and dates of birth and death were written down.
Other than a couple of children who were apparently the issue of affairs, he had found nothing interesting. The longest bloodline had gone forty-seven generations, well before the time of the Founders.
With a small sigh of frustration, Dumbledore resumed work. Taking the stopper from another vial, he dipped the Elder Wand into its red contents. Murmuring under his breath, Dumbledore withdrew a single scarlet drop of blood and placed it on a sheet of pale vellum. Still muttering, he traced the girl's name: Tracey Davis.
As he finished the last letter, filaments of blood broke off from Tracy's name and spread over the parchment, forming into words. Names. Beside him, the girl's blood vanished.
The Slytherin's paternal lineage vanished out in seven generations, but her mother's bloodline kept spreading further and further back. Several of its lines stopped, but a single ancestor was pureblood, and that was enough to keep the spell active.
Maeve MacFinn, 1104-1200… Marcus MacFinn, 1077-1125… and the bloodline stopped.
Dumbledore bit back a curse; he'd been so close! Marcus had been born just generations after the founding of Hogwarts, yet he was not Slytherin's heir!
It was… immensely frustrating.
He looked at the remaining vials (all four of them) and sighed. It was still possible that one of them was Slytherin's heir, but that was highly improbable.
It seemed that Riddle had won.
Had Dumbledore not been so preoccupied, he might have noticed the strange, unfamiliar owl that dive-bombed Harry Potter in the halls.
The young Parselmouth had been discussing the missing children with Blaise and Daphne as they walked to Herbology class. The next thing he knew, a messy barn owl was flapping its wings in its face. Harry yelped, jerking back. The owl hooted in annoyance and flapped forward. Harry blinked. It wasn't trying to attack him; there was a letter attached to its leg.
"Er-thanks," he said. "Now hold still, will you?"
The owl glared, but it landed. Harry quickly reached down and untied the letter. The letter was rough, too, written on birch bark instead of paper or parchment. The ink was deep blue, possibly made of some berry's juice.
"What on earth?" asked Daphne.
"I don't know," Harry answered honestly. He glanced down at the sender's signature and gasped.
Charis. Bowen. Hesper. Stavros.
The archons.
Harry shoved the letter into his bags.
Daphne glared at him with cold blue eyes. "I ask again: what on earth?"
Harry's mind scrambled for purchase. Daphne was a valuable ally; more than that, she was a friend. Oh, she wasn't as close as Hermione or Blaise or Neville, but Harry still liked her.
The problem was, he didn't trust her. Daphne was the firstborn daughter of the most powerful neutral family in the Wizarding world, and she took her position seriously. Anything she did reflected back onto the Greengrasses, and it was largely due to the gray family's support that Harry's reform ideas hadn't been laughed out of Slytherin House.
He couldn't afford to alienate her. But there was no way he could tell her what was going on!
"Allies," he finally said. "Allies who probably couldn't care less about House rivalries."
Daphne's eyes narrowed. She understood his messages- both of them. The Greengrasses were only officially interested in restoring Slytherin's reputation, though Daphne herself had expressed clandestine interest in Harry's other plans as well. Because of this miniscule distinction, she couldn't claim that Harry's letter was a threat to their alliance; she wouldn't sever ties with him.
Blue eyes bored into green. Harry glanced at Blaise. The black boy had a sympathetic expression on his face.
"I'm sorry, Daphne," he sighed, "but I can't tell you more. It's not my secret to tell."
She stared a moment longer, eyes like cold agates, then nodded. "Judging from the quality of the… paper… your allies are forest dwellers." She glanced significantly at the Forbidden Forest. "Unless you have somehow discovered a tribe of hermits, might I assume that your new correspondents are centaurs?"
Harry blinked at her.
"I thought so. If your alliance does succeed, however, I would like to meet with these centaurs."
Harry nodded, relieved. "If they agree to it."
The threesome continued to Herbology, where they spent a long and messy morning repotting bloodvines, which had the nasty habit of expelling an odorous red liquid if squeezed too long.
As a consequence, the centaur's letter had a slightly pinkish tinge when Harry and Blaise finally read it during lunch. By the time they'd finished, they were grinning from ear to ear.
Lightning Speaker,
We have considered your proposals without rest. Our decision is as follows: We shall grant training to you, your companions, and any other allies seven times each moon. We will use our abilities to predict the success of your ventures. Whenever the speaker desires, we shall deploy no less than twenty-five warriors to assist in any military operation.
In return, you and your companions will report regularly to training; absences will be inexcusable. You shall, if required, act as a liaison between our people and other interested groups. Finally, if you succeed, you will remember the promises expressed by the Guardian when she brought you to us.
Your first training session will be exactly one cycle of the moon from the day you met with us. A teacher will meet you at the entrance to the Guardian's home at moonrise.
Charis, Bowen, Hesper, and Stavros
"One full moon?" asked Blaise. "That's tomorrow."
Harry nodded, grinning. "I didn't think they'd agree," he admitted. "I honestly thought I'd failed, but now they've sent us a coded letter and everything."
Blaise chuckled. "Well, you didn't. At the very least, it's something to boast about at dinner parties. Not everyone's been trained by centaurs."
"Wonder what they'll be training us in?"
"I have no idea," the elder Slytherin replied. "Whatever it is, it can't be as hard as those spells you're making us learn."
"Hey, we're only halfway through third year material!"
"Yeah. You're trying to cram a year and a half into less than three months. Not all of us have a Dark encyclopedia in our heads, y'know."
Harry grinned back, joy over the centaurs' letter combining with amusement with Blaise. "It's probably some kind of astrology."
"I think that's third year material, too. Divination."
"Actually it's more like fifth year stuff. But don't worry, it can't be that hard."
"It's probably some kind of astrology," Blaise quoted unhappily. "Isn't that what you said?" He ducked to avoid a tree branch.
"Well, it seemed reasonable at the time," Harry panted. Behind them, Neville moaned; Harry glanced back and noted nervously that the round-faced boy was covered with sweat.
Hermione was doing somewhat better than the boys. "An exercise routine," she moaned. "I come to a magical school in the middle of the Scottish wilderness and meet up with a famously reclusive tribe of centaurs only to be put on an exercise routine."
"You should not complain," said Firenze, their palomino tutor. Unlike Harry and his friends, the centaur was walking, not running. He had a longer stride than the others. "Wizards depend too much on their wands; if yours was broken, how would you escape? You must be able to run quickly and with endurance, to fight with hands and feet and bow and arrow. You need every advantage possible."
Hermione blushed. "I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to insult this. It's just- I expected something different."
"I am not surprised," Firenze replied serenely.
Neville tripped over a root. Harry stopped to help him up. The elder boy's face was red.
Blaise decided to cause a distraction. "Firenze, how do your people know Saysa? She's a bit… reclusive."
Firenze resumed walking. With a groan, the humans followed. Neville looked ready to cry.
"That is a long tale, Blaise Zabini, and not one we would normally tell to humans. However, you are the Smoking Mirror. You may know.
"When the wizards decided to go into hiding many centuries ago, my people sent embassies to the other races: the goblins, the mer, the dwarves, the werewolves and vampires and veela, all other sentient creatures- even the house-elves, though they refused to come.
"At first, it seemed that our negotiations would fall apart even before they began. The veela mocked the vampires; the mer threatened the dwarves; the werewolves were nearly banished. It seemed that war would erupt, not just between wizards and our separate races, but between peoples who were supposed to be allies.
"Then Saysa appeared, a dim figure out of local myth. A basilisk, she favored none, though many worried at first that she might help their enemies. With her as arbitrator, our peoples created the Treaty of the Wood. We would not fight the wizards- a hard decision, but the only one we could make without facing slaughter. Our numbers are fewer than yours, and even then, wizards could easily rouse the support of their Muggle kin.
"The more numerous and powerful races decided they would only fight under certain conditions. Most, though, decided to exist separately from wizards, to ignore your kind. My own ancestors did this."
"So," gasped Hermione, "Saysa is responsible for heading off a war?"
"Yes, and she asked no reward, save that when her Lightning Speaker came, our leaders would at least listen to him. At the time, it seemed nothing more than a passing delusion she would soon grow out of. Now, though, we know better."
Firenze frowned at the red-faced Neville, then stopped, apparently deciding they'd had enough for the day.
"Rest," the centaur ordered. "We will meet again in four days." He began to walk off.
"Firenze," called Harry. The palomino halted. "Those other races- they'll all be contacting me?"
"No. Most will speak to the archons, and to Saysa, before coming to you." He turned, eyes narrowing. "Many have not trusted humans your race for centuries. This is an honor, Harry Potter. Treat them with respect."
Harry was hunched over his knees with exhaustion, but he mustered the energy to glare back. "Of course I will."
Firenze just smiled.
If the Daily Prophet's first article on the kidnappings was ridiculous, its follow-ups were preposterous. "RAIDS FAIL TO FIND MISSING GIRLS." "WEREWOLF KILLED FOR RESISTING QUESTIOINING; DID THE AURORS KILL OUR ONLY LEAD?" "GRINGOTTS SEARCHED FOR MISSING PUREBLOODS." The papers were filled from front page to back with speculations, revelations, and paranoia. The media seemed to have accepted without question the assumption that Muggle-born fanatics were responsible. As such, an anit-Muggle hysteria began brewing.
Editorials were filled with explanations as to how Muggle-born rights laws had created this situation. Aurors were quoted slurring Mudbloods- not Muggle-borns, Mudbloods.
And it was not just the media that bought these lies. Even Hogwarts was affected. Arguments broke out; friends stopped speaking. Muggle-born students kept their eyes averted and their heads down. One individual, the same fifth-year who had accosted Neville on Platform Nine and Three-quarters, was caught writing the word "Mudblood" on Professor McGonagall's walls.
Had that student been in any House but Slytherin, he would have been expelled. As it were, the Heads of Gryffindor and Slytherin had a spectacular shouting match on the fourth floor about how the little bigot should be punished.
Snape was the only teacher who seemed happy; all the others walked around angrily. McGonagall's temper, always terrifying, burned shorter every day. Flitwick took to interrupting his own lectures with unhappy tirades. Even gentle Pomona Sprout attacked her plants with uncharacteristic venom.
Harry learned a powerful lesson that week: whoever controlled information controlled the world. If he wanted to change the world, he would have to start with what people heard.
At his request, Hermione began spending much more time with Luna Lovegood. Many of their conversations involved Luna's father's printing press.
Worst of all, though, was the Greengrass' reaction. The day after Harry's first training session, Daphne received a long letter from her parents. When she read it, her face crumpled.
"What?" demanded Harry, concerned.
Daphne handed him the letter before purposefully walking off. Harry skimmed through her missive and hissed, then shoved it to Blaise. The black boy cursed.
"Break all ties? They want her to break all ties with us?"
The Greengrass heir did not speak to them for the remainder of the day. The next morning, though, she muttered something about playing both sides and went to talk to Hermione.
Harry thought back to the letter and grinned. If he remembered correctly (and he had an excellent memory) the elder Greengrasses had only ordered their daughter away from him and Blaise. Hermione and Neville, though, were safe game.
Around that time, an odd thought began forming in Harry's brain. It began with a chance comment from Neville: "Daphne's brilliant. Brilliant and cunning."
Brilliant and cunning… brilliance and cunning, trust and high-soaring eagle, the Daughter of Frost.
Could she be?
He asked Saysa immediately, of course, but the basilisk didn't know. She couldn't know, she'd never seen Daphne.
"So if you see her, you'll be able to tell?"
"Yes. I recognized your other friends as soon as I saw them. I will know."
That, of course, formed a whole new set of problems. Saysa wasn't exactly inconspicuous. Perhaps they could Disillusion her? No, someone might accidentally look into her eyes, and they had no idea what affects a Disillusionment Charm would have on a basilisk's deadly gaze.
Maybe, suggested Blaise only half-jokingly, they could knock Daphne out and "borrow" her for a while. Unfortunately, he'd said this when Hermione could hear and had received a tongue-lashing in return.
At their next meeting with Firenze, the students asked if he could try and divine the answer to their question. The centaur had simply nodded vaguely and muttered something about a "conjunction of Mars and Beteljeuz."
Next, they tried capturing Daphne's image. Neville filled half a camera with her pictures before running back to the Chamber, at which point Saysa told him that no, she couldn't tell from photographs. But, she consoled him, at least now she'd be able to recognize Daphne.
Though Daphne was the most likely candidate for Daughter of Frost, she wasn't the only one. Any girl in their year was a possibility.
Neville dismissed the Gryffindor girls right away. They weren't brilliant and cunning, they were shallow and giggly. Harry and Blaise automatically stopped considering Pansy Parkinson and Millicent Bulstrode, vowing to watch the other three Slytherin girls closely. Hermione didn't think any of her dorm mates was the Daughter of Frost, postulating that she was either Daphne (who fit the mold) or a Hufflepuff (which made a strange sort of sense: one from each of the four Houses).
But no matter how hard they thought, the four children realized that the only way to know for sure was to let Saysa see them- and she would probably have to do it in human form. After all, a tall, pale woman was rather less noticeable than a gigantic green serpent, and as a human Saysa could control her deadly gaze. As Sisith said, "It would really stink if you found this girl right before she dropped dead of basilisk exposure."
Yet Saysa could not become human until Beltane, half a year away. They did not have that kind of time!
The only solution Harry could see was desperate, dangerous, and quite possibly stupid- but they might just have to try it.
Tom Marvolo Riddle did not pace.
Pacing, in his mind, was a sign of weakness. It showed restlessness, uncertainty; it lured his enemies in for the kill. No, when Lord Voldemort was perturbed, he sat at a desk, hands folded, and thought.
Which is what he was currently doing.
Lucius Malfoy's desk was gaudy and ornate, carved with flourishes and scrolls. It wasn't exactly Riddle's style, but, as he was trapped in the Death Eater's body until further notice, he didn't really have much choice.
He did not have the Heiress.
Draco, the Death Eater's son, had repeatedly assured his "father" that each and every pureblood girl from third year up was missing. Only first and second years remained at the castle.
Could the girl be that young? It had taken him, the most brilliant wizard in the school, five long years to track down the chamber. The thought that his rival might be even more brilliant (or, hopefully, just more lucky) gave him a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Yet the alternative was even worse. Bad enough that one Heir of Slytherin was half-blood; what would his ancestor think of two contending mixed-blood heirs? The great wizard had to be turning over in his grave!
No, he had to focus. Tom forced his attention back to the problem at hand: how to find the girl.
Could he feasibly kidnap all the half-breeds? No, mongrels made up the majority of the Wizarding population. There would be too many of them to steal in one blow, and with each wave of kidnappings, security would become tighter and tighter. Powerful as he was, Riddle still had only the magical capabilities and resources as a sixteen-year-old student. His older self might be able to, but none of the Death Eaters he'd made Lucius contact had any idea where their lord was.
No, he couldn't take the mutts- yet. First he had to try the remaining purebloods.
Lucius' lips smiled coldly. The house-elf- Dobby or something inane like that- whimpered softly.
Shifting the diary closer to his stolen body, Tom Riddle began to write.
Dun dun duhh. Lots of cliffhangers here.
I think that the next chapter will contain the first part of the holidays. I say "the first part" because Harry and co. will be having a very busy Christmas break. All sorts of interesting things will go on in late December. Some of them will be related to this book's development, some will not.