A Time to relax
.
Ministry of Magic
.
Three days ago, the second task ended with a highly unexpected result: Walden McNair died, killed by a Squib. The sharp blade of his own axe ended his life under the eyes of hundreds of spectators, shuddering in a mix of delight and disgust.
Today, Peter Pettigrew, under his usual cloak and cover of the one and only Lord Sirius Black, meandered through the halls of the Ministry. He stopped now and then for some small talk and flirt with one of the witches gushing all over him. It was easy to forget how they weren't in heat because of him but the reputation, charm and body of Peter's youth friend. In the beginning, he had been too clumsy in his behaviour. Luckily, they put it on his extended stay in Azkaban which gathered even more sympathy. Still recovering, they whispered. Slowly he got the gist of it, remembering all those times he watched Sirius enviously. Peter quite enjoyed pretending to be Sirius. Who is the winner now Sirius, hey? Yeah, me, poor old Peter is. And you're the loser.
He had only a hazy idea of the ritual his master had planned, but knew it would mean the death of Sirius' soul – and the end of his time as the prize-winning smile effigy. Perhaps my master will let me play his double now and then, Peter mused. It was possible. His master would surely need an alibi from time to time. Still, he intended to make the best of the next few months. He wouldn't leave the Ministry without arranging some date for tonight, with some beautiful but not too bright witch. For a second, the image of Dolores Umbridge invaded his mind. Not that one, he shuddered. He shall flirt with her in a few minutes, but the thought of touching her nearly made him ill.
Sirius nodded curtly to the Auror guarding the entrance to the Minister's wing. To the man belonged to the small group of unimportant families of Purebloods following his master's lead: grey but not too fond of Muggles, and convinced of the magic-users' superiority. Their new motto was to foster talent and upbringing above blood. His master expected old but weak families to renew their blood through thoughtful marriages. Even talented Muggleborns were acceptable – as long as they cut ties with their birth families. There were also secret talks about abducting magical children from Muggle families and obliviating them to give them a proper education. With blood adoptions they could easily be integrated into their new-found families. Some old sympathisers didn't care much for the loss in mayhem and murder, but in the long run this moderated course would be more successful and could even be accepted by many greys and a few light families. His master believed it, and for now Peter did too. That didn't mean they had to play nice all the time though. They only had to be more careful, not to draw their master's wrath. Avoiding suspicion or discovery at all cost was one of the prime directives of the new order.
For today, however, something different had to be taken care of. That's why he had to be there, playing nice with a creature as disgusting as Dolores Umbridge.
Let's get this over with, Peter gulped, as he reached the door and knocked.
.
"It's just disgusting," Dolores whined, offering him a cup of tea in one of her ugly cat cups.
"It sure is," Peter nodded gravely. They had been speaking about the events for a while, Peter making good use of Sirius' most-charming self. The woman's simpering voice and fluttering eyebrows – her attempt at seduction it seemed - gave him a stomach ache.
McNair's body was still warm when the Healers arrived, pronouncing him dead. The Auror accompanying him was alive and only moderately hurt. Traces of an Imperious were still noticeable. Luckily, the man didn't know anything compromising about their plans or even their part in the whole affair. According to him, it was the deed of a single man who had gone mad. They brought the girls to St Mungo's to take care of their injuries. Regretfully, both had survived and would recover reasonably fast. They had still been in the Hospital when people demanded for the Squib to be put on trial for murder. Some even condemned Harry's decision to kill the Dementors instead of merely driving them off. Peter admitted that he had been shocked and a little afraid at this show of his abilities. While not fully indestructible, it was a rare occurrence for a Dementor to die. Usually, it needed quite some powerful magic or very specialised knowledge to accomplish such a thing. Neither should have been in the boy's grasp.
"Another instance of Headmaster Dumbledore messing with justice," Sirius sighed gravely.
"Actually, he didn't" Umbridge answered, surprising Peter. "He convinced Cornelius to drop the charges against Potter for killing those dear Dementors, but nobody ever expected us to go through with those, not against the boy-who-lived." Peter suppressed a shudder. Only Umbridge would call a horror like Dementors "dear". Even Hagrid didn't include them in his usual "misunderstood creature" sermons. Umbridge looked a tad queasy herself, probably because of her involvement in the whole matter. McNair had only been able to temporarily free those Dementors because of her lax monitoring. Now, she feared the incoming investigation. "But he was less involved with the girls. It actually looked like Dumbledore wanted to get rid of them. I overheard, quite accidentally naturally, how he tried to convince Cornelius to offer that Squib the chance to return to her home country instead of standing trial."
Peter was silent for a while, pondering what he just heard. His master would be interested in such a piece of information. In the end, Dumbledore's behaviour wasn't a surprise. There had already been several attempts to isolate the boy, something actually shared by his master. However Harry put an end to this by threatening to leave: "Hermione and Jenny get cleared, or I leave England immediately." He would have to return for the third task naturally, but his master wanted him around for the coming months – him and his friends. The Bain-boy in particular needed to be here for Potter to witness what his master had planned for the end of March.
"Madam Bones is the one stalling the persecution now," Umbridge explained. "I don't know her reasons, but she has been quite annoying about it." Interesting, very interesting, Peter thought. Why would the Head of the DMLE show such an active interest in this case?
"Perhaps it is better this way, and we should graciously accept it," Peter offered after a while. He stopped the woman's rant with a gesture. "Please listen: We know that this attack on the Delacours had been the act of a madman, acting on his own, and without the support or tacit consent of the Ministry or anybody else."
Umbridge's eyes widened immediately understanding his line of thought. While she had been giddy about the attack, despising Veelas nearly as much as werewolves, it had started an international incident of epic proportions. Dumbledore was reeling from the event and its political repercussions, and Minister Fudge wasn't faring much better. Declaring it the act of a lone nut would moderate the international reactions. And it would protect her as well. She nodded slowly.
"McNair's death is a loss," Peter sighed deeply. "He was always able to solve special kinds of problems when they arose." Bloody problems, Dolores nodded again. "But he wasn't a true wizard, as he proved by dying. No real wizard would prefer an axe to a wand. An axe, Dolores! He wasn't even using a traditional sword but the weapon of a butcher." He shook his head in disappointment. "And no real wizard – or witch" he bowed to Dolores which she accepted with a giggle, "would lose a duel to a Squib."
"No, you're right, she wouldn't." Dolores puffed her ample chest, accepting with her usual lack of grace that he called her a real witch. "Continuing the investigation would be… damaging to the Ministry's reputation, draw too much attention to something that should be forgotten as soon as possible."
"Quite my thoughts, dear Dolores," Peter showed a toothy smile, forcing his stomach to ignore her simpering. "McNair brought this onto himself, we don't want the Ministry - or Merlin bewares the Minister - to get connected to this vile deed." No, Dolores mouthed, accepting his words as gospel. "I expect you to take care of this, Dolores. This was the unfortunate act of a madman. The Minister is of course disgusted by this surprising show of confusion on McNair's part and offers his condolences. The Squib girl deserves neither prosecution nor accolades."
Dolores grimaced. There had been an equally loud minority that demanded honours and rewards for the "Heroes of the Lake". They even wanted to congratulate that Bain-boy – the vile fraud. That was unacceptable. "I'll take care of it."
.
All in all, Peter rated the day as quite successful. He had convinced Umbridge to do his master's work, strengthened her bond to Lord Sirius Black – something that could only be useful to his master at a later time – and even got a date for the evening. Edgecombe wasn't the most beautiful woman but acceptable, and her working with the Floo Network Authority was only a welcome bonus. Sooner or later, his master would draw her closer into his group of sycophants, why not start early? And his master would be content with the conversation's result as well. With the Squib girl free, Harry would stay in the country. And perhaps his – well, Sirius' – part in the decision making even produced a bit of goodwill from the boy. Peter didn't expect it – not as long as Lovegood was messing with his heart and despised Black – but you could always hope.
Yes, a successful day indeed.
.
Aberdeen – Fourth of March
.
Harry had no doubt about Jenny being close by, always hidden from sight but ready to protect them in case of need. She kept an eye on the group of friends as they walked through the windy streets of Aberdeen. She had been even more protective of him and his friends since the task. At least, she was free from those silly accusations now. Harry knew that Alice had been the one to inform Madam Bones. She still had connections into the DMLE from the time her husband had been a respected Auror. Sirius Black had sent Harry a letter as well about his part in the matter of freeing the girls, certainly to collect some goodwill for his selfless deed. Luna had burned the letter, fury in her eyes. Harry had needed to snog her good to keep her from flooing to Black Manor and show him just what she thought about it. Not that Harry complained too much about the arduous task.
At least, it was somewhat sunny today, the winter having finally left Scotland. Spring invaded the land with blossoming flowers and the first warm rays finding their way between the clouds, luring people into the open. With Jenny and Hermione both free and recovered from their injuries, the boys had decided to go through with their promise of catching up on the missed Valentine's Day. There would be no Madam Puddyfoot today, no scary singing and no overwhelming amount of the colours red and pink. Hermione remembered the infamous Lockhardt-Valentine with a shudder. Instead the girls got beautiful flowers picked by Michael, little presents and candy – and a day with their boyfriends far away from prying eyes. They decided to go Muggle for the day, hoping to avoid magical attention for a few hours. The past week had been frustrating. Everybody had something to say about the events, either scorning them or lauding them like they were the best thing that happened since the Founders. Harry found both to be excessive and annoying. He wanted to be left alone, and he knew his friends felt the same.
"I know your mother wasn't happy about you arriving via Dreamscape," Hermione whispered softly, "but I'm thrilled you decided to risk it. When you arrived… I was all run down and wouldn't have lasted much longer. Thank you."
Harry nodded and smiled gently. Not happy was an understatement. Michiko had been thunderous in her fury. Back at home, she would have grounded him for the rest of the term, perhaps even longer. In the end, Harry assumed she was far angrier that he had been forced to take such a risk than anything else. There had been no other way to rescue the girls in time, abridging the way via Dreamscape had been the only choice. Michiko knew that, didn't mean she liked it.
"You're welcome!" He responded with a small bow. "He was an evil man. This McNair I mean." The news about the extent of his misdeeds had shocked a lot of people. Compulsion charms on some of the Mermen to attack the younger sister; a potion to make the Grindylows attack Fleur; not to speak of the Imperio he used on that Auror and his decision to bring a pair of Dementors along. McNair had been officially damned, accompanied by an apology of the Minister to the Delacours – just not to either Jenny or Hermione. Harry remembered that fact quite clearly and despised the Minister a bit more because of it.
And he had a name to add to his list of vile humans: Dolores Umbridge, Ministry official responsible for "Dementor commitment". It was the same woman that enforced a couple of Werewolf laws in the past years, greatly worsening their situation. Harry knew that Remus was in contact with many British Werewolves, smaller packs that tried to get a living the peaceful way, following the lead of Fabian Treskow and keeping their distance to Greyback and his brutes. People like Umbridge made it nearly impossible for them to have an honourable life and drove them into Greyback's arms. It was a cycle of hate, violence and prejudices that had to be broken, the sooner the better.
"Dumbledore wasn't happy either about our ability to use this way of transport on the grounds of Hogwarts," Harry explained after a moment.
"It's a security risk," Hermione understood.
"Yes," Harry agreed. "And it's one way to circumvent his control on the castle… and us."
"You've always a way out. Naturally, he would hate that," Hermione smirked, her opinion of the headmaster taken another step down.
Harry shrugged. "That's his problem. He can't do anything about it, not without doing serious damage to the ghostly inhabitants of the castle." Ghosts and Spirits were closely connected to the Dreamscape. Paul had warned the headmaster that closing it off could destroy the weaker ones and would hurt the elder and stronger ones. Messing with the Dreamscape would force the Castle Spirit's hands. "In the end, he is run down as well. One more accident like this and he'll lose his job."
"Yes, the newspapers were quite damning about his lack of foresight. I'm certain Malfoy and his cronies really liked that part."
Harry shrugged. "For once, I share Malfoy's opinion."
While Dumbledore had been able to stay in his office, it had only been by a whisker. France hadn't been happy about nearly losing two of her precious daughters. Only Percy had been lauded by both the national and international press for his foresight to demand Portkeys for champions and hostages alike. That the judges didn't follow his advice wasn't his fault. Not that the matter endeared him that much to his boss. "Percy is a good friend."
"Yes, he is," Hermione smiled. "Penny has chosen well."
"We want to visit them on Easter. Do you want to accompany us?"
"I would like that."
.
"What are you thinking about?" Hermione asked.
The group of friends had stopped at a public playground. A dozen children were playing loudly, enjoying one of the first days they could do this outdoors without rain or cold. A few parents were watching them from the sides, smiling broadly as Luna joined the fun. The children loved her and willingly followed her lead, having no problems believing her stories about some fantasy creatures hiding in the bushes or invisible in the air. The doubts would start later, once they grew up, Harry mused.
"We still don't know why the Nargles are doing this."
"Protecting Luna by confusing her from time to time?"
Harry nodded slowly. "Have you ever watched out for other Nargles?"
"Yes," Hermione frowned, remembering her experiments with the spell she learned from Paul and Harry. It was always exhausting to use it, but that didn't stop her. "I've noticed a few. The Whomping Willow has quite a gathering, and a few are flying around here and there." She hid the gesture and whispered the words as she cast the detection spell and looked around. "A few of them are here as well, but only a handful it seems – aside from Luna's head."
"Aside from Luna's head, exactly," Harry agreed. "But why her?"
"Perhaps they simply like her? Some people draw cats or dogs to them, and there is this story about that American horse whisperer. Why not someone being attractive to Nargles? We don't exactly understand how they feel or think."
"Might be," Harry nodded slowly. "Yes, it is possible."
"But you don't believe it?"
"No, I don't." Harry sighed and watched his girlfriend, a thoughtful expression on his face. "What if it is the result of her mother's influence? Somehow she protected her daughter when everything went to hell on that day. Her mother died, Luna survived."
"Some kind of Mother's ward charm?" Hermione asked.
"Something like that, maybe."
"It certainly would explain a lot. If that's the case, we have to thank her the next time we meet her."
"Yes, we do," Harry agreed.
"Do you think we'll meet her again?" Hermione wondered, remembering that meeting in the Dreamscape actively.
"I have no doubt. She's still near, I can feel it."
Hermione looked around, not expecting to see – or feel – anything. She had to trust him in this. Nonetheless, she whispered a "thank you" into the wind.
.
"What are they whispering about?" Hermione asked a bit later. They were nearing their next stop, a restaurant where they intended to eat with Jenny and Paul.
Parvati turned around and glanced towards Harry and Michael who were following them, deep in conversation. "Fipsy," she replied.
"Fipsy?" Hermione frowned. It was a name a house-elf would use, but none she knew.
Parvati nodded. "It's something Michael remembered back at the playground. One of the older children helped her sister with her jacket. Apparently, that caused a small flashback. Michael remembered Fipsy doing such things for him in the past."
"And who is this Fipsy? A house-elf?"
"Yes," Parvati confirmed her guess. "She was around when Michael was very small, a toddler actually."
Hermione frowned deeply. "She could know something about…"
"Yes, that's what the boys are hoping for."
"Did he try to call this Fipsy? Perhaps, she's willing to follow his call. House-elves are very loyal, especially to children they once cared for." Hermione had learned quite a thing about house-elves, in part thanks to her visits to Matron Mathilda.
"He wants to try it after our return to Hogwarts."
"Do you think this Fipsy belongs to the Headmaster?"
"Possibly," Parvati replied, not looking happy as she thought about Dumbledore. She wasn't a fan of his anymore, her trust in the formerly godlike man seriously shaken. "We'll have to wait and see."
.
Parvati glanced around, grinning conspirational. "Harry told me about your Patronus."
Hermione blushed, turning as red as a tomato. "He didn't," she exclaimed.
Parvati rolled her eyes. "Nothing to be ashamed of; I'm quite proud that you were able to cast the spell, and the fully corporal form as well." Parvati hadn't been able to do that so far. She created a solid shield now, but nothing like a creature.
"Thank you." For a moment, she hoped Harry hadn't told her more about it. It was a hope dashed very quickly.
"But the form," Parvati winked. "Telling, very telling my dear." Hermione's blush deepened. "But he was right, yes? That your Patronus is a…"
Hermione clamped her hand over her friend's mouth. "Not a word," she hissed.
Luna would have licked her fingers to get rid of the hand. Parvati bit.
Her grin broadened at Hermione's face. "Really a…"
"Look were there," Hermione interrupted and gestured towards the restaurant, only to pale as the door opened and someone exited with Jenny and Paul.
"Greg?"
.
Some hours later
They returned to Hogwarts, happy but also a tad sad about this special day ending far too soon. Greg had said his farewell in Aberdeen. Michael smiled fondly as he thought about it, remembering Hermione's blush as the stout boy kissed her on the cheek, a new amulet dangling around her neck. Like the other girls, she got flowers, candies and a present – the present being that amulet, an aquamarine infused with Greg's magic. It would only last a year and a day, he explained, but Paul had promised to teach him next summer how to make it permanent. They were a cute couple, the fragile girl and the hulking boy who was so tender around her, the bossy bookworm turning into a blushing teenager around him.
Yes, Hermione had been shocked about his presence, but positively. Harry and Michael had convinced Greg that their meeting in Aberdeen wouldn't put Hermione in danger. It had been the right decision. While there was no doubt in Michael's eyes that Greg's feeling had only intensified over the past months and Hermione obviously was ready now to admit that this feeling wasn't one-sided. They still had to be careful and rarely spend time together. This thrice-dating day was a very welcome change.
Now, they were back at Hogwarts, and Michael had something to do. They had spoken at length about it. They decided he had to be alone so as not to frighten or confuse the house elf he intended to call. His friends weren't too far away, and he had a guess that Jerry was keeping an eye on him, but apart from that, he was the sole human entering the summoning chamber. It was Saturday so no class was occupying the room. Actually, his friends presumed any place would work. Either Fipsy wanted to heed his call – and was able doing so – or not. The chamber was only chosen because Harry expected Fipsy to be more relaxed, and Luna agreed with that assessment.
Michael looked around and sighed. No reason to delay this. There was nothing he had to prepare, no incantation to remember or spell to cast, only calling her name. "Only," he whispered. The flashback had hit him like a brick to the face, the picture of a house elf taking care of little Michael. Only, she had called him Harry back then. Throughout the day, more and more pictures of those days invaded his mind. He had been happy if a little lonely. She played with him, read him bedtime stories and showed him the ways around flowers. "No harsh plucking! You be gentle." Fipsy had been the one to inspire the love for flowers in little Michael, a love accompanying him until today. How could he ever forget it? How could he ever forget…?
"Fipsy!"
He had barely whispered her name with the urge of calling her, as a soft plop announced her arrival. A second later, Michael found his arms filled by a weeping mass, as Fipsy was clinging to him like he was her long-lost son. In a way, he was.
"Young Master called Fipsy. Young master is back. Young master hasn't forgotten Fipsy," she wailed.
"Never, Fipsy, never," Michael replied, patting her gently on the small back. "You were my first friend."
Fipsy let go and took a step back, carefully watching the teenager and poking him into the chest. "Young master isn't eating enough." She cocked her head and blinked. "But master is looking healthy."
Michael smiled. She was like he remembered her, perhaps looking a bit older and frailer. She wasn't a young house elf by far, and with his newfound knowledge about her race, he wondered how old she really was. "Fipsy, I have a question for you."
"Yes?" Fipsy eyed him warily.
"Do you belong to Headmaster Dumbledore?"
Fipsy relaxed a little. What kind of question did she expect? Michael wondered. "Fipsy has served the House of Dumbledore for a long time," she said and nodded, her ears flapping wildly.
"And you took care of me for my first years as well."
Fipsy blinked and kneaded her hands. "Fipsy took care of young master for a while before he turned three," she replied a little evasively.
What was she hiding? Michael narrowed his eyes. "How old was I when you first saw me?"
Fipsy's left eye twitched. According to Hermione that was a sure sign of the question being borderline forbidden to answer. He was on the right track, it seemed. "Young master was older than one but not two." That was a little vague. Apparently, Fipsy wanted to avoid him learning about his exact age. But why? Would his true birthday betray his identity? What to ask next?
"Fipsy, why do you call me young master. I remember you always called me Master Harry when you took care of me."
Fipsy looked nervous now and glanced around as if looking for someone. Michael had decided to withdraw the question when Fipsy whispered. "But young master isn't Harry."
Michael paled. Had she known back then? "Since when did you know?"
"Can't tell, can't tell." Fipsy was swaggering now, and Michael hastily stopped her. "You don't have to answer, Fipsy, it's all right." Fipsy showed him a thankful smile. "And you're right: I'm not Master Harry – not anymore. The real Harry returned. He is a nice one. You would like him."
"Fipsy knows. Matron Mathilda told Fipsy." She blinked teary-eyed. "But he isn't young master."
"No, he isn't," Michael replied. Was there anything left he could ask her? Fipsy looked sad and struggling with something. Like she wanted to tell him a secret but didn't know how. Perhaps another path to try out. "You could call me Master Michael if you want."
Fipsy shook her head, her ears flying wildly as she did so.
"But it's my name." Did she know? Did she know his real name?
"Noooo," Fipsy wailed. "That wouldn't be right."
Michael reeled back, even more as a second house elf appeared, an utterly furious Matron Mathilda. "Stop it right now. Fipsy, calm yourself," she thundered, her voice having an immediate and obvious impact on the other house elf. "Return to your duties, Fipsy. And you won't heed young master's call until he knows his real name."
Michael wanted to complain, but it was too late. Fipsy disappeared, obviously relieved to get away, and he was left alone with Matron Mathilda glaring at him. "You hurt her."
"I know," Michael said slightly defeated. "I didn't want to but…"
"No buts," Matron Mathilda hissed. "She loves you. We don't hurt people with their love."
"You're right. I'm sorry."
"Good," Matron Mathilda replied. "You should. Don't you forget it." She calmed down a bit. "I don't know her secret before you ask. I have a guess, but nothing more. She wanted to tell you something, but her oath was keeping her back. I felt her struggling against the bounds. It injured her. A few questions more and she would…" Mathilda huffed. "Don't. Ever. Do. This. Again. Do you understand? You have to solve this riddle in another way."
"I understand."
"I hope you do. Otherwise I will have to show you why even the Headmaster respects me."
Michael gulped. He would very much like to forgo that experience. "That won't be necessary." And he meant it.
.
Headmaster's office – the same time
.
The past week had been exhausting. He had lost much of the goodwill he gathered over the years, even among his oldest friends and staunchest supporters. There was actually talk about him going senile. And that was the friendliest of comments. Others speculated whether he even cared any more for the welfare of his students and guests. One especially ugly rumour tried to brush him with a supposedly hidden Veela hate as if he wanted those girls to die. Luckily, both had survived. That he hadn't been able to get rid of the Squib-girl in the aftermath was another defeat, albeit a smaller and unimportant one. Another sign of my waning influence, Albus mused. Even his candies did nothing to lighten his mood today.
In the eyes of the public, both Potter and Longbottom were heroes now. To a smaller degree, this applied to the girls as well, and even Percy Weasley had gotten his heap of praise because of his foresight and advice. Everybody was applauding their deeds, but not to his. Nobody was able to see how difficult his job was. He had to handle everything like a juggler working with flaming torches, always in fear of burning his own beard. Nobody was able to help him in this, to see the big picture. He let go a shuddering breath. After the events around Halloween, this was the second strike against him. It was as if someone was out there to get him into trouble. He wouldn't overcome a third attack on his reputation. He had to be careful, and that in a time where he had to plan the demise of Harry Potter in a way that furthered his long-term plans.
The boy didn't believe it, but his scar was a Horcrux. Albus had known this small but essential fact since laying eyes on the boy for the first time after that night. For a few years, he had pushed the thought away, but with Potter's return, the idea returned with a vengeance. The boy had to die. Done and dusted! There was no way to avoid it, and no talk about it only being some magical residue would stop him from finding a way to end that incredible danger to wizard-kind. The boy had to die, preferably while fighting Voldemort. The mirror… the mirror could be the solution. Years ago, he had trapped a significant sliver of Voldemort's soul in that magical mirror. If he was able to put that sliver into something else, another person or a dangerous creature, he could instigate a fight between Potter and that part of Voldemort. Either they would kill each other, or Voldemort would kill Potter and Albus could destroy him afterwards. Naturally, he couldn't allow anybody to learn the truth. They wouldn't understand. But with careful planning – yes, this could turn out being the solution to this mess. Now, he only had to decide on the creature – or person – to use as a host.
The prophecy will be fulfilled and everybody will now that I saved magical Britain, again.
.
Hogwarts – Eleventh of March
.
A day to relax, a day to enjoy a little peace – for most inhabitants of Hogwarts at least; Dunderheads, all of them, Tom sneered. He had little patience for the students surrounding him. The teachers weren't much better. Professor Snape would have been an adequate conversation partner, but Tom didn't trust him, not after what he had seen so far and the stories Pettigrew told him. Draco Malfoy had been full of praise, but he was a child, naïve and unable to look deeper than the surface. No, the time wasn't right to trust Snape with the truth, perhaps it never would be. And it was hardly appropriate for Ginny Weasley to try her hand at befriending the dour professor, expectations aside that Snape's only reaction would be to cut off the offered hand with a sneer on his face.
No, he had to stay with his small circle of supporters, for now. A group that had been diminished even more by McNair's death. Tom had been surprised by the shown abilities of Potter and the Squib-girl, impressed and – he hated to admit – a little intimidated. Potter's ability to enter the Dreamscape was an unwelcome surprise, putting another damper onto his plans. He had to find a way to stop the boy from doing this in June. It wouldn't do for the ritual to start only for the sacrificial lamb to vanish into thin air. Malfoy, Crouch and Pettigrew – he only had those three servants so far, none of them able to help him with the preparations, at least not with anything more than a bit of legwork.
I will have to depart a few days before the ritual, he mused. I'll need time for the last preparations. Pettigrew had been ordered to visit the location of the ceremony in advance, but some things were just beyond the grasp of his lazy mind. Barty Crouch was of better use, generally speaking, but he wasn't an academic either, not really well-versed in the Dark Arts. And it showed that he had lost many years through his imprisonment. Among the three, Malfoy was the most promising. In a few years…
Malfoy? That's the best you have? Pity! A voice interrupted his thoughts. Tom frowned, his grimace changing into a wicked smile. Since the second task, the soul of Ginny Weasley had gotten more defiant with every passing day. She was more active now and even starting conversations from time to time. Sometimes she applauded him, apparently sharing his feelings concerning Dumbledore. Most of the time she tried to sound haughty, to belittle his plans and everything. The reason was simple: she was frantic and accepted that nobody would look through his little schemes in time. No, Ginny Weasley would die in three months, and the girl knew it. In a way, he liked her more this way. Yes, it disturbed his thoughts from time to time, her rambling and comments, but it was a welcome distraction. At least, she was intelligent and had a sharp wit – something most students certainly lacked.
Yes, Malfoy! Ginny would have gaped because of the willingly given answer – if she still had a mouth. He has talent, only needs a firm hand and a bit of education.
Something you'll give him? Ginny wondered. It wasn't like she had many conversation partners around these weeks… months… years. Even Tom was better than nothing.
Tom nodded. After I adopted him.
Adopt? Aren't his parents still… She hesitated, realisation dawning.
Yes, they're still alive, Tom cackled. But accidents happen all the time – little accidents, deadly accidents, accidents of all kind.
You want to kill Lucius Malfoy? Ginny sounded nearly ecstatic. She hated the man. The enmity between Malfoy and her father had influenced her before even meeting the man and his spawn. Without his carelessness, the diary would never have found its way into her hands. She would never have been possessed. Draco she hated even more, but for now, killing the father would have to do.
I definitely will, Tom confirmed.
Draco will inherit the Malfoy wealth, and with you adopting him…
I see you understand.
And the mother? Ginny asked. She had seen the woman a couple of times, admiring her grace. Narcissa Malfoy was how she always imagined her mother to be – not the way her mother actually was, ungainly and without a sense for fashion. She wanted to be rich. She wanted to be invited to parties, adored and respected. Fine wine, fancy dresses and house-elves eager to fulfil her every wish – the daughter of Molly Weasley wouldn't have that, ever.
We'll see. If she accepts her role, if she is able to share my vision of Magical Britain, not much will change for her. Both Narcissa Malfoy and Andromeda Tonks will have to play their part, representing both ends of my policy.
Ginny was silent for a while. Tom had spoken about those plans before. In the beginning, she had been surprised about his intention to accept Andromeda Tonks née Black, even going so far as to get her back into House Black. But thinking about it, the idea wasn't too far-fetched. Tom wanted to have the reputation of a conservative pureblood, thinking highly of upbringing and talent but not hateful towards Muggle-born. Andromeda Tonks would be able to convince many grey families that Tom aka Sirius Black was a safe choice, a man who was willing to uphold tradition, without the mayhem and bloodshed of earlier times. And having Narcissa Malfoy on his side certainly had its benefits as well. Ginny assumed Draco's mother to have many welcome connections among the darker families – families whose support Tom needed as well, preferably without exposing the truth of his identity.
Tom used her silence to concentrate on the potion he intended to brew in less than two weeks. Michael had been notified about the date and was eager to try it. Even his friends had been informed. Tom cackled again, amused by the support he got from Michael's friends. The Mudblood… no, he corrected himself. The Muggle-born, he said carefully in his mind, rolling the word over his tongue. She had her uses. The healer Pettigrew got the formula from confirmed Tom's suspicion about Blood Adoption being a problem for the potion to operate at full efficiency. He had to adapt it, and Granger – and to a smaller degree the Patil girls – had been of assistance in his research. He could have done it without them, but why refuse what was freely offered? It had the bonus effect of relaxing Michael's friends. They knew what Ginny was working on, putting their suspicious minds at ease. What would they think about it, should they ever learn the truth?
Thinking about it… he needed a scapegoat for Potter's death: someone to blame, to be found at the ritual's place and offered to the media and public, ending the investigation for good.
I'll have to think about that.
.
Southern Scotland – Fourteenth of March
.
The place gave him the creeps. Why couldn't he have chosen the ritual I found in those documents? Peter griped. He had been so proud when he offered his master the papers he secured two years ago, papers the older Dark Lord had gathered and worked on for a resurrection ritual he intended to use back then. Bones of the father, flesh of the servant and blood of the enemy … the ceremony was planned to take place on some mortuary, certainly creepy a location but much better than this place. Regretfully, the younger Dark Lord decided to use a different ritual, one that would transfer his soul into Black's body, allowing him to walk around openly with nobody even guessing the truth. At least, he could have done it at Hogwarts or Hogsmeade, Peter sighed as he traipsed towards the ruins that were barely visible in the fog ahead. Today, he wasn't wearing the outlook of Sirius Black but used the hair of some Muggle for his Polyjuice Potion. The risk was very small of someone watching him today, but nonetheless he had to be careful.
Naturally, he knew quite well why it couldn't be. Not that his master would ever admit it, but it was obvious: his master was wary of the Hogwarts Castle Spirit. He wanted to avoid the Spirit's influence and interference at all costs. For weeks, he had been brooding, sitting over old, dusty documents, looking for the perfect place. And in the end, he found it. Peter stopped and looked around, warily listening to the wind. Perhaps it was imagination, but he could hear ghost voices in the air, howling in despair and anguish. His hand fumbled with the amulet around his neck. On his master's orders, he bought it in Knockturn Alley, one of the many darker artefacts on display at Borgin & Burke. It was meant to protect him from whatever inhabited this place. He really hoped it would work.
Flesh of the servant, willingly given – he had done precisely that a decade ago when he cut off his finger to put the blame of betrayal and murder on Sirius Black. He would have done it again, would have surrendered his pound of flesh for his master. However the stacks might even have gotten higher this time. Peter sighed. He liked this version of the Dark Lord more than the one he had known in the past. He was less prone to bursts of violence, more controlled and calculating. His Master even liked to use his well-developed charm from time to time, allowing Peter to see a glimpse of that man the Dark Lord had been in the beginning, able to sway a dozen sons from the most well-respected, influential and wealthy families all over Great Britain. For this man Peter was willing to give everything, to risk everything. Not out of fear as he had done in the past but because he believed in him. The Dark Lord gave him a place in life worth living for, and he would fight tooth and nail to keep it. He would do everything, even overcome his instinctual fear and his wish to flee this place. Instead, he stepped even closer.
Stones, dry scrubs and the paltry remains of some Roman manor, more hadn't survived the centuries. The Dark Lord had spoken about the place and told him some about its history. Peter assumed his master was more talkative because of the time he had to spend with other students. Even someone like Peter was a welcome change to that. Valentia, that's how he called it. Around here had been the Roman Province of Valentia, between the Hadrian's Wall and the Antonine Wall. Peter had always been good with memorising things. Understanding them had been the tricky part. But this was how he got his NEWTs: listening to Lupin and memorising facts. Endless hours Lupin had prattled on, Peter listening to his voice and cramming facts into his poor brain. Lupin was the only one among his former friends Peter didn't hate. Not that he would rescue him from the Dark Lord's wrath either.
He had only a rough idea of the ritual, barely enough to undertake some of the tasks that had to be done in advance. Those items his master had gathered would have to be there, somehow empowering the ritual without getting destroyed in the process. The same didn't count for the mirror – the same mirror that defeated his master two years ago, the proof of the risks they accepted with their plan. This time they wouldn't fail. His master would destroy the mirror, absorb the knowledge of his older self and transfer his spirit into Black's body. Hopefully, he'll still be more like his younger self, Peter mused. He hated the idea of the old master returning. But he could only do his duty and wish for the best.
Peter shuddered as he entered the barely recognisable Roman Manor. Even he was able to feel it, the magic and the hate that permeated the place. According to his master, a couple of Leylines crossed below this place. He didn't doubt it for one second. According to old tales, this place once belonged to King Arthur – or to the Roman Centurion that had been the most believable example of the Muggle version of that man. Lucius Artorius Castus – that was his name back then. Despite those rumours, this place wasn't really well known, neither among wizards nor Muggles. Nobody was living nearby, despite the traces of several attempts at building houses. No tourists, no strollers, nobody had the nerve to approach the house. He shuddered again. And neither would I if I had a choice. Even without seeing them, he knew of the ghosts watching him with hateful eyes. Did the ghosts feel that they intended to desecrate the place, abuse the magic for their own ends? Without his amulet, he would already be dead, or at least would have lost his mind or soul, he had no doubt about it. Would they have attacked like Dementors and suck out his soul? He had no wish to find out.
Hopefully, all of this will be worth the effort.
His master had given him clear orders. He wasn't interested in history, had no wish to learn the truth about Arthur living here more than a millennium ago, or if Merlin himself had used the place for his rituals as one of those dusty tomes claimed. No, he wanted to know whether there really was a functioning cellar. One that contained something his master really wished to make part of his ritual. He tried to explain it, spoke about the "a mediator between this world and the next", how it would strengthen the ritual and ease the path for his soul. He had this eerie glow in his eyes, and Peter hadn't dared to interrupt, to tell him that he had been lost after the third sentence. In the end, the explanation was unimportant. His master needed the cellar and its content, and Peter was willing to find it, despite the ghosts, his fear, and his utter wish to be anywhere but here.
Stairs – Peter smiled, relief and hope invading his heart. Careful not to slip or bump his head, he scurried down the stairs. "Lumos!" His smile broadened and split his face. His master had been right. The books had told the truth. There it was: The Temple of Janus.
.
Somewhere nearby
She was watching him, never losing patience, never feeling exhaustion. The Spirit of Hogwarts had warned her about the ratty man and his master's plans. There were things at work she didn't understand, things that prohibited the Castle from taking a more active stance. Perhaps the Spirit was more limited than she wanted the headmaster and everybody else to belief. She however had no such bounds. This man posed a danger, a danger she had to stop somehow. Around her, the ghosts inhabiting the place were whirling around. They were angry, both about the man's intrusion and the amulet he was wearing. Why was he here? What was he looking for? The place had been deserted hundreds of years ago. He seemed to be more interested in the kind of magic permeating the place and especially the cellar. But why?
I'll watch you, little man, she promised. I won't allow you to hurt my little girl.
.
A/N
A little excursion if you're interested in such things.
The area just north of the Hadrian's Wall had been in the hands of the Romans for a few decades. Lucius Artorius Castus served there for a few years. The mentioned Roman manor has no historical background I know of, I invented it.
Janus was a Roman god, mostly adored in Italy but sometimes in different countries as well, especially in his function as a protector of risky endeavours. Tom Riddle, however, is more interested in his aspect of duality (light/darkness, beginning/end, mediator between this world and the next).
Fabian Treskow: another person on loan from my Harry/Daphne trilogy, a peaceful Werewolf leader and adversary of Greyback.
The next chapter is nearly finished. I intend to publish it on Christmas Eve. The story is finished 75% now. The epilogue is scheduled for around Easter 2019, hopefully my work won't thwart my plans.