The Minister

This time, Hermione resolved, they would be prepared. Cornelius Fudge wasn't in charge this time; the Ministry was no longer the corrupt, immoral husk it had been in the earliest days of the Second Wizarding War. Hermione was Minister for Magic now and, under her charge and Kingsley's before her, the Ministry had become the force for good it was supposed to be. She had surrounded herself with good, loyal, clever people, people who would never dream of taking a bribe or scheming uprisings - or plotting murders. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement was as strong as it had ever been. If Tom Riddle wanted to wage war, the Ministry was ready.

If it came to that.

But it was no good simply telling herself that, Hermione reflected as she sat in her spacious office on this bleak, chilly December morning. The news had broken yesterday; the murders at Azkaban, the break-in at Gringotts, the sabotage at the embassy of the International Confederation of Wizards - and who knew what else Tom Riddle was plotting? Hermione had to act, and fast. First, reaching for her long-suffering eagle-feather quill, a wedding gift worn down from years of long service almost to the nub, she penned a letter to the managing director of Gringotts, an elderly goblin named Ragnok.

Hermione urged the goblins to increase their security measures, and offered them the use of one of the Ministry's trained security specialists in defending themselves. No doubt, she sighed, all she would receive in turn would be a snarky letter. She could picture it now; of course we will increase our security, Miss Granger; that's generally what we do when we have a break-in. No need for your specialist, we're fine, thanks, bye. Still, Gringotts had to be protected. Another robbery would be disastrous; the wizarding economy was fragile enough as it was without vast quantities of gold disappearing.

Hermione penned similar letters to St. Mungo's, Hogwarts and Azkaban, then set her quill down. "Harper?" she called.

A few seconds later the door to Hermione's office swung open, and Hermione's secretary popped her head through the door. "Yes, Minister?" Harper asked. The girl, barely in her twenties, had her jet-black hair drawn up in a bun this morning. She was pretty, long-legged and slender, with haughtily elegant features, and her expression was eager-to-please. She was a good worker, very clever, very sharp, always hard-working; exactly the sort of person Hermione needed in her Ministry.

"Could you find Ron, please?" Hermione asked. "I need to see him."

Harper hesitated uncertainly. "Head of Auror Office Ron?"

Hermione resisted a bemused smile. "Yes, that Ron." Husband Ron. "Oh, and could you send these letters please, Harper?"

"Of course, Minister," the girl replied dutifully. She bustled forward into the room, swept Hermione's four neatly-pressed envelopes into her arms, then promptly hurried out again. Five minutes later, Ron's red-haired head - though all these years later, the red was growing more and more flecked with grey - poked out of the roaring fireplace to Hermione's left.

"You called?"

Hermione smiled. "I need to talk to you."

"Ah. Sounds serious." Straightening, Ron stepped out of the fireplace, his plain-black work robes slightly tinged with soot. "Is it about my birthday?"

"Sadly, no," said Hermione. She leaned forward pointedly as Ron slouched into a hard-backed wooden seat on the far side of her desk. "It's about Tom Riddle."

"Ah," Ron said simply. "The talk of the Ministry." He jerked a thumb vaguely in the direction of the outside world. "Half of them are convinced he's going to be hiding under their bed when they get home tonight." He paused, his tone darkening - almost imperceptible, but Hermione knew her husband too well. "You're sure he's back, then?"

"What other explanation can there be?" Hermione shivered. "Draco and Scorpius Malfoy..."

"Suicide pact?" Ron suggested without conviction.

"I don't think so," Hermione said, shaking her head grimly. "Tom Riddle's back in town, it's obvious. He's already murdered seven people and stolen fifty thousand Galleons. He's up to something big. Ron, I need you to find him."

"Little Voldy Junior?"

"Use your Aurors," Hermione said. "This is top priority. Get as many people as you can spare out looking for Riddle."

"Sure, Hermione." He paused a moment, as if waiting for Hermione to reply. She didn't. "Oh, you want me to do it now."

"Thanks, Ron." Hermione wished they could speak longer, but she had a thousand and one things to do today.

As her husband stepped towards the fireplace, a clump of Floo powder in his hand, he glanced over his shoulder. "Remember dinner tonight," he called, stooping slightly into the brilliant-green flames. "I'm cooking. Seven o'clock. Rose and Hugo are coming. Don't spend all night here."

"I'll be there," Hermione promised, and Ron disappeared with a flash.

Not five seconds later, Lily burst through Hermione's ajar office door. Her pale cheeks were flushed, Hermione's twenty-one year old niece, and her bright-brown eyes, so like her mother's, were blazing as fiercely as her flame-red hair. "Is it true, Aunt Hermione?" she demanded, striding forwards into the room clad in the midnight-blue robes of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. "What they're saying all over the Ministry?"

Lily's lip quivered slightly, and for the slightest instant she was eleven again, her big brown eyes brimming with something that was almost - pleading. "Is he back?"

Hermione eyed her niece cautiously for a long moment before she replied. "We think so, yes," she admitted.

Numbly, Lily sank into the same seat her uncle Ron had vacated not a minute earlier. Behind the young red-haired woman, Hermione's office door hung open; with a flick of her wand, it swung shut, and Hermione leaned forward to address Lily. "Are you OK?" she asked softly.

"I'm fine," Lily replied in an artificially-cool voice. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Lily-"

"I'm OK, Aunt Hermione. Really." Lily forced a reassuring smile, though the gesture plainly pained her. Her eyes were flitting rapidly around the room, and she was obviously deeply troubled by the news. Abruptly, she leapt to her feet. "I'll just go, then-"

"Please sit down, Lily," Hermione said as her niece turned towards the door. "Actually I needed to talk to you about - about Riddle." Hermione couldn't quite bring herself to call him Tom.

Uncertainly, Lily took a seat. "Er - OK. About Ministry security," Hermione began. "It needs stepped up immediately. I want you to see to it, Lily."

"Sure," Lily said in a small distracted voice. "Have you - have you got any ideas?"

"First things first, no more Apparition," Hermione said. "You should put Anti-Apparition spells on every inch of the Ministry. The Floo network, too. Disconnect every fireplace in the Ministry. No one should be able to get in here unless they have an entrance pass issued by us."

Lily nodded thoughtfully. "How will people get to work?"

"Well, the last time - er - this sort of thing happened, Ministry workers had to - well, flush themselves in."

Lily grinned. "Yeah, Dad told me about that once. I'll try and think of something less gross. And about those entrance passes - I know a useful charm that we could use. It would mean that each pass could only be used by the person it was issued to. If anyone else tried to..." the corners of Lily's mouth twitched upwards. "Well, it would be messy."

"Good idea," Hermione said. "Wherever you decide to put the new entrance, make sure it's under supervision twenty-four hours a day. Secrecy Sensors, Sneakoscopes, that sort of thing. Scan everyone as they enter. We don't know how potent Riddle is with disguising spells, or invisibility charms - it could be he'd try to sneak into the Ministry that way." Could be he already has.

Lily's nose crinkled in distaste. "Yeah, that sounds like him. Sneaky."

"Yes, well...good luck, anyway," Hermione finished rather awkwardly. "Try and get it done as soon as possible."

"It'll be ready by the end of the day," Lily promised.

"Thanks, Lily," she said. "One more thing - if you don't mind, that is," Hermione added hastily.

"Fire away."

"You've probably spent the most time with To - I mean, Riddle - as any of us, Lily," Hermione said hesitantly.

Lily shrugged uncomfortably, and she couldn't disguise the momentary flash of hurt in her eyes. "I guess," she admitted finally. "We used to talk a lot when we were young, but..." she shrugged again. "That was before the attack. When he was stabbed in Diagon Alley." Her face darkened. "He - he changed after that." Lily glanced over her shoulder towards Hermione's closed office door. "Your secretary, that Harriet girl - or whatever her name is - she spent a lot of time with Tom. I think they even dated for a while. Talk to her."

"I have," Hermione sighed. "She doesn't know very much. Nothing helpful, anyway. I get the feeling she was a little in awe of Riddle; besides, from what she says, she's like you - her and Riddle barely talked after the attack in Diagon Alley." Lily looked momentarily uncomfortable again, and Hermione remembered with a pang that Lily, too, had been in that alleyway on that day. What a complicated, twisted, horrible situation this was. "Harper can't tell me what I need to know."

"Which is..."

"What is Tom Riddle?"

"He's a murdering bastard," said Lily.

"Yes, but... you've heard your dad's story, right?" Hermione asked. "About how he found Riddle in a cave?"

"Yeah."

"My point," said Hermione, "is that we still don't know why. We don't know why Riddle was in that cave - we never did. Somewhere between the attacks, the fighting, the constant articles in the Prophet, we just forgot about it. We don't know what he is."

"And you want to find out."

"Yes, Lily. Is there anything, anything useful you can tell me about him? Did he ever mention - I don't know, memories he shouldn't have had? Visions? Did he ever mention Voldemort?"

But Lily shook her head. "I'm sorry, Aunt Hermione, I - I just don't remember much of it. I've tried to forget it, ever since..." she trailed off darkly. Her face made it plain that she didn't want to talk about Riddle any longer.

"It's OK," Hermione assured her quickly. She had other lines of investigation into the nature of Tom Riddle, anyway - starting with two appointments after lunch. Glancing at her watch, she saw it was getting on towards twelve. "You want to get some lunch?"

"Sorry, I'd better get to work," Lily sighed, rising to her feet. "The sooner I know Tom isn't lurking invisible behind my back, the better." As she stepped to the door, Lily glanced over her shoulder towards Hermione. "If he's back, Aunt Hermione... what does that mean for James?"

Hermione could only shake her head helplessly. As her office door swung shut, she began to write another letter.

The Department of Mysteries was exactly as Hermione remembered it. It began with a darkened circular entrance chamber. The floor was dark marble, and the candles on the black-stone walls flickered with a cool blue light. Twelve seemingly-identical doors lined the walls. This time, however, Hermione knew which door to take. Crossing the room, she entered the third door on the left and stepped into a long rectangular chamber lit by low-hanging lamps. In the centre of the chamber was a long, shallow water-tank. Swimming through the blue-green murk were brains. Big, grey, with tendrils that floated behind them as they swam, eerily like the trailing robes of a Dementor in flight.

A man crouched over the water-tank. Professor Croaker was elderly, bald but for a narrow tuft of grey-white hair, and he peered at the brains thoughtfully through thick-rimmed spectacles. Behind the glass, his eyes were a milky-blue. He wore a long white laboratory-coat; pinned to his lapel was the insignia of the Unspeakables. "Professor Croaker?" Hermione called, stepping further into the gloomily-lit room. She made sure to give the brain-tank a wide berth. "Can I speak with you?"

"Minister?" Croaker exclaimed in a pleasantly-surprised voice. Hurriedly, the old man straightened. As he stepped away from the tank, Hermione noticed his hands were dripping with brain mucus. "What brings you down here? Take a seat, take a seat," he urged amicably, drying his hands on a scruffy-white towel as he sank onto a three-legged wooden stool.

"No thanks, I won't keep you long," Hermione replied politely. "I just wanted to ask you a few questions, Professor. Theoretical magic is your expertise, yes?"

Croaker nodded. "Go on, Minister."

"OK." Hermione took a deep breath. "It's about Dark magic. You've studied Dark magic, Professor?"

"In excruciating detail, I can assure you," Croaker replied with a small knowing half-smile.

"Well, in your opinion, would it be possible to - er - create another being with Dark magic?" she asked.

Comprehension dawned in Croaker's pale-blue eyes. "Ah. Riddle." As Hermione nodded, Croaker continued. "His very name gives the truth to his nature, I am afraid, Minister. You have to understand that Lord Voldemort's work with the Dark Arts was truly, truly unprecedented. Who knows how far his experiments stretched? He was a secretive, mistrustful man, and we know almost nothing of his work." Croaker sighed sadly. "He was not an academic man, alas. He cared not for the research, only for the power it gave him."

"Yes, but-"

"Possible, yes," Croaker interrupted smoothly. "We create life every time we conjure a rabbit from a hat, or enchant a piece of paper, Minister. Life is not the historical impossibility; death is. To answer your question, yes. I feel that it is most likely that Lord Voldemort created Tom Riddle from his own essence."

That was as Hermione had thought, but to have it confirmed... with sudden, gnawing shame, she wondered how she and Harry could ever have introduced Riddle to the wizarding world. We always knew. We always knew there was something strange about him, something wrong, and we did nothing to find out what.

"Minister?"

Hermione snapped back to reality. "What do you make of the way Riddle was found, Professor?" she asked curiously, covering up her momentary despair as best she could. "In an enchanted trance, still physically eleven years old after all this time..."

"I do have a theory, Minister - though keep in mind this is wild conjecture. I think, at the time of Riddle's - well, conception, for want of a better word - Lord Voldemort was reminiscing of his early schooldays. Therefore, when his essence took form, it took the shape of an eleven year-old boy ready to attend his first year at Hogwarts."

"I don't think Voldemort ever reminisced, Professor," Hermione said doubtfully.

"Perhaps not," Croaker admitted. "Perhaps preoccupied is a better word. Fixated."

Silently, Hermione thought of what Harry had told her of Voldemort's Horcruxes - and, in particular, the diadem, and Voldemort's trip into Hogwarts to conceal it within the Room of Requirement. Yes, he might have been preoccupied with thoughts of Hogwarts then. "Perhaps," she admitted. Soon though, another question occurred to her. "Why the trance, then?"

"Again, this is merely conjecture, but I feel Riddle may have been an accident. An experiment gone wrong - but wonderfully wrong! Lord Voldemort may not have wanted Riddle around - he was possible competition, a potential rival - but I doubt he could bring himself to destroy the boy. No," said Croaker, "he placed Riddle into a trance from which he would not stir, would not age, until he could find a use for the boy."

"And now he's awake," Hermione finished. "Why now?"

"As for that, I cannot answer," Croaker said. "I suspect you'd have to ask your friend Harry Potter for answers there."

Hermione chewed that over for a moment, then readied herself to ask her last question. The question on everyone's mind. "Professor, do you think there's a possibility some remnant of Voldemort's soul is working through Riddle?"

"Well, Minister," Croaker said, smiling kindly, "that's the big question, isn't it? We have two distinct possibilities. Either a fragment of Lord Voldemort's soul is working through Riddle - or that nice, kind, innocent young boy you knew ten years ago is performing these atrocities of his own free agency." He grinned helplessly. "Now, which of those is the more frightening proposition?"

This was followed by a moment's silence. "Not the answers you were looking for, Minister?" Croaker prompted.

"No, it's..." Hermione sighed. "I suppose I was hoping for some easy way out. Some weakness, some quick bloodless way to stop Riddle."

Croaker smiled a warm grandfatherly smile. "Not this time, Minister."

"Harry."

As Hermione stepped from the brilliant-green flames, Harry Potter looked up from his cushy old armchair. He looked awful. His green eyes were bloodshot, his face was unshaven, and his scar was blazing, a thin jagged blood-red line across Harry's temple. Obviously, it was hurting again. As Hermione stepped forward from the fireplace, dusting soot from the shoulders of her light-blue robes, the flames returned to their usual crimson. Lily hadn't gotten around to turning the Floo Network off yet, evidently. It didn't matter. After this, Hermione would Apparate home, to Ron and her children, and dinner.

"Hermione?" Harry muttered weakly, rising to his feet. "Let me get you some tea, or-"

"How's your scar?" she interrupted pointedly, and Harry sank back into his armchair.

"Bad," he admitted, rubbing a hand against his forehead. "Maybe it's just that with time I've forgotten, I dunno, but it never felt half as bad back then as it does now."

Perching on the arm of Harry's chair, Hermione placed a comforting arm around his shoulders. "It's not your fault, you know." Harry said nothing, though his tormented green eyes spoke the truths Hermione knew too - it was their fault. They had brought Riddle into the world. "Harry, I have to know," she asked softly. "Where, precisely, did you find Riddle?"

Harry's head jerked, almost imperceptibly, as if swatting away an annoying fly. For so many years he had avoided, ignored or otherwise dodged the subject. Now, however, he had to confess. Harry surely knew that. "It was a - a tower," he admitted in a raspy whisper. "On an island. I'd - I'd been dreaming about it for months."

"Why didn't you tell us?" Hermione demanded, flabbergasted.

"I thought - thought you might worry."

"Worry? Of course we'd be worried!" Hermione exclaimed. "Dreaming about - about that isn't normal! Didn't you learn anything with what happened to Sirius?"

If it were possible, Harry's face darkened. "I guess not."

"Harry..." Hermione began, ready to issue words of comfort - but for some reason, all she said was "I need to see that tower. Tomorrow, can you take me there?"

Weakly, Harry nodded. As Hermione said her goodbyes, and disappeared with a loud pop from the Potters' front room, one thought troubled her, one question still unanswered; why now? Why, after all these years, had Harry suddenly begun to dream of towers in the sea? Had Riddle sent the dreams? Voldemort? Perhaps seeing the tower would yield some answers. Until then, she would enjoy a few precious hours with her family, and pretend that all was well.