A/N: Thanks for the reviews - they cheered me up after noticing that last week we lost more followers than we gained. So, I'm sorry to everyone who's stopped enjoying this. My hope is that one day when I get finished some of those people might take another look. Anyway, enough of my moping!

~oOo~

When he opened the wall at just after seven the next morning, she was waiting directly on the other side. There was no anger in her expression and, even more strangely, not much annoyance or discomfort either.

"Who caught you?" was all she said. He considered her carefully.

"Slughorn. Late for the feast. How did you get through?"

"There's a door we didn't notice, in the main chamber. Only opens from the other side. We should get to breakfast." He thought about arguing, but far too much suspicion had already been drawn, so he nodded reluctantly.

Just like that, everything was back to normal. There was no 'you left me in there all night!' or 'it was freezing!' or 'you promised to let me out!' like he had imagined. They ate breakfast and suffered through all of the day's lessons and met in the dungeons at five. Hermione led the way to a corner of the chamber he had been to only perhaps twice; a door was now wedged open with a stone.

How had he not seen it? It wasn't like it was just a plain piece of wall. He examined it quickly – there were no hinges on this side. He had just taken it for some sort of... of what? Blanked-off pipe? It seemed unlikely, now that he thought about it. What else hadn't he noticed even after all these weeks?

The tunnel behind the door was not constructed in the same style as the rest of the Chamber, leading him to conclude that it had been a more recent addition, utilising the modern plumbing. It did not appear to contain any other doorways.

"Did you find anything interesting in here?" They had reached a dead end, containing only the opening of the pipe disappearing upwards. He was glad he hadn't had to come down it.

"No… but maybe you should look. Those snake things don't seem to appear for me." He smiled. In this respect, he was demonstrably superior to her, and it felt good.

They proceeded back down the tunnel, him running a hand along each wall and her vanishing bones and slime. He wasn't honestly expecting to find anything – told himself he wasn't disappointed when they reappeared in the main chamber uneventfully.

"I'm going to look around in here. You can carry on cleaning that tunnel." She stared at him with narrowed eyes; he fully expected the retort.

"I'm not your slave, Tom Riddle! I've been stuck here all night, and I'm tired. It would hardly kill you to at least ask nicely for once."

He enjoyed making her angry – there was something inexplicably satisfying about it. Without missing a beat he switched into classroom persona.

"My apologies. I was just thinking of taking another look around in here. I do hope that you'll be able to keep yourself amused."

A shy smile – something he'd been working on recently – completed the little performance. She sighed heavily.

"You're – you're – impossible. Ugh. Yes. Fine. I actually preferred the rudeness." He smirked and stalked off, hearing the metal door swing shut heavily behind her.

The huge stones blurred in and out of focus as he made his way around the perimeter, touching every piece of wall high and low until his back was aching and his fingers scraped raw: he was nothing if not thorough. No snakes appeared, though, and nor did anything else interesting occur.

He leant heavily against one of the pillars and looked around. The only thing of any mystery in the room was the stone bearing the tail-biting snake which did not seem to respond to Parseltongue. He crossed over to it again – touched it and spoke to it, just in case. Nothing happened.

He'd even looked the emblem up in the library in case it held a particular meaning for wizards. All he found was a brief mention in Symbols of the Ancients which declared that the ouroboros – or tail-eating serpent – signifies infinity or eternity, and is used particularly to represent the cycle of life and death. So much, so obvious. But why was it there? He just couldn't believe that it was merely a decoration.

It took him a long while of quiet contemplation to notice that the edge of the stone was slightly less smooth-fitting than the others around it, as if it had been taken out and carefully replaced. There was nowhere for fingers to grip, of course, so he stood back and drew his wand.

The stone slid out, inch by inch, with difficulty – it was evidently much heavier than the things he usually tried to move with magic. He made a mental note to train harder as the piece of masonry came crashing finally to the floor, sending slivers of stone flying. He sidestepped it casually and gazed into the opening.

In a hollow behind the removed stone stood a small urn and a propped-up piece of card, which he recognised with incredulity even before he reached in to retrieve it. In the distance the metal door scraped open and running feet rounded the corner. There was a second when he considered hiding the discovery from her, but there was no time; if he'd wanted to be covert he shouldn't have smashed half the wall down, probably.

"What happened?!" She was slightly breathless, presumably having been near the far end of the tunnel. Her skirt had ridden up above the knee. He coughed involuntarily and turned back to face the hole in the wall.

"Stone was loose. Here." He waved the card blindly behind him and she took it.

"Boudica… w-what? Was this in there?" She was staring over his shoulder now. He grabbed the urn before he had time to consider whether it might be cursed – luckily nothing seemed to happen. It was made from a sort of brown stone which was smooth and unmarked by paint or etching of any kind. The lid was stuck on, but the contents whispered softly inside like dry powder when he shook it.

"Is the card a – a sort of – headstone?" He frowned. None of it made any sense.

"I think that's the wrong question."

"What's the right one, then?"

He wasn't sure why he was talking about this. He didn't like to share theories, but… it was pleasant to have someone to show off to.

"When did they start making chocolate frogs?" Their eyes met for a second – he saw that she understood his point.

"Erm… well, I suppose, a hundred years ago, at the very most –"

"No," he interjected. "Well, maybe, but not like this. The old ones, they were duller –" he took it from her grasp and turned it over and over – "this purple was sort of blue, and the writing was different."

"Are you sure?"

"Oh, come on, even you must have noticed. The ones we had on the train were old – probably been on the trolley since July – and the ones you stole from Parkinson are new. They must have changed sometime since the summer."

"So – so you think someone else has been here?"

"Well, do you see another explanation? It shouldn't be hard to narrow down the date, but it's not really important. I need to think."

"What if –"

"I said I need to think!" She blinked dumbly, but mercifully shut up. Not another word was exchanged, even as they left the Chamber and walked to dinner. He hadn't realised how much he had become accustomed to her chattering, one-sided though it often was.

When he got back to his room that evening he searched around for the card that he knew he'd kept although he had no explanation as to exactly why.

Hortensia Milliphutt (1792 – 1904) became Minister for Magic in 1841 and won a second term owing to her speedy introduction of many popular pieces of legislation. Unfortunately, she went on to pass so many useless laws – most famously on hat pointiness – that she was ousted from office in 1849.

He laid it down on his bedside table next to the one depicting Boudica. They were the same size and shape, the same colour – the same font. Both equally unremarkable.

Except one was remarkable. Because one meant that someone had been in the chamber, his chamber, and barely months ago. Confusion, anger and curiosity warred to be the dominant emotion; he wanted so desperately to understand, but was at a complete loss.

Still, it was something to focus on. He would find out what – or who – was in that urn, and who put it there, because there was no puzzle that had ever beaten him.

~oOo~

Autumn became winter and Hogwarts' deputy Headmaster did not become any less busy: the Wizengamot was still in emergency session. Reports broke in early December that the Danish Ministry of Magic had fallen to Grindelwald's control, just as the muggle government had previously surrendered to the Germans. The Prophet went into overdrive, but to Albus it was merely another in a growing line of quiet, political victories, and he had long since accepted Death's viewpoint that politicians and their legislation would never be able to stop it.

The timing was perfect for Gellert now. He had been patient for so many years, as one war and then another plunged Europe into disarray. Hungary, Yugoslavia and Bulgaria were the spoils of the first – a control that lasted even as boundaries and alliances were redrawn – and few in Britain took any notice. Who had time to worry about who was in charge in a few eastern countries? There were bigger issues.

In the two decades following the conflict the charismatic young leader grew ever more popular in his heartland, even as the cells of Nurmengard began to fill. He bided his time, learning and recruiting and infiltrating abroad. He charmed and courted. It was a silent revolution, fought in minds and hearts rather than in duels, and as muggle war threatened for a second time, the seeds that had been sown began to sprout.

Austria, Czechoslovakia, Poland – and now Denmark. These were the rewards for Gellert's patience, as wizards everywhere began to fear the sound of guns and bombs and tanks, and began to say to themselves, why do we put up with this? There must be another way.

His opponents were weakening, now – the Belgian and Dutch Ministries in exile, the French scattered, and here at home the Wizengamot was crippled with panic and infighting. He had now lost count of the number of times he had heard the conversation that began with at least Grindelwald would protect us from the muggles.

Was it, in a sense, true? He felt terrible for even thinking it, but couldn't deny the niggling doubt that Gellert had the right idea, as he had once believed. Muggles were proving yet again that they were their own worst enemy. He had taken to wandering through London after each trip to the Ministry, noticing which buildings no longer stood. He had gone down into the underground one night and listened to the dulled sound of explosions overhead and seen the mothers clutching their children tightly. Was this what freedom looked like? Was this what he was going to fight Gellert in order to preserve?

Gellert was a man of great intelligence, power and charm, with a towering ambition to match. He could be violent, and attracted to magic of questionable morality, but he was not senselessly cruel. He did not appear to derive pleasure from the pain of others. There had certainly been far worse dictators in the past.

But there it was.

He was a dictator. He might have condescended to share power with Albus – or he might not have, it was hard to say – but he was never going to make decisions by committee. He was never going to consider an opinion voiced by anyone he did not respect, which was essentially everyone. He was never going to delegate. He solved disputes with death or incarceration, without trial.

And, more worryingly, he intended to live forever. To what length was he prepared to go for that end? This, in essence, was something that was potentially more worrying than the genial lording-over of muggles. So worrying that Death himself had asked him to step in.

He was over halfway through the letters now – number forty-six up next – and definitely more able to think about the task at hand without becoming debilitated by emotion. It was working, and just as well, because he could not put it off forever.

Albus –

I hope that you have spoken with your brother as we planned. He simply has to be told that there is no other option! Frankly I think you are far too soft with him, but I shall not press that opinion again. Anyway, the sooner he accepts the situation, the better. He ought to be grateful! It's hardly as if he will make anything of his life staying here – in fact, he seems to be entirely lacking in ambition as well as mental capacity. It stuns me to think that the three of you are of the same parentage.

On another note, I have discovered a rather interesting scrap of parchment tucked into the back of one of Aunt's old history books. It seems to be part of a Peverell family tree, though disappointingly incomplete and in places illegible. I will keep searching in case the rest is elsewhere, but either way I think another trip to the Records Office may be in order. There are several new names to investigate – I will come around first thing in the morning.

In the meantime, I'll be thinking about what you did in the orchard earlier… you continue to surprise me! I think perhaps I'd enjoy a reprisal at the Ministry tomorrow.

G.

As a member of the Wizengamot, and as Hogwarts' Deputy Headmaster, Albus had found himself visiting the Ministry's Records Office on many occasions over the years. He still found it difficult. Why hadn't they had a reorganise or at least a redecorate in all that time? As it was, he could barely look at filing cabinet 17-P.

He was pushed from behind, gently but firmly, causing him to drop the piece of parchment he had been holding and stagger forwards against the filing cabinet – the drawer he had been skimming through slid shut with a smooth click under his outstretched fingers. Warm breath raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

"It was cruel of you to tease me yesterday, Albus. We'll see how you like it now."

"Someone will see us!" His voice, though it was only a whisper, seemed to echo through the quiet space. He could clearly feel Gellert's hardness rubbing against him even through all the layers of fabric; his own cock twitched in response.

"The nearest person is three aisles away, and almost blind," he said, factually, not breaking the rhythm. Albus tried to tear his eyes away from the sight of Gellert's long fingers trapping his own hands against the cool metal, partly obscuring the lettering that read 17-P: BIRTH RECORDS.

"Someone will hear us, then!"

"So be quiet!" There was something about Gellert's way of speaking that inspired instant compliance: Albus shut his mouth, silent even as one of the long-fingered hands reached down to stroke the length of his erection. He bucked helplessly, but the hand had already withdrawn.

There was no use panicking about being seen; he was utterly trapped and could do nothing about it, a fact that became apparent when he tried to move his arms. They were stuck in position on the filing cabinet, and his attempts to free them – both magically and otherwise – were met with a dark chuckle.

"Going somewhere, Albus?" It was spoken directly into his ear, and yet so low as to be almost inaudible. The hand was back on his cock and he was aching, now, the fear of discovery heightening every sensation.

"P-please…"

"Already? You must be joking. I've barely begun." And he wasn't lying.

It ended in spectacular orgasm mere seconds before an elderly witch rounded the corner, and he was so jealous of the way that those seconds were enough for Gellert to straighten his clothes, pick up the dropped sheet of parchment and say, "Ah, here it is," with a degree of disaffectedness usually reserved for narrating the dates of the Goblin Wars. He managed to remove himself from the filing cabinet with some difficulty, the elderly witch glancing at him oddly as she passed.

His heart was hammering with adrenaline and lust: he could barely think. When they were again alone in the aisle, he saw the wild mischief in Gellert's eyes and wanted desperately to kiss him. He didn't.

That was the first time he considered whether he was in love: then, as ever after, he kept it to himself. It was clear, even at his most affectionate, that the other boy did not feel the same. In the years that followed, Albus had often wondered whether Gellert had ever loved anyone. It would be at odds, somehow, to the joyful hedonism he exuded.

He put down the letter with a sigh and got to his feet. Outside, fine droplets of rain pounded into the diamond windowpanes like so many nails, thick cloud hiding the stars. Was it raining in Denmark tonight? Did Gellert ever look for the moon and wonder if their gazes met on its faraway surface?

No, obviously not.

Because Gellert was not a sentimental idiot, paralysed by the forty-year-old ghost of a love that was never even returned.

He would put the box away now, and try to participate in the Christmas holidays like a functioning human being, and come back to it in the New Year. By then, perhaps he would be ready to face the final and most painful memories.

~oOo~