CHAPTER THREE: Nemeses

Part 1

The bindings of the Unbreakable Vow had left thin burn scars on Harry's left arm. Sturgis assured him they would fade quickly. Harry had wanted to get on with their travel, but Hermione convinced him to accept Sturgis' invitation to spend the night at his home. It was just past noon, so they decided to tour the grounds.

There seemed to be no end to them. First, Sturgis showed them a botanic garden hugging the jungle dome and the east wing of the mansion. The garden boasted every kind of exotic flora. Some eccentric species required extreme environments to thrive. There were greenhouses representing every biome, from scorched deserts to arctic tundras. Magi-botanists in Sturgis's employ grew potion ingredients and decorative plants.

Magical and mundane beasts roamed the grounds at will, not all of them friendly. A pack of wizard-bred wolfdogs came hurtling from the woods, wagging tails and demanding pets. They stayed only briefly before their alpha spotted movement and the pack took off just as suddenly as it had shown up. Hermione observed from afar, slightly green in the face, when Harry and Sturgis stopped to feed some putrid meat to a herd of thestrals. At one point something large and clearly dangerous growled at them from the treeline. Sturgis shooed it away with a spell.

"That's a shadowbeast. I've brought it here recently from Transylvania. It's still getting used to the place."

"I've heard they're fiendishly difficult to domesticate," said Hermione.

Sturgis grinned. "I've no intention of doing that."

There were fountains, creeks, a shallow river they crossed via a bridge grown from two enormous oaks, stone circles, statues of rough granite and basalt, and others sculpted in pink marble with astonishing detail. Fields of magical crops bordered expansive meadows where herds of abraxan and hippogriffs engaged in staring contests and raced each other on the ground and in the air. To the south, the estate bordered the Black Forest. A bowtruckle leaped onto Sturgis' shoulder and came close to taking his eyes out. Sturgis snatched the critter and broke it in two, tossing the pieces away.

"Are you trying to found a country here?" Harry asked. Hermione was walking ahead of them, petting a hawk perched on her forearm.

Sturgis chuckled. "No, that comes later. But since you ask… I have people laying foundations in the west quarter. I'm picturing a palace in the gothic style."

"A school?" Harry guessed.

"Something of that nature. Not primary education, however. Hogwarts, Beauxbatons and Durmstrang serve Europe adequately in that department."

Sturgis refused to divulge more. They finished the tour in time for dinner—this time they ate on a roofed terrace overlooking the grounds. Conversation turned to magical theory and Harry tuned it out for the most part, simply enjoying the company. He rubbed the scars—they continued to itch, but had faded almost completely in the few hours since he and Sturgis had taken the oath.

"Spellcrafting has less to do with hard theory and numbers than you might think," Sturgis said.

Hermione almost seemed offended. "Are you saying the weeks I spent working out arithmantic architecture were wasted?"

"Not at all, just that some spellcrafts rely on it less than others. There's more than one way to boil a frog."

"I've never studied arithmancy," Harry said. "The first spell I crafted, I based it on the Six Point Diagram."

Hermione's eyebrows rode up. "I didn't know you even paid attention to Professor Flitwick's lectures."

"Hey, my grades are fine," Harry protested. "Just because I don't like cramming outside of classes doesn't mean I ignore them."

Banter kept them at the table until the evening, at which point Sturgis excused himself.

"I must have the bandages changed. Camilla will show you to your rooms."

They were led to twin suites sharing a balcony. Harry scoured both rooms for spy enchantments but found nothing.

Harry unpacked and explored his lodgings. Large bedroom, ensuite bathroom in white tile—the decor was subtle but elegant. There was nothing cheap here. He took off the Cloak and hung it on the clothes rack. It shimmered and remained sparkling softly, like dull stars. It would be invisible to anyone else, and he had cursed it besides. A thief would be welcomed by the same spell he'd used in fifth year to maim McLaggen—it had been his first effort in spellcrafting.

There was a knock on the door connecting the twin suites. Harry waved his hand and the door opened. Hermione stood in the threshold, out of her outer robes. Harry straightened, hands in pockets.

"Oh," Hermione said. "I didn't notice before."

He raised an eyebrow. "Notice what?"

"How much you've changed. Here, look." She waved her wand at her bag on the bed and a photograph shot out and into her hand. It was the three of them—with Ron—back in fifth year, standing together in the Gryffindor common room during one of the quidditch victory parties. Harry wasn't much for picture-taking, but he had to admit this photo was… nice. He and Ron stood on either side of Hermione, still wearing parts of their quidditch uniforms, Harry with his arms crossed and looking rather moody, while Ron sported a half-smile, his arm around Hermione, who was leaning on him. Photo-Harry did his best to seem mercurial. Photo-Hermione punched him lightly in the arm. Photo-Harry smiled at her.

"And now…" Hermione left the photo floating in the air beside them, then summoned a tall mirror from nearby the dresser. Harry looked at his reflection. Photo-Harry, in his quidditch red-and-gold, the old round frames sitting crookedly on his nose, seemed like a boy with too many dark thoughts.

"I remember photographs of your parents, Harry. You look so much like your father. But… older, somehow. I don't know. Something's different."

"Well, I'm taller," he said. "I wish Ron could see me now. He'd probably blame me for growing half a foot."

"It's not just that…"

She joined him and they looked at their reflections, staring with unspecified intent. Their features were sharper, darker somehow, as if a thin black line outlined all their edges. Harry reached out, and so did his reflection, their fingertips touching on the surface of the mirror. Hermione followed his lead. The mirror rippled, then a similar black line started creeping out of the frame onto the glass. The lines on Hermione's side of the mirror drew curves, spirals, fractals. On Harry's side, harsh straights and angles that looked sharp enough to draw real blood. Patterns met in the middle and began to draw through each other in ways that seemed geometrically impossible on a flat plane.

Harry blinked and the mirror was its old ordinary self again.

"That was interesting," he said. "Not exactly accidental magic, but—"

"Spontaneous magic," Hermione said, looking up at him. "Not accidental. Very different. It was its own kind of spell, though I doubt we could reproduce it if we tried. This was for us, and just this once."

"I thought I saw something familiar in the center, once our lines met in the middle." He drew on the mirror with his wand, leaving thin lines of fire. He wasn't much of an artist however, and his drawing didn't look like anything specific, even though he was certain it reminded him of something.

Hermione shook her head, then simply wiped the image away with her hand. "I did just say reproducing it wouldn't work. Besides, even trying makes it less special. Less… intimate."

"All right." He smoothed out his waistcoat, then fiddled with the wand holster. He'd had it remade at Madame Malkin's. It used to be a belt attachment, now there was a discreet harness across his back and shoulders, the holster just above his left hip. The waistcoat had been Madame Malkin's idea.

Hermione sat on his bed, legs crossed. "You know, I've been thinking. The spell you had me finish… that wasn't your first one, was it?"

"Right. Remember when McLaggen almost lost his arm?" Harry snorted softly. "What a clod."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "How did you construct that one? Six-Points as well?"

"Mhm."

"Show me?"

The mirror caught his attention again. He pulled it up to the middle of the room, then enlarged it into a glass screen almost ten feet across.

"Imago Tagoregor."

The modified curse struck the mirror, which blackened into the view of a void. Then, an image emerged. A three-dimensional model: a square of four points, with two more above and below it. Each point was a rune representing the conceptual framework of the spell. Finally, three concentric rings of runescript appeared and began rotating around the sphere of the Diagram at different speeds, the outermost ring being the quickest.

Hermione pointed her wand and drew one of the Points closer. "What's that? The Hand?"

"Representing Touch," Harry explained.

"It's not the ordinary Hand, though."

"Sans the thumb."

"But that digit facilitates the grip," Hermione said, frowning. "You weakened the anchoring of the spell by design?"

"I wanted it to hold on, but… if I may?" He pinched the air and drew the topmost point of the Diagram closer now.

"Stone and Water," Hermione named two intertwined symbols. "A ripple... Movement outward?"

Harry nodded. "Transference. Hence the weakened Hand. The curse may be applied to the primary target and spread, or it may be applied dormant, only awakening when provoked." Now he showed Hermione two of the points in the square, the Seeing Eye and the Blind Eye, directly opposite each other. The last two Points were Illness and Breath.

"The curse breaks out fast and strong, then lulls," Harry said, banishing the Spell Image in the mirror. "But, if left untreated, it comes back with greater strength, and then… well..."

"Don't keep me in suspense."

"It, uh, explodes. Affecting anyone standing close enough. Theoretically, it could spread indefinitely this way. Say, Cormack McLaggen tries to snoop through my trunk, gets cursed, his hand distributes itself across the Infirmary, some unfortunate soul catches it on the face, goes to St. Mungo's…"

"I would say that's disturbing, but considering what your second spell was, I'm not really surprised. Although, when you say explode, what exactly—"

"Chunks of bone, bits of skin, a lot of blood," Harry said, shrugging. "I tested it on rats."

"Right." Hermione held her stomach, grimacing. "I shouldn't have asked so soon after dinner."

"Are you gonna be alright?"

She nodded, then threw open the balcony door and leaned on the railing, breathing in deeply. The sun had sunk beneath the mountainous horizon, leaving the room shrouded in long shadows. The sky was a breathtaking collage of pinks, purples and oranges.

Estate grounds were much less lively now, with the staff retired for the night, but the nocturnal residents were slowly coming out of their various lairs. The shadowbeast they'd seen briefly earlier strolled through the open lawn, its exact features always eluding the eye in the smoke-like shadows that clung to it. A pair of thestrals galloped past, beating their wings at the shadowbeast, which snarled in protest. Thestrals paused and swung their tails, as if issuing a challenge. The sleek, panther-like monster took off after them.

Harry pulled up two chairs, then sat with his feet propped up on the railing, hands in his lap. Hermione curled up in her seat, then summoned a sweater from her bag. They sat in silence for a while, enjoying the view.

"Thank you," Harry said quietly, almost feeling guilty for disturbing the silence.

"Pardon?"

"For agreeing to come back to Britain. I know it can't be easy for you."

"I do miss it. Hogwarts, Diagon Alley, the Whiteraven Library in Manchester, all the old familiar places," Hermione said. "I suppose it was… simpler to stay away once I had already left. Honestly, I didn't think far into the future. I am glad, you know. In some ways I felt like I was in a trance, just drifting." She looked at him, determination in her eyes. "I'm not just coming back to lay low. Whatever you need, I'm with you."

"I don't mean to pull you back into the fight," Harry said. "I just want you to be safe."

"I know you don't, Harry, but you have me anyway."

He smiled. She smiled back.

As it grew darker, lanterns came on across the grounds, illuminating paths and warding the wilder denizens of Sturgis' kingdom away from the groomed plots and greenhouses. Fairies came out to frolic. A large flock of owls dove suddenly out of the sky and settled in a rough circle on fences, then began hooting and barking, hopping and preening and beating their wings—the meaning of the owlsmoot escaped Harry. He wondered if Hedwig had ever participated in anything like this.

"You feel like sleeping yet?" Hermione asked.

"Not really."

"Good. As it turns out, I've been working on a spell of my own…"

~~oOo~~

The following morning, Harry and Hermione travelled back across Europe and over the Channel, stopping by the Dungeon Keeper to return Mallory's portkey. It was nearing midday by the time they arrived at Grimmauld Place Twelve—Sturgis had invited them for breakfast and another walk on the grounds. Harry tried talking Hermione into a hippogriff ride, unsuccessfully.

Sirius greeted them at the door. He looked surprised at first when Hermione hugged him, but then smiled and held her close. "It's good to have you back. Your room has been prepared. Harry will show you up, yes?"

Harry nodded.

The smile slid right off Sirius' face as he stepped back. "When you're ready, Harry, there's someone here who wants to talk to you."

Though curious, Harry waved it off. "Can they wait ten minutes?"

"I imagine he'll wait as long as he has to. We'll be in the ground floor sitting room," Sirius said, then marched off.

"This could be important, perhaps you should go now. Kreacher's still here, isn't he? He can show me my room."

Harry shook his head. "If it were that urgent, Sirius would have said so. Let's go up."

Sirius resided in the suite at the top floor while Harry had moved into Regulus Black's old room. Hermione was given Lady Black's apartment a secluded spot on the fourth floor. There was a folded note on the queen-size bed. Hermione picked it up.

"Ugh. I appreciate the gesture."

She handed the note to Harry.

I've replaced everything. My mother's furniture and bedding were burned. Please don't mention this to Kreacher.

-Sirius

Unbothered by the constraints of spatial logic, the pentagonal room offered two picturesque views of Wizarding London. The bay window left of the bed gazed out across the boutiques and coffee shops of Vertic Alley, while the balcony on the other side overlooked Kent's Greengrounds, the largest park in the city.

Hermione began unpacking, first summoning her wardrobe out of the bag and into the closet. Next came the books. Harry snatched one out the air as they flew by, slotting themselves into empty shelves. The Completeness Compendium by Trafalgar Winkspur was an Alchemy text. Harry leafed through the index, which itself was the length of a chapter. Hermione took it out of his hands and slid the tome into an empty spot that was left for it between other books.

"I barely understood the chapter names," Harry said. "That's some collection."

"I had a lot of time on my hands at Beauxbatons, not being pulled into perilous adventures for a whole year."

"Har har."

"You can go meet your guest, I'll be fine."

Harry apparated midstep, straight into the sitting room, interrupting the small talk. Sirius was nursing a glass of something that looked like liquid amber, and across the room, with a small book in one hand, sat Albus Dumbledore.

Sirius stood and jammed his thumbs into the front pockets of his waistcoat. "I'll leave the two of you to talk." He paused beside Harry. "If you're thinking of conjuring Fiendfyre, I'd rather you do it outside."

Dumbledore put his book away. "Good morning, Harry."

Harry expected an explosion of anger, a burning bile to rise in his throat, but instead found cold indifference. Apparently, he didn't have it in himself to hate the man.

"Professor," he greeted blandly. "You look unwell."

An understatement. While the taste of Dumbledore's magic was unmistakable, the wizard himself seemed... frail. Not a word Harry would ever have used before to describe him. The right sleeve of his robes was tied with a string at the elbow.

"Your arm…"

"I saw Healer Grayson this morning to have it amputated," Dumbledore said. "There was nothing else to be done, and frankly, it was getting in the way. I can wield a wand with my left hand just fine."

"Last time I saw you, your fingertips were slightly blackened. I assumed there was a minor mishap with some of your research. What happened?"

"I fell victim to my own curiosity." Dumbledore stood and—with some difficulty—retrieved a familiar metal box from a pocket. "Not to worry. It's perfectly safe to handle now."

Harry came closer. The box bore two symbols—a snake crest and a runic number twenty-eight, both of which he had seen at what he now knew to be the ruins of the Gaunt estate. He tapped the lid twice with his index finger and the box opened, revealing a large signet ring sitting on a green cushion. The ring was old, and rather tacky-looking—the band was thick, the gem large, with chipped edges.

"An ancient heirloom of the Gaunt family," Dumbledore said. "You know it under a different name, however. Look closely."

Harry picked up the ring. There was nothing eye-catching about the band, but the gem, despite its neglected state, retained a hypnotising green-and-blue hue. There was a symbol etched within.

Harry froze. "What is this?"

"That's something better said in context." Dumbledore returned the ring to the box and put it away. "There are some things I would like to discuss with you, and I don't have a lot of time to do it. Please come by my home at your earliest convenience."

"I'm not inclined to do you favours, Professor."

Dumbledore pushed the half-moon glasses up on his nose. "There are things I know that you must know. I won't be able to end this war. That will fall to you, and those you choose to trust."

As Dumbledore moved to leave, Harry spun around to call after him. "Where's Snape?"

"Is this your condition for talking to me? Do you truly want Severus Snape dead?"

Harry found that he couldn't give a straight answer to this question. "If nothing else, I want him to look me in the eye and tell me why he did what he did."

Dumbledore leaned on the doorframe, and once again Harry was struck by how fragile he seemed. "Severus Snape is beyond anyone's reach at this point, save perhaps for Voldemort himself, and I can't imagine he would invite you to exact revenge together." The elder wizard looked at him again, and there was steel in his eyes. "Today, Harry. I implore you."

Dumbledore turned towards someone out of Harry's sight and brushed the rim of his hat. "I'm glad to see you again. I apologize for not staying to chat, but my time and strength are both quite limited these days."

Harry came out to the hallway. Hermione was sitting on the third step up, but stood when she saw him.

"I didn't mean to eavesdrop—" she started, then shook her head. "No, that's not true. I did. Professor, could you wait just a moment? Harry."

She grabbed his hand and pulled him down the hall, into the kitchen.

"Kreacher, shoo," Harry said. The elf was supervising the dishwashing. He popped away. The dishes fell into the sink in a cacophony of plates breaking and pots banging on each other. "He'll be fixing that later, I hope."

"Listen!" Hermione smacked his arm. "Be mature about this. He looks awful and he came back to talk to you."

"Doesn't look that bad to me."

"His arm's been amputated. Remember what Lockhart did to you in second year? How often have you seen wizards or witches bereft of limbs? Something terrible happened to him. Are you really going to haggle with him over Snape of all people? I thought Voldemort was more important."

"He is- Wait—that's the first time I've heard you say his name like that."

Hermione sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "All right, then." She looked up at him. "If you won't do it because he asks you, do it because I am. Talk to him. I doubt he wants to take you out to Fortescue's."

They stood in silence for a moment, and Harry felt the pressure mount. "Fine. But I need something from you in return."

She crossed her arms. "Oh?"

"Don't go anywhere alone. For a few days, at least. Until I know it's safe. Right now, Voldemort might have people out looking for you. Let it settle down. If something happens to you here… All of this would've been for nothing."

She hugged him. "Okay. I promise I'll be good."

Dumbledore still waited in the hallway. They exchanged one look and Dumbledore held out his left arm. Harry grasped it gently.

"Are you going to try to lock me in your attic again?"

Dumbledore smiled and a familiar twinkle brightened his eyes. "I rather doubt I could if I wanted to."

Space folded around Dumbledore and Harry followed. They arrived inside a spacious study. It had everything one might expect—packed bookshelves, a table off to the side, a fireplace on the east wall—most of Dumbledore's travels probably took him to Europe—a pair of comfy armchairs, a table with a tea set between them, various knicknacks spread through the room, and a gargantuan writing desk. The desk stood in front of the south wall, which was not so much a wall as one giant window. Outside, vines of all sorts crawled up and down the building, obscuring some of the view.

"If you'll permit me, Harry, I shall do away with pleasantries. There's much to talk about," Dumbledore said. He fell into one of the armchairs.

Harry leaned on the mantelpiece. There was no fire set in the hearth. "Where shall we start?"

"Sturgis contacted me last night. He said that you seemed apprehensive, despite mutual precautions taken."

Harry sighed. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised you're a part of this whole scheme. Do you know about that thing he's building?"

"Indeed. I recommended Remus for the task of securing the final component."

"Do you know who he's with? Sturgis wouldn't say."

Dumbledore stroked his beard. "I'm afraid not. I wouldn't dwell on it. Sturgis isn't known for recruiting incompetent associates."

"Fine," Harry said. "What's the first point of order, then?"

"You're familiar with the materials I left for Sirius?"

"About the horcruxes, yes." Harry gave Dumbledore a dark look. "I'm still not sure whether I should appreciate or resent how bluntly you laid out the fact that I am one."

"Were circumstances different, I would have preferred to divulge this in a more controlled manner… alas."

"And you and Sturgis are certain the soulcatcher will work? Because if it doesn't, then I can't help but think—if there was no alternative to killing Voldemort then I would have to…"

"Die. Yes."

Harry winced. "Not going to dress it up at all, I see."

"I've lost the ability to deceive you and I have no time for coddling words."

Harry gave the elder wizard a cold stare. "Right."

"The soulcatcher has been reliably tested. Both Sturgis and I are as certain of it as we can be of anything. And, at the risk of sounding self-aggrandising, I do tend to be right about these things."

For once, Harry wasn't irritated by Dumbledore's seeming omniscience. "Alright, then. What about the horcruxes, though? The diary made quite a mess. I'm not comfortable with Voldemort's Dark artifacts being left out there to cause trouble."

"Ah. Here, I believe, matters are not quite as grim as they might look." Dumbledore stood up and with the flick of the wrist, the chairs and tables walked themselves off towards the walls, leaving the middle of the study empty. He waved his wand at the polished floorboards and a symbol appeared—the Dark Mark, as if burned into the floor in green fire.

"Voldemort has always been intensely focused on the symbolism of magic and the power it holds. Arithmancy has uses beyond spellcrafting. Or rather, not every spell is easily spotted."

"You haven't lost your flair, Professor," Harry said. "I know the gist. Voldemort's schemes seem… inefficient at first sight, but they have a purpose."

"Elaborate, please."

"Last year, I spent some time trying to piece together the ritual he performed to recreate his body. It all seemed… too crude, to be honest. Alchemical texts suggested components were missing, healing magic didn't seem to feature at all from what I recalled of that night… until I added the context of everything that had happened that year. Tasks were stretched out across seven months. Three schools. Three people were involved in the ritual. Three ingredients. I'm sure there were other things. Perhaps the potion was boiled for seven hours, or Pettigrew drew my blood precisely seven minutes past the hour… Threes and sevens. Easy to spot the pattern once I started looking for it."

"Quite. Two most powerful magical numbers. You never took the Arithmancy course, but I imagine you were curious enough to cover the basics yourself."

Harry cleared his throat. "Three represents power. Power isn't a singular thing, it has multiple aspects, but then splitting it up too much dilutes power. Three is also the sum of one and two, one represents unity, while two is duality. No one quite knows what kind of duality—two is very open to interpretation—but one prevalent theory is that it's meant to stand for Dark arts and everything that isn't Dark arts. Bathilda Bagshot is one of the historians who propose that what we call today by the umbrella term "Dark magic" was in fact the first magic ever practiced in ancient wizardry."

"Very well. Although, these are mere basics, covered in third year." Dumbledore winked. "Go on."

"Seven represents stability. Geometry tells us that to have any stable foundation, a minimum of three supporting points are required. Seven is three plus three plus one. The two threes represent the dual aspects of power bound in a spell, and all are brought together by the one, unity. Most potions have seven primary ingredients."

"Now…" Dumbledore stepped back from the centre of the room. A curtain rolled out across the window and the study was cast in near-complete darkness. The only light now came from the Dark Mark burned into the floor. "Power matters little if magic fades. Magic which prevails through years retains its power. Curses on ancient tombs, hidden places of wonder, shielded from the wider world… Voldemort has power in spades already. What he craves above all is to make himself as permanent as the three oceans, the seven highest peaks, the one tallest tower. I have investigated this for a long time. Voldemort pushed himself beyond even what his old teacher had imagined for him. Grindelwald, I dare say, would have been impressed with Voldemort's vision, if not perhaps the ultimate execution."

"Let me guess… seven horcruxes?"

"Yes and no." A new symbol appeared next to the Dark Mark. A simple image of an open book. "Seven parts, Harry. I think Voldemort intended to split his soul into seven pieces. The diary, of course, was one. His first, I believe. One of the components of the creation of a horcrux is murder. A cold-blooded, unrepentant killing."

"Myrtle," Harry whispered. "Killed by a basilisk."

"I can hardly imagine a more sinister representation of Slytherin's legacy," said Dumbledore. "Voldemort was an intensely secretive person. However, in his younger years, he exposed his attachment to Hogwarts and the Founders."

"Why would he care about them?"

"Their legacy. The memory of them, and what it represents. Voldemort has conflicting desires. Given the effort he'd undertaken to separate himself from Tom Riddle, I imagine he wants people to forget about the talented boy who attended Hogwarts all those many years ago. But he also craves recognition. In the 70s, he'd developed quite a dramatic flair. As I recall, Sirius witnessed some of it during his brief stay at Mulciber Manor. Voldemort has found a compromise between these two competing wants: he signals to his followers the selected details of his past. Perhaps some are invited to talk over tea. Others… are given treasures for safekeeping."

"Lucius Malfloy had the diary…" Harry said. "But Malfoy didn't know what it was—I can't imagine he would've slipped it to Ginny if he had. To him, it was just a blank book."

"Voldemort didn't expect to be vanquished," said Dumbledore. "Perhaps he divulged something to Lucius. Perhaps he expected the diary to be kept safe simply because it had come from him."

"How is it a treasure, though?"

"The diary was proof of Voldemort's lineage, written by his own hand, supported by everything he had learned about the line of Slytherin. Malfoys, and others, kept various documents detailing their family histories—journals, certificates of birth and marriage, all meant to document their bloodline, and how ancient and noble they were. The diary was Voldemort's family library. Certainly a treasure to one so invested in his ancestry."

"That's one. What about the others?"

Green fire sizzled as four more symbols appeared on the floor, encircling the Dark Mark. A lion, a raven, a snake and a badger.

"Very little was physically left behind by the Founders—not counting Hogwarts, of course. Whether by design or some other reason, only four magical artefacts survived. They have been lost and found and lost again over a thousand years. Gryffindor, of course, left us his sword. It vanished quickly and remained only a remark in history until you recovered it from the Sorting Hat, in what I imagine was precisely the manner Gryffindor had intended."

"You can't be serious. The Sword is…"

"Oh goodness, no. Voldemort never laid a hand on it, no one had in three hundred years before you. But he did try to steal it. The night of the Third Task. Barty Crouch found time to sneak away while everyone's attention was on the maze, and attempted to make it out of my office with the Sword. He failed, and I only ever found minor traces of his attempt. Now, I have no proof it was Crouch, but I think it's a safe bet. Ultimately, Voldemort never obtained the artefact of Gryffindor to taint with his Dark magic."

The lion faded away.

"However, I believe he got his hands on the other three."

Dumbledore snapped his fingers and there came a click from the surrounding darkness. A soft, dim light began to emanate from a tall cabinet—it was filled with rows of crystal phials, all labeled with Dumbledore's cursive handwriting. Harry approached the cabinet. Labels bore names, dates, places. The phials contained the unmistakable silver-white substance—memories.

"This represents the last year of my life, Harry. I had collected some of these over the previous many years, but my investigation could never be completed while I was at Hogwarts, and for a long time, I could not bring myself to leave."

"Some of these have your name as well," Harry said. "Your own memories?"

"Yes, of the interviews I conducted. Memories belonging to others are precious few, but I think I've managed to construct a fairly complete picture of the relevant periods of Voldemort's life."

Harry turned to face Dumbledore. "I don't suppose you've got a brief summary prepared?"

Dumbledore smiled. "If you'll indulge an old teacher's habit one last time, I would like you to view them in person."

"This will take all night," Harry said. A drawer then slid out of the cabinet, revealing an empty pensieve. "Well, it's not like I had something better planned."

~~oOo~~

Sirius sat with his legs crossed and hands folded in his lap, patiently waiting for Scrimgeour to finish growling.

"He should not even be inside the Ministry, let alone trying to play a role in all this!" The Chief Warlock stood flanked by senior wizards and witches of the Wizengamot. Across the room, at the opposite end of the table, Bartemius Crouch sat perfectly straight-backed, fingers intertwined.

"Mister Black holds no post within the Ministry, Rufus. The agreement you forced is being upheld."

"In letter, but not in spirit," Scrimgeour spat, slamming his palm on the table. "How can you be so blind, Barty? You're the last person I'd have expected to pledge yourself to another power-hungry Dark wizard. You disgust me."

Sirius glanced at Crouch, but the Minister didn't even flinch. "I've made my decision, Rufus. If the Wizengamot doesn't approve, it is welcome to veto me."

Face flushed red, Scrimgeour's stare moved from Crouch to Sirius, then back to the Minister. "The day will soon come that he will do what You-Know-Who never did," Scrimgeour said, pointing at Sirius. "On that day, you will only have yourself to blame."

The Chief Warlock left, his entourage following.

"Now that this headache is over…" Sirius stood, surveying the room. "Marcus, focus on the DMLE next. It's time to let Director Bones feel the pressure. She can't remain neutral forever."

Marcus Plateau, the Director of the Department of Treasures, opened his mouth as if to say something, but decided not to.

"Percy, kindly remind me of our progress," Sirius said.

"Salaries have been cut or delayed across most of the Ministry, with Director Bones's department now to follow. The Goblin Liaison Office reports that Ragnok's deadlines are being met, barely. The Ministry's ability to function is correspondingly suffering."

"What about the fallout?"

"I've seen reports that the Creature Control Office is responding more and more slowly to incidents. People are getting frustrated, fights break out, and St. Mungo's is quite busy. Goblins have ceased issuing loans—lots of complaints. And the Floo network is experiencing…" Percy leafed through the stack of reports on the table, "...hiccups."

"Hiccups?"

"That's the report I've received. In fact, Director Croaker has requested to see you."

Sirius narrowed his eyes. "Me? Are you sure he didn't mean—"

"Quite sure, sir. He seems to have little regard for anything happening above his ceiling. We haven't interfered with the funding of the Department of Mysteries yet, do you want me to—"

"Merlin forbid, no. I want to weaken the Ministry, not set fire to it. Don't mess with Croaker. I'll see what this is about. That'll be all."

Percy and Plateau left, but Crouch hadn't moved.

"I've left your instructions with Percy, Minister. Is something the matter?"

"The only reason I agreed to this farce is because we ultimately have the same goal," said Crouch, rising slowly. "Don't imagine I'll allow you and yours to rebuild everything in your precise image once the current government is dismantled."

"Do not take me for some petty dictator, Minister. I've little interest in ruling over the small-minded."

The opulence of the Ministry marvelously obscured the fact that its neighbours were London's sewers, but it still offered all the benefits of a subterranean maze, if one had need of such. Sirius travelled all the way down to the bottommost levels without once crossing paths with another soul, emerging right into the heart of the Department of Mysteries. The shelf slid shut behind him, leaving no indication of the hidden tunnel.

Sirius conjured a soft magical light and sent it down the aisle in front of him. The white-glowing missile shot off into darkness. He didn't have to wait long. A monocled Unspeakable popped out of thin air in front of him.

"Ah, it's you. Follow me, the Director is waiting."

The floor seemed to move beneath their feet even as they walked, as if to assist them in getting to their destination sooner. Shortly, they arrived at an immense door, which Sirius could have sworn led to the Time Room. The Unspeakable put his monocle to a keyhole conveniently located at his eye level and the door swung open with a theatrical whooosh. A slight breeze came from within.

The chamber was circular, with a glass dome that offered a decidedly alien view of the stars.

"Master Black. Come in." Saul Croaker awaited him in the center of the room, next to a model of Britain carved in obsidian—its level of detail could only have been achieved via transfiguration. Hundreds, thousands of tall pins dotted the map, one for every active Floo portal in the country.

"Saul," Sirius greeted. "I hope you haven't summoned me here to complain about my fireplace again. I thought we'd come to an agreement on that point already."

"I brought you here for this." Croaker swiped his hand over the map and the entire gargantuan slab flipped over in mid-air. The underside should have been flat and featureless.

"What in Morgana's bloody garments is this?"

Exposed to light, the bottom side of the map showed a mirror network of pins, like they'd been elongated to pierce through the flat surface. Some had had their tips blunted or broken off. Others had wires tied around them, connecting them to other pins.

"What you can spot is not all that's been manipulated," said Croaker. "Markers have been switched, some entirely replaced with corrupted copies. We've had people stepping through for a quick pop down Devonshire and ending up at the Giant's Causeway. A subtle kind of chaos—a persistent annoyance, not enough to alert us to the sinister intention behind it."

"What's the worst of it, beside displacement at destination?"

"First, the system crafted here requires no maintenance. Apparently it had been growing on its own, powered by an animation spell. Secondly, as it's grown, the malfunctions have been getting more frequent. Thirdly—it can be remotely controlled."

"By whom?"

Croaker swiped his wand. A chair slid forth from the shadowed periphery of the chamber. Its occupant had been secured in place with inhibiting chains like those in the courtrooms.

"He's managed to fool both of us," said Croaker.

Sirius stared down at Alistair McKree, a cold fury rising in his gut. "I should have known you were too competent for a novice."

Croaker tapped the top of McKree's skull with his wand. The disguise sloughed off, revealing a much older man, with an impeccably groomed beard.

Sirius exhaled heavily through his nose. "You know, Saul, this actually lessens the sting of knowing I've been had. He's outsmarted cleverer wizards than us. In fact, how did you get him?"

"Sheer luck," Croaker said. "I decided to investigate personally after the latest batch of misfires in the Floo. Found him here."

"Good old Gus," said Sirius, hands clasped behind his back. "Up to your favorite tricks again. I am unreservedly impressed. A clandestine takeover of the Floo—I should've thought of that."

"I'm guessing you don't want me to call Aurors down here," Croaker said.

"Please, none of that. You hand him over to Bones, he'll vanish right from under her nose."

"If you want me to keep silent about Augustus Rookwood infiltrating my Department, you'll be giving me assurances."

Sirius pressed a thumb to Rookwood's forehead and the Death Eater slackened in the chains, asleep. "Such as?"

"I know the general direction of your plans, Master Black. I want the Department of Mysteries to remain outside whatever political storm you intend to conjure."

"A small price to pay," Sirius said. Croaker didn't need to know that this had already been his intention. "Say… how long is going to take to unravel this mess?"

"Can't say. Must evaluate how deep it goes before anything can be done."

"Don't rush it. If it really can be controlled, as you said… we could use it instead of Voldemort."

Croaker's eyes narrowed, but he seemed to consider the point. "Growing chaos in the Floo would play right into your hands."

The two wizards stared each other down unblinkingly. Sirius's eyes had begun to sting when Croaker finally turned around to flip over the obsidian map right side up. He started to walk away, his footsteps echoing in the domed chamber.

"You've got until the end of the year."