Chapter 9 – Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – June 13th, 1947
Albus leaned back in his chair, taking a tiny break in the hours of marking papers. He gave Fawkes a dry look, the phoenix having found its way to his side after Credence had been killed by Gellert himself when he changed sides during a raid in 1932, since then, he's become a recognizable figure in Albus's day-to-day. A cloud of melancholy passed over him when he thought of the younger man, for the life of misery and suffering he'd lead in his search for family.
He had indeed been a Dumbledore, the son of his—once thought—spinster aunt, Honoria, who had been his father's older sister. Though to this day, neither he nor Aberforth had any idea who the father was—not to mention Abe still refused to talk to him—all they knew was that their aunt Honoria and her infant son had perished in the tragedy of a sinking ship in 1901. It had only been later, somewhere in 1929, that Newt Scamander regaled Leta's tale to him, of her leaving her crying brother for a more silent one at the age of six, unaware that the ship was sinking, during a passage to America in 1901.
At first, he hadn't considered the possibility of Credence being his much younger cousin until months later, when Gellert paraded an "Aurelius Dumbledore" on his arm, during a gala in France, and furthermore, when rumours of the young man having a phoenix as a familiar. That was when he'd truly begun to accept it, the legend between his family line and phoenixes were, indeed, true, though it hadn't happened in centuries.
As if understanding the direction of his thoughts, the phoenix trilled softly before hiding his head under his wing, allowing Albus to turn his attention back to his desk, which was a mess of student essays, and paperwork for his newly acquired Chief Warlock position. It was certainly a lot of work he was taking on, as he was already the Transfiguration professor, Deputy-Headmaster, and now Chief Warlock, which came with its own responsibilities, and he wondered if he was in over his head.
He thought of his role of mediating on upcoming bills, criminal trials, as well as becoming the landmass representative within the ICW, and shook his head…he needed this position, especially if he wanted anything to change.
He supposed he was just reeling in shock, as a week ago, he had not expected the reality of how he would win. When he'd heard that his competing candidate was Ramsey Lestrange, he'd been worried that he might lose the election. This would have had devastating effects on their society, he was sure, so that his salvation had come from the young Lord Slytherin was a bitter lemon to swallow.
It would be completely dishonest of him if he said that he hadn't been both wary and surprised when Tom contacted him to meet, simply because he had been under the impression that he was one who would certainly have benefited the most should Lestrange win. But Tom had surprised him, as instead, he had wanted to make a deal. He was, of course, still wary of the young wizard, but also felt that possibly, for a bit, that he'd been too harsh in his opinion of him…as clearly, though he may not be aware of it, he cared a great deal for his muggleborn cousin.
Thinking of Miss Granger-Riddle, the notes that Tom showed him had certainly caught him off guard in his planning. He hadn't considered that Leta would be willing to cooperate, let alone initiate such a valuable trade of information, though it was telling that of all people she'd chosen to contact, she had chosen Lord Slytherin. This either insinuated that she did not—rightly, at that—trust either himself, or the Scamander brothers any longer, or that she needed the cooperation of someone with the same level of cunning as her to truly make her plan work.
Leta aside, about the notes, it confirmed what Albus had suspected for almost fifty years, officially, that the Lestrange family were the culprits of the grand miscarriage of justice that was the treatment of muggleborns in the UK.
He remembered it clearly, it had been the spring of 1899, months before the tragedy that had seen innocent Ariana murdered in the crossfire of their duel. He'd been a young, foolish man, so in love with Gellert and taken in by their grand plans for the world, for the superiority of their magic, that he'd accompanied him to a 'soiree' in France. It had been the first time the truth of Gellert's character had disturbed him because the 'soiree' had ended up being an auction…an auction for muggles and muggleborns.
Albus hadn't known, hadn't even suspected when they were given masks before they entered the room, and furthermore when they were forced to vow never to speak of the events that they would see in that room. He had simply followed Gellert blindly.
But even then, he could not have stopped the roiling of horror in his stomach when he'd realized exactly what he'd walked into. Furthermore, at the barely contained glee that he could see in Gellert eyes, behind the mask, while he'd gripped his thigh as if he'd forgotten that Albus's own mother, Kendra, had been muggleborn.
It was months later that had seen Ariana killed simply because he'd been too enraptured by that young man who had promised him the world. His eyes had first been forcibly opened during that horrifying night, as muggleborn after muggleborn, some as young as eight, were dragged out, with bidding prices shouted from the crowd, but he had stayed, like a coward, until the price had become detrimental to him in the form of his sister's murder.
He remembered being unable to recognize anyone, due to the masks, that the ceiling of the room was entirely made of glass, showing the brilliant constellations in the night sky, and he remembered how bruising Gellert's lips and grip all over him had been once they'd retired home for the night.
As for the deal he made with Tom, it had absolutely been worth the risk. To this day, he could not speak of what he saw that night due to the vow nor had he truly known who'd been behind it for fifty years…and now he had names, and the power to truly do something about it.
Lestrange had gotten away and pulled the strings behind the curtain for far too long, and though he could not get Tom to agree in taking advantage of the opportunity presented—a decision that, simultaneously, he could not blame him for—he couldn't help but think that it would be the only opportunity that they would ever see again.
Albus looked at the clock to note that it was almost midnight and he realized how long of a day it had been, today he had won Chief Warlock, and tomorrow, well, perhaps tomorrow, after his lessons, he would write Miss Granger-Riddle. He would write her because although she had staunch supporters in the form of Miss Shacklebolt and Lord Slytherin, she also seemed to want to help people, and he thought that, if he explained, she would see that her cooperation could save and bring justice to so very many lives.
He nodded to himself, packing away the paperwork into one warded drawer, and student papers to the corner of his desk for further consideration tomorrow. He then sat back in his chair once more and looked towards Fawkes, who watched him curiously.
"We certainly have our work cut out for us, don't we?"
Alcazar Deslizan – June 13th, 1947
Tom sat at the head of the table in his dining hall, it was mid-afternoon, a couple of hours after the Chief Warlock election and he had the inner circle of his knights around him. The air was practically brimming with tension, while he stayed calm as a night's lake. He took in each of them, Bellatrix to his right, was watching him with a wariness that was unlike her, and neither Rodolphus nor Rabastan was present…for obvious reasons).
Orion was stoic as always, though he had a curiously knowing expression; across from him, Abraxas was frantically tapping a manicured nail against the table. Thoros to his left had his hands steeped together, a pensive look on his face, and Antonin sat there with a typical expression of chaotic enjoyment. Terrence and Graham both looked unbothered, and he supposed they would be, as their families were still predominantly neutral, so his vote wouldn't seem as outrageous for them, while Frederick and Evan both sat patiently waiting, he assumed, for explanation. Lastly, Marcus looked annoyed with confusion written all over his face, which drove him to break the silence.
"Okay, I'm going to say it, what in Merlin's sagging testicle was that?!" he crowed, and Tom had to give him credit for his straightforward approach. Abraxas stopped tapping his nail, and leaned his chin into his hand, staring at him as if to prompt an answer faster, which Tom considered for a moment. Should he tiptoe into the waters, or dive right in? He glanced idly at Bella, the biggest threat to privacy due to her married relations and decided on a course of action.
"If you wish to know my reasons, I call for an Unbreakable Vow between all of you and myself, that anything said in this room, stays here, and does not leave your mouths again once you leave," he began nonchalantly, watching as they exclaimed in outrage but then quieted as Orion held his hand over the table to Tom, nodding at Bellatrix to be the bonder, to which she hesitantly agreed.
Seeing Orion do it, they all hesitatingly followed suit, and it was once every vow was done, lines on their hands that were bold against their complexions that they settled and allowed him to speak.
"Ramsey Lestrange has decided that he will move against me," he stated simply, giving them a moment for it to sink in. Bella, to his right, steeped her fingers together, her delicately arched eyebrows furrowed in a pensive look.
"How?" she asked.
He turned subtly to regard her, visibly giving her his full attention, and not an intake of air was heard from any of his knights, in anticipation of his answer.
"Actually, it has a lot to do with you, Bella. Did you know that your husband's family specializes in the eradication of pureblood inbreeding by forcing the mudbloods in their business to be surrogates?" he asked lightly, and she took a moment to consider his words, to which he let her, knowing he didn't need to spell it out for her.
"For a moment, it sounds as if you care about what happens to mudbloods," chimed Antonin, where Tom merely moved his gaze to him, cocking an incredulous brow.
"Not in the slightest," he snorted, before turning his attention back to Bella.
"Have you figured it out?" he asked, instantly knowing when she had, as her eyes widened. She looked at him, disgust flashing across her features, though at which part it was directed, he couldn't say.
"Leta," she ventured, and he nodded, while the others, besides Abraxas and Orion, who seemed to have figured it out, continued to look confused until Marcus, exasperated, asked for clarification.
"He acted against you by targeting Miss Granger-Riddle, who is publicly acknowledged as your third cousin from the muggle side of your family," Abraxas answered, and Tom had to restrain a snort, despite the other wizard hitting the nail on the head.
'Of course, he would have looked up the relation itself,' he thought wryly.
Even though the Daily Prophet had written an exposé on Hermione, back when he'd still been vying for the Slytherin seat, they hadn't dug as deep to find out how far back the relation went. Abraxas had probably been disappointed in finding out that the only relation he shared with her was a great-great-grandfather born in 1775. More so, that their shared genetics was under one percent, a staggering percentage lower than even most pureblood marriages, which averaged anywhere from five to twelve percent due to the centuries of inbreeding in the already small gene pool that was the UK (though he digressed, it was better than the Gaunt line before him that had forty-five to seventy percent. He had checked all of it, of course, back when he'd realized his interest for what it was).
He turned to him, regarding the disdain on his face.
"You are correct, and with this information, had I voted and aided Lestrange into winning the Chief Warlock seat, he would have had ample support in stripping me of my political power, which tells us one thing…can anyone guess what it is?" he asked, amused that they all seemed to be catching on.
"That he's threatened by you and the potential you hold," Orion commented, and Tom nodded.
"What I do not understand is how you know this? Bella said 'Leta', so does that mean Leta Lestrange is your informant? If so, how are you so sure she is genuine with this information?" Thoros asked, and it was a good question, but he didn't need to answer, as Bella did it for him.
"He's correct," she began, bringing a hand up to massage her temples, "I felt that Roddy was oddly focused on your mudblood, as he'd mentioned her by name a few times, but hadn't thought anything of it, aside from general contempt. But you asked me about Leta months ago when I told you about my miscarriage, and I had said that there was no one who hated the Lestranges more than her." Tom hummed noncommittedly and tapped his nail against the table, essentially mimicking Abraxas's earlier agitation. He hadn't known that Rodolphus had mentioned Hermione to Bellatrix in any context, having assumed him to be smarter than that, but it was good to be vindicated.
"I apologize for the duplicity, Bella, but yes, I was aware of the possibility of Ramsey Lestrange withdrawing support from me for a few months now, and I made the best decision for all of us," he paused, taking a moment to consider all of them, "and yes, I mean all of us, I'm not so naive to think you've all aligned with me on some thestral-shite reason as being Slytherin's descendant, you all have your own personal goals and ideas that you've found you'd have an easier time to reach if there was the destructive force that my political power aims at the current hierarchy in place," he continued, giving them all a knowing stare, to which a few of them nodded.
"So, my decision to vote for Dumbledore, rest assured, does not mean that I've suddenly grown a bleeding heart, or do not have the same goals in mind that I've had since we started this group years ago. We wanted power and, eventually, complete separation from muggles and muggle influences, to preserve our culture and the sanctity of our magic, and I have full intention to abide by that, all while aiding you in your own goals, should you come to me with them," he finished, to a few relieved looks.
Of course, he made no mention that he kept the Riddle weapon business as a steady income, though he knew he had to find out a solution to that before it became blatantly called out when they tried to implement their plans in the future. Despite Helen having changed his general regard for muggles—though a part of him still considered her an exception to the rule—it was true that he still believed that their world should be separated entirely from muggles. The war had proven, with six million deaths of a certain faith, that they were dangerous and could not be trusted, and his control over Riddle arms, even in the last year, could attest to that.
"Any more questions?" he asked, and it was Evan who raised his hand. He'd been quiet, both during the meeting and in general since his cousin Vinda was given the dementor's kiss after the war. The Rosier family had certainly taken a big hit with Grindelwald's loss, simply due to their association with her.
"On the subject of mudbloods, I understand that we want separation, however, what about them? Clearly, eradication will get us nowhere, Grindelwald has shown us that. No offence to your person, Tom, but with you bedding one, it isn't convincing that you don't consider them a threat to this plan," he stated, and Tom had to concede that he had a point. There did need to be a plan for them, and Grindelwald's method had failed spectacularly, so he took a moment to ruminate on the subject before answering.
"I think there isn't enough information before we decide right away, not on mudbloods themselves, but all the plays that consist of them in one manner or another, like the Lestrange business, and how many countries this practice has taken root. Furthermore, my personal...preferences are irrelevant to our goal, because those will stay the same regardless." this seemed to pacify Evan, allowing them to continue onto other topics, as an early dinner was served, which became discussions to significantly subvert Dumbledore as Chief Warlock.
It was once they had all left, that he headed to his office, calling an elf when he arrived.
"Is there the evening post for the Prophet?" he asked while glancing at the clock, it was six in the evening, the elf nodding as it charmed the tea set to settle in front of him on the desk, popping away to retrieve it. When it came back, he inquired after Hermione, as he hadn't seen her since this morning. It replied that she'd left for Diagon Alley around half-four and hadn't come back yet. Thinking she'd probably gone to one her Gryffindor friends, he settled in to read the Prophet, and once done that, moved towards the piles of letters that had found their way through his mail ward to his desk, no doubt from the disgruntled members of the Traditional Party.
It was nearing eleven when he'd finished reading and responding to each letter, sitting up straight, and cracking his neck and back. He moved to stand, but was distracted by Niti, Hermione's elf, apparating into his office. He raised an eyebrow at it, feeling a migraine begin at his temples.
"I is sorry to disturb you, sir, but miss hasn't come home, she be telling I's that she go out only for a moment to pick up a book," she said, wringing her hands worriedly, but he was already up, putting away his desk. He would be worried, but he was confident in her abilities, and he was positive Lestrange wouldn't try something this fast, it was too soon and too rash for him. She was probably with Shacklebolt, that hag, so he would go to the flat first.
As a precaution, he tried to reach the tracking charm he had put into the Gaunt ring, only to find nothing. Unnerved, he tried to ignore the niggling in his chest that something was wrong, instead forcing anger to take its place, allowing it to boost his magic.
With that, he closed his eyes, picturing the flat's hallway, and apparated.
Unknown Location – June 18th, 1947?
Hermione opened her eyes from her uneasy sleep, disappointed that she was still where she was. It had been—roughly—five days since she'd been imperiused to walk outside of Flourish & Blotts and towards Knockturn Alley. It was there that she'd been restrained, a burlap sack tossed over her head, and she'd felt the unpleasant sensation of side-along apparition.
She knew vaguely that it had been five days by the sleep schedule she kept and how often she was given food. There was also a tiny window near the ceiling, just out of her reach, that illuminated the room, but she had no way of knowing that it was a real window at all, and not simply a charmed space on the wall. She looked around once more, taking in her shoddy accommodations. It was clearly a cell, and it was rather small, fitting a cot, a small side table where food appeared through elf magic, a self-cleaning bucket, and the washbasin with a pitcher on a shelf, which seemed to refresh the water on its own.
She hadn't known whether to trust the food, but a voice in her head—that sounded suspiciously like Tom—insisted that she eat to keep her strength, she reasoned that if whoever kept her here wanted to harm her, they would have done so already, and not being able to fault that logic, she ate. It was nothing fancy, some chicken broth and bread, but it would give her energy to make an escape when she found a way to do that.
So far, no one had come to speak to her, so she spent her time cataloguing everything in the cell, to see if any of it could be used as a weapon, for whenever her generous host made their appearance. The rest of the time was spent trying to figure out why she was here in the first place. The first thought was that the glass ceiling had caught up to her, and it remained a likely reason, as she had nothing to discredit it. Her second thought was that it was about her specifically, perhaps residual disagreement or resentment from her bill, or even a case she'd worked.
Her third thought was Tom.
Now, she didn't know explicitly if he had any enemies, but she figured it would make sense for them to target her, considering she wore the Gaunt ring that was still on her finger.
That was another thing; she'd been stripped of her wand, her robes, and even of the pins that had been in her hair…but the ring was still on her hand. This led her to believe two things, that whoever was holding her here, hadn't been able to take it off, and that she was somewhere that was blocking the tracking spell that she knew Tom had placed on the ring, paranoid arse that he was.
Hermione looked towards the metal door; it hadn't been once opened. She was starting to suspect that there was a sound-dampening charm, because she heard nothing outside of this cell, and no matter how much she threw herself and banged her fists against the door, nobody came.
She hoped Jas had found her blood and hair, hoping that if she did, it would lead them to her…but then again, she didn't even know where she was; she could be on the other side of the world, and furthermore, she could be under a Fidelius for all she knew.
She pulled her knees to her chest on the cot, willing herself not to get discouraged, as well as willing the burn behind her eyes to fade. Just because she didn't have her wand, did not mean she was helpless.
With that, she got up and looked around once more. She'd already tried breaking the table, but it was charmed unbreakable and stuck to the floor, the bucket was a light metal and stuck to the floor, while the washbasin was ceramic, but charmed unbreakable.
She looked at it curiously; picking up the pitcher, she emptied the water into the matching bowl, and swung it at the floor, only for it to bounce and land. She then looked towards the cot, already knowing the frame had the support of springs and bars because she'd looked there for anything to help her pry open the door, but she hadn't tried taking it apart yet.
Certainly, she should be able to, even if it was charmed unbreakable because nothing was being broken by removing a few screws, right?
So, with a huff, she dragged the thin mattress onto the floor and looked closely at the springs. All of the metal was old and a bit rusted, so she would need to be careful not to cut herself while taking it apart. Slowly, she began trying to unhook a few springs. Their buoyancy was stiff, but she managed to unhook one from the frame. She dragged the mattress back up onto the cot, and held the spring in her hand, and looked back towards the pitcher that was still on the floor.
An idea formulated in her mind; it could either work beautifully depending on if anyone ever walked through that door alone, or backfire horrifically if they weren't. She decided to take her chances and pulled her thin, cotton shift over her head. She stood there naked for a moment before shuffling the fabric in her hand until she was at the hem and with a deep breath, she tore it apart, hoping to get a clean strip. Thankfully, since it was cotton, the threads came apart generally easily, and in a vaguely straight line, and soon enough, she had a decent strip of fabric. Satisfied, she slipped her shift back over her, and sat down on the cot, reaching to bring the pitcher into her lap.
She tied one end of the fabric to the spring, giving her a handle, while the other end she tied to the handle of the pitcher, and with that, practiced swinging her makeshift mace to familiarize herself with the control of it. Once she got it down pat, she placed it back on the shelf but angled so that whoever came through the door would be none the wiser.
She then lied on her cot, and not sure what else to do with her time, she fell into another uneasy sleep.
A few hours passed like that, where her anxiety had her springing back up awake every couple of minutes. Her dreams were vague and foggy, and all she could recall was Tom's crooning voice, with the warmth of his hand at the back of her neck. Food had come, like clockwork, and she'd eaten it, before lying back down, when a few hours after that, the sound of metal grinding awoke her, like the sound of keys in a keyhole.
With her heart in her throat, she was on her feet, her 'mace' gripped in her hand. When the door opened, letting in a bright light that momentarily blinded her, she swung, not taking any chances to let the moment of surprise pass.
She aimed a bit higher than her height, assuming her host to be a man, and therefore taller than her, and she felt, more than heard, the pitcher collide with something hard.
Her heart sank as she heard a grunt, and so she immediately swung again, this time being able to make out the familiar hair on the head her pitcher-weapon collided with. They fell onto their knees, and she swung her weapon a third time until they fell forward onto their stomach, unconscious, the door still open to the hallway that was mercifully empty of anyone else.
She looked down at her captor, surprised when she nudged him onto his back, that it wasn't who she thought it was. The silver-blonde hair was telling, but she knew it wasn't Abraxas Malfoy simply because half of this man's face and neck was burnt.
Lying in front of her, unconscious, was Draco Malfoy.