His fingers twitched in irritation as the castle's wards gave a faint ping in the back of his mind. A Tuesday morning at the end of August and he was still being disturbed outside of scheduled meetings. Still being interrupted, most likely for some small nuisance of a matter that could most assuredly wait.

Voldemort took a moment to consider before returning to his work. He would let the interruption come to him. And if they dallied, on their own heads be it.

With a few hissed words he had a flying snake streaking out of the window to shadow the individual, then returned to his work. His tedious, dull paperwork that never seemed to cease.

It was only ten minutes or so before there was a rapid knock at the door of his office and he sent a pulse of magic out to open it with no more than an irritated twitch of a hairless brow. And he carried on with the current document he was reviewing, peripherally aware of the individual immediately falling to their knees after entering, and remaining there awaiting his acknowledgment.

"There were no detours," the snake relayed as it glided into the room, settling around one of the ornate wings of his chair. "It quivers in fear, like a rabbit."

He hummed in response, then gave the scroll one last scan before signing it with a flourish and allowing it to snap shut. Then he sent a thought toward the door to shut it before lifting his gaze toward the Death Eater who was kneeling in his office, head bowed.

"Corban Yaxley," he said without inflection, eyes narrowing as they caught the fluttering pulse point on the man's neck. Oh yes, this one had reason to be nervous, if he was bringing bad news. "And what is the reason for this interruption? Don't you have duties to be seeing to?"

"My Lord," Yaxley said evenly, rising to his feet and sitting in one of the chairs across from him. "I would have sent word another way but I believe you would not have wanted any delay. Nor for this information to pass through another person's lips. An unexpected issue has arisen in regards to the Ministry's coffers."

"An issue," he repeated slowly.

Yaxley's head dipped in a quick nod. "Yes, my Lord. Finance reported an irregularity this morning, a significant sum that is missing. The notation attached to the transaction stated that it was a matter of incorrectly-resolved intestacy."

Voldemort's eyes narrowed further. "Intestacy," he repeated. "You mean to tell me that the Ministry—your Ministry—claimed an estate before fully validating that there was in fact no inheritor?"

There was a faint hiss from the snake at his shoulder but he didn't need it; he could see in the stillness of the man before him that he wasn't breathing in his nervousness. "Tell me," he added quietly.

"No, my Lord. The goblins state that this individual is not in fact deceased." There was a hesitation, and then Yaxley continued, "They won't disclose the identity of the individual but based on the magnitude of the transaction, there has only been one estate claimed of that size." Another hesitation, then, "Ten years ago, my Lord."

Time seemed to stand still as the implications of those words settled in the silence of the circular office. Slowly, Voldemort rose to his feet. "You mean to tell me," he began with careful, deliberate diction, "that according to the goblins, Harry Potter is alive."

He saw Yaxley swallow, then give a single nod. "Yes, my Lord."

He flicked a finger and in a small corner of his mind he felt pleasure at the way that Yaxley tensed visibly, but that was dwarfed by the rage that was surging within him. The door to the office opened and he hissed, "Fetch the headmistress," before shutting it again once the serpent had flown out of the room.

Then he strode to the window, ignoring the man who was still seated before his desk, and looked out over the grounds of Hogwarts.

This was his castle. It was his land, his country. All his. And he would not see it snatched away from him, not after he had worked so long and so hard to reach where he was today. But even as the anger snapped and crackled within him there was something else awakening, something that had lain dormant for a decade, something that had been replaced with tedium and bureaucracy.

There were three sharp raps at the door and as he turned back toward the office he gestured to allow the door to swing open and admit Narcissa, who immediately ducked her head in a bow.

"Narcissa," he greeted. "I need you to see to a matter promptly. I trust you have a few minutes to spare this morning?"

"Of course, my Lord," she murmured in response.

"The Black house in London. I understand you acquired it following our victory, did you not?"

He saw the skin of her long neck tense briefly before she replied, "I did, my Lord."

"Excellent. I would like you to travel there by Floo and verify that all is well. Then return here—I shall leave the connection open for you."

There was a cautious uncertainty in her gaze but without hesitating she approached the hearth and tossed a pinch of powder in, calling out the address in a clear voice.

Nothing happened for a long second, then there was a loud clanging sound as the powder and some soot came billowing out toward her.

Narcissa took a graceful step back as though nothing untoward had happened, then turned toward him. "It seems that I may be experiencing an issue with the wards. Would you prefer that I remain here, or leave to address the matter?"

"See to your duties here. That will be all," Voldemort replied shortly, and she was out of the room within moments.

"Corban," he said quietly as he returned to his desk. "You will find out the name of the goblin who has been handling these affairs. You will determine if there are any other inconsistencies in your records. You will ensure that this liability in your Finance department forgets everything about this matter." He paused, leaning over the desk, then hissed, "And you will not breathe a word of this to anyone. Do you understand?"

Yaxley stood and bowed deeply, then took a few steps toward the door. "Completely, my Lord."

The moment he was out of the office Voldemort released a harsh breath through his flat nostrils, slamming his eyes shut as he dug his fingertips into the surface of his desk. He could hear the wood fracturing beneath his touch, the groaning of its drawers as their supports shifted, and somewhere in the room there was rustling as the tiresome documents were whipped from their resting places in the winds of his fury.

Harry Potter. The irksome insect that refused to be crushed. The loathsome wretch who just didn't know how to die.

He opened his eyes as he dropped into his chair, erasing all signs of magical disturbance with a glance. Then he found himself smiling, a thin line of grim amusement at the irony of the timing. When his rise to power had been stalled he had returned to Britain after ten years. And here they were, a decade after the battle that had spelled Voldemort's victory, and the impudent boy was back.

He cast a glance toward the rest of the paperwork he had planned to work through before departing for his afternoon meetings and then mentally dismissed it.

If Harry Potter had truly returned, Voldemort finally had something much more interesting to capture his attention.

Grimmauld Place looked brilliant.

When Harry had concluded his three-hour meeting at Gringotts he'd known that he would be seeing his gold returned, and the goblins had assured him that his 'non-monetary assets'—whatever those were, at this point—would be located. He hadn't been sure what to expect of Grimmauld Place though, since it had sat empty for years before. But the goblins had assured him that they would be taking care of breaking the current occupant's wards and releasing ownership back to him themselves, since the idea that his estate had been given away while he was still alive was absolutely deplorable.

He'd felt the tiniest bit guilty about that, even more so when they relayed that Narcissa Malfoy was listed as the title-holder, but then abandoned all of those feelings when it occurred to him that she had never betrayed Voldemort. Not in this world, at least.

It had also taken Harry an embarrassingly long time to realise that the goblins were concerned that he blamed them for his estate being lost. It had taken him no time at all to assure them that he did not. After all, if they weren't going to let a little thing like a bank heist, dragon theft, Imperius on a goblin, and whatever else he had done a decade prior get between them, then he wasn't going to hold the fact that he had actually been dead in this reality against them.

But no, Grimmauld Place was his, and it was clean, and Walburga's portrait was gone, and the furnishings were . . . not necessarily to his tastes, but certainly nowhere near as sinister-looking as they had been when he'd last seen the place. His own paltry efforts back in his former life couldn't even begin to compare.

The first day he spent in his home was devoted entirely to turning it into an impenetrable fortress, using both the time he'd spent restoring the house and his Auror knowledge to its fullest potential. He fought with the thought of calling on Kreacher for his help, but ultimately decided against it; if the elf was still alive, then there was every likelihood that he had been serving the Malfoys for the past ten years, and so wards to prevent any house-elf from entering were erected as well. Then he was off to Diagon Alley with a transfiguration-based disguise in place where he purchased a long-eared owl—and, deciding that the patrolling Death Eaters were making him feel a touch snide, named him Tommy—before hiding once more behind safe walls.

Then he braced himself, channeled whatever memories of Hermione he could from the time that he'd still been a person and had still listened to his brilliant friend, and sent Tommy out with a missive to the Daily Prophet.

The next day a fleet of owls showed up at first light bearing several crates that when enlarged contained a decade's worth of newspaper issues.

"Well, Tom, let's see what you've been up to," Harry said to the empty drawing room, and with a groan he set to work.

He learned that the trials following the final battle had not been kind. But, neither had they been needlessly cruel, he realised after finding pages upon pages of pardons, and lesser sentences such as fines, or a number of hours served rebuilding infrastructure. He was shocked to find Luna's name on a list for the latter.

Then again, of the Weasleys he could find mentioned, Ginny, Arthur, and George had all ended up in Azkaban. None of the others' names appeared in any issues, and neither did Hermione's.

He read about the Muggleborn Registration, which had turned into something different—registration of all 'subjects' of the Dark Lord's Britain. The Prophet had described it as a step forward in security and safety for every citizen. Harry found himself frowning in thought.

But he could find nothing about muggles, or the terrorism that had been waged before the war's end. There was nothing about Hogwarts, and what type of students were admitted. Nothing about who was or wasn't a second-class citizen.

When he'd finished poring over the stacks of newspapers he tossed the final one aside with a sound of disgust, then leaned back on the sofa.

Next to useless. Then again, when hadn't the Prophet been a mouthpiece for the Ministry?

Harry considered his options. He could remain in the shadows, and only move cautiously. He could attempt to remain undetected for as long as possible, to retain the element of surprise—and he'd need it, since surely Voldemort had secured some method of ensuring his immortality, which he would need to somehow identify and track down. . . .

But that wasn't him. He probably could remain quiet and careful, since he'd spent ten years living like a ghost, but there was an itch of excitement under his skin that he couldn't ignore. No, if he was going to do this, if he was going to remind people that there was an option other than Voldemort, he was going to make sure everyone knew it.

So with that he checked that morning's issue of the Prophet to confirm the date, then nodded to himself. August 30th. He had time to chuck together a skeleton of a plan.

September 1st, even more so than January 1st, had always been a day of new beginnings. Long ago it had meant the start of a new school year. After that, the beginning of a new set of plans, a new strategy, a new stage of the war.

The day still held that underlying flavour, Voldemort reflected, as he made a final evaluation of the castle's wards before the students were to arrive, but the freshness of it had been tempered by tradition. September 1st, the first day of term at Hogwarts, the first Wizengamot session of the fiscal year, the first of the autumn Death Eater meetings.

A busy day, but one full of ceremony, and history.

All around the castle the professors and support staff were making last minute arrangements. The ghosts and portraits were exchanging excited whispers about the incoming students, while the elves prepared for the Welcome Feast. It was exactly as it had been the year prior, and the year before that. Exactly how it always would be.

There was a soft ping at the back of his mind and Voldemort felt his jaw clench briefly. Then he forcefully ignored his irritation and returned his attention to the wards; Narcissa was tasked with running day-to-day affairs at Hogwarts, so she could see to the visitor.

He was just interring the final warding stone on the edge of the forest when he heard a faint hissing of greeting and looked over his shoulder to see a flying snake swooping down toward him.

"It waits at your door," the creature relayed.

"Any additional information you could glean?" he asked in response, glaring forcefully at the grass as his spellwork returned it to the pristine green carpet it had been earlier.

"It sweats. It is afraid."

Voldemort let his eyes shut for a moment as he took a deep breath, willing himself to remain calm. But there were many hours yet before he would be done with the long day, and he knew that he was already treading on the edge of his patience.

He opened his eyes and gave the area one final glance before turning and flying up to his tower, striding through the open window and twitching a finger toward the door to open it. Rowle stumbled into the room then caught himself, dropping into a bow after he'd found his footing.

"What is it?" Voldemort snapped.

"My Lord—the train. My daughter sent me an owl from the station—I came as quickly as I could—" the man babbled nonsensically.

The thoughts behind Rowle's eyes revealed flashes of red, and anger ignited in Voldemort's chest like a match. "Tell me," he demanded.

"The train, my Lord. It—someone had it restored, she said. She Flooed to the platform on her own this year so I didn't see it, but it's not black anymore. My Lord."

A mental check of the time confirmed that the train would be arriving in a little under an hour. Which meant that hours had passed, and not one of the parents who had seen it with their own two eyes had thought to inform him.

"I see," he said quietly. "You have done well to bring met this news. Is there anything else I should be aware of?"

The man shook his head almost violently. "No, my Lord."

"Go."

Well. It was certainly too late to undo whatever changes had been wrought as the train would have been seen by a thousand pairs of eyes already. With that unpleasant fact lingering in the back of his mind Voldemort apparated to Level One of the Ministry, bypassing all of the wards that would prevent such a feat for anyone else, and appeared in Yaxley's office.

There was someone else in the room, but he didn't even spare them a glance as they gasped and swiftly exited.

"Tell me what you have discovered from the goblins."

He saw the man swallow as he withdrew his arms from their casual position on the top of his desk. "They claim that any further information is protected under their vows of client privacy, my Lord." There must have been something in Voldemort's expression as he hurried to add, "There were no other inconsistencies in our records. I verified them myself."

"For your sake, that had better be the case," he warned before disapparating in a swirl of smoke and silence.

When he arrived at Platform 9¾ he immediately felt the tingle of something that didn't belong. A careful assessment of the space revealed nothing visually out of place, so he drew his wand and began the process of determining what magic was there that he had not emplaced himself.

The minutes ticked by, and with each one the tingle grew more irritating, like a persistent itch. Like he was being watch, and mocked.

After twenty minutes he would have sworn that there was nothing amiss except for the fact that he could feel it. Right there, in his wand hand, he could feel it.

Voldemort narrowed his eyes, then gave his wand—the Elder Wand—a hard stare.

Slowly, as though to avoid spooking the thing, he stowed the wand and drew his other one, the yew and phoenix feather, and began casting anew.

It still took him over ten minutes to locate the issue in the wards, and it was only a tiny thing, a spot where the wards were too clean, and too precise. Not that his own lattice of spellwork wasn't neat, of course, only that he had constructed it so thoroughly that it hadn't needed refreshing.

This though, this was meant to taunt him.

With a yell of frustration his tore through it and felt as the magic that had been muffling certain types of observations to anyone with a Dark Mark burst like a bubble. With a sharp slashing motion he cut through whatever traces remained of that foul nuisance's magic. Then he set up an addition of his own: if that brat returned to the platform, he would be alerted immediately.

There was a ping at the back of his mind, one alerting him to the wards of Hogwarts being approached. But he had no time for the delayed warnings of his followers now. No, now he needed to inspect the platform in Hogsmeade, ensure that nothing had been meddled with there, interrogate the driver. . . .

Mercifully, the wards in Hogsmeade were intact, though rather than fill him with a sense of relief he couldn't help but believe that there was something else. That he was missing something.

Then the train arrived, and it was gleaming red, with golden lettering proudly declaring it to be the HOGWARTS EXPRESS, with an enormous golden lightning bolt streaking vertically between those two words.

The driver somehow hadn't a clue that the train wasn't black and sleek as it had been every year since the start of Voldemort's uncontested reign.

And when he returned to the castle, ignoring the feast and the muttering of the portraits, he arrived at his office to find a note staked to his door with a knife bearing the Black crest on its pommel.

Dearest Tom

Did you miss me?

ϟ