Lord Voldemort listened as Professor Snape filled him in.

"It took a lot of work, but I have found the location of Emmeline Vance of the Order of the Phoenix," Snape said, quietly. "I know her home, her protections and when we can strike."

Lord Voldemort eyed Severus for a few seconds. "Is that all you have?" he said, coldly.

Severus looked surprised for a brief second. "Dumbledore has also suggested that Madame Bones and Arthur Weasley join forces," he said.

Voldemort nodded again, unimpressed. "I expect more from you, Severus," he said, coldly. "You are right at Dumbledore's ear and all you can offer me is the location of a second-rate member of the Order and information that Bones and Weasley might work together. I want more. I know Dumbledore well. He will be planning something, and I want to know what. Now, go …"

He glared at Snape as he left and gave a small shake of his head. He had such high hopes for Severus Snape as a spy, but so far, he had largely being disappointing.

He had managed to supply the location of one measly member of the Order of the Phoenix—Emmeline Vance. He had already received that information from Peter Pettigrew, along with the addresses and defences used by other Order of the Phoenix members— Dedalus Diggle, Augusta and Algie Longbottom, Bill Weasley, Hestia Jones, Fleur Delacour… Wormtail had found the locations of them all. His second spy, Barty Crouch Jr, had supplied the addresses of Sturgis Podmore and Arabella Figg

Whereas Severus Snape had provided just one measly name and location, which he already knew. Very disappointing. Very disappointing.

Still, he had enough names to strike a huge blow against the Order of the Phoenix when the time was right. Voldemort could be patient. He was waiting until after the election to put his plans in action. After all, if his servant, Corban Yaxley was elected, he would be essentially in control of the Ministry without even raising a wand. If Yaxley failed, well, his Death Eaters all had wands now. He would strike the Order hard.

He turned his attention to other matters at hand as a large, fierce looking man with matted gray hair and pointed, fang-like teeth entered his room. He was wearing Death Eater robes that were too tight, but Voldemort knew this man didn't carry the Dark Mark. The filthy halfbreed had its uses and could wear the robes of Death Eaters, but he would never be one of them.

He bowed, clumsily. "I have mustered the werewolves, my lord," he had a rasping voice. "We now await your command."

Voldemort thought carefully. The 28th of August would be the next date of the full moon. A few days before the return to Hogwarts. He hadn't decided yet how to utilize the werewolves at his command—that would all be down to the results of the election in just a week's time on August 5. He would use the beasts to make a statement of intent—strike hard and strike fear into the world.

"Lay low for now," Voldemort ordered.

"Yes my lord," said Fenrir Greyback.

"Keep your forces ready—on the 28th of August, you will strike. I will send Mulciber with orders."

"We will be ready," Greyback said, looking delighted at the prospect of blood.

After finishing up with the werewolf, Voldemort got out of his throne and walked around the house, inspecting it. Grimmauld Place made for a fine headquarters—it was large, spacious, had plenty of secrecy charms attached to it and lots of secrets.

His servants had cleaned up all of the dust. He wasn't a muggle pig. He wasn't going to live in squalor. He walked into the drawing room. The shelves and cabinets here were full of magical items. He was sure many of them would be useful. There was a large and impressive library full of books on the Dark Arts, too. Voldemort decided he would assign Percival Pyrites to carry out a full inventory. He was one of the smartest of his Death Eaters and the ideal man for the job of investigating the many dark items accumulated by the Black Family through the years to see which might be useful in future schemes.

Dean Thomas

"Dean, glad you could finally get here," Ron greeted as Dean Thomas, tall and handsome stepped out of the fireplace. His hair was curlier than ever and he grinned upon seeing his friends.

"Hi, Dean," Dudley said.

"How are you holding up?" Dean asked, putting his bag on the floor.

"I'm ok," Dudley said, giving a small shrug.

He and Ron led Dean up to Ron's room, filling him in on what had been happening.

"I've been out of the loop," Dean admitted. "Haven't heard much of what's going on. I read the Prophet about the breakout though, but the Ministry doesn't seem to be doing much."

"They're not," Ron said. "Bones has took a defensive approach, which, sure, ok—I can see why places like Diagon Alley need protecting. But everyone wants to see Voldemort getting his arse handed to him by the Aurors."

"This Order lot are fighting back, though, aren't they?"

"Nope," said Ron.

Dean gaped at him. "Then who is?"

"No one," said, Dudley, a little irritably. "The Order are just … plotting and guarding and planning."

Dean looked amazed. "So nobody is doing anything to stop him?"

"Not yet," said Ron. "Though listening in on their meetings, it seems everyone is waiting to see who the next Minister is going to be before making their move. Dumbledore reckons You-Know-Who is gonna lay low too, wait and see. If Yaxley wins, he won't even have to lift a wand. He'll have control."

Dean gave a slow shake of his head. "Well, let's hope the new Minister takes the fight to him," he said.

Dudley nodded in agreement.

"Won't have long to wait," Hermione said, exciting Ginny's room to join them. "Hi Dean"

"Hermione,"

"Elections are next week," she said.

"So expect the shit to hit the fan then," Ron said.

When they got to Dean's room, Dudley felt Dean look at him.

"Are you sure you're ok, Dud?" he asked, gently. "You went through a lot during the summer."

"I'm fine," Dudley said, automatically.

Dean didn't look convinced, but he gave a nod of his head. "I hope security is stepped up this year."

"I heard dad saying Madame Bones has authorized a bunch of Aurors to patrol the school," Ron said.

"Yeah, well, I think we need to stay on our guard," Dean said.

"What do you mean?" asked Ron.

"Well, You-Know-Who wants Dud, right? It's pretty obvious he's going to try something at Hogwarts again. I just think we should have a plan."

"We never needed a plan before," said Ron.

"Yeah, and it's always turned out badly," Dean said. "Look, I'm not saying we need to go on patrols and start questioning suspects. But just, keep an eye on things—and if You-Know-Who does try something, we should have some idea of what to do."

"I think it makes sense," Hermione said. "Maybe we can arrange something with the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher?"

"Why, isn't Moody coming back?" Ron asked.

"He's guarding my family," Dudley said. "I expect Dumbledore will bring someone else in."

"I just hope they're up to the job," Dean said.

"Well, Moody and Lupin were good teachers," said Hermione. "It was only Quirrell and Lockhart who were bad."

"And Lockhart did do well teaching us privately," Dean said, fairly. "He taught you memory charms alright, and we can all cast a patronus now."

"I don't think Dumbledore will lumber us with a complete wally," said Ron. "You-Know-Who is back. He's going to want us to defend ourselves."

Dumbledore

Albus Dumbledore sat in his office, going through the reports. It was dull, tedious work—just weeks and weeks of various proceedings and incidents from the Department for Magical Law Enforcement. From wizards who had been fined for owning wailing doorknockers to a witch who turned her husband into a turnip. None were relevant to his research. He wasn't expecting to find anything—he felt certain that Tom Riddle was born to at least one muggle parent, perhaps both. He had never been aware of any wizarding Riddles anyway, but, Dumbledore knew he would have to look. He skimmed the pages, looking for any events that jumped out and, finally, one caught his eye. He adjusted his glasses and leant closer over the page.

"July 24th, 1927—Incident Report

Acting on reports that one Morfin Gaunt had performed magic on a muggle named Tom Riddle, I proceeded to the Gaunt's shack to interview Morfin in person …"

There it was. Tom Riddle. It could not be a coincidence. Dumbledore read the report a few times and leant back to think.

Tom Riddle. Merope Gaunt. Morfin Gaunt and finally, the most clear evidence yet—Marvolo Gaunt. Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Dumbledore smiled. He had found him.

"Ogden …" he said, softly. The wizard may be dead, but there was a chance … there was always a chance. Wizards were longer lived than muggles. A wizard who may have been in his early 30s would be over 100 now. Dumbledore was well over 100 and still felt sprightly. So, there was a chance. There was always a chance.

He walked over to the fireplace and tossed a handful of Floo Powder onto it. "Elphias Doge!" he said, in a commanding voice and stuck his head inside.

His good friend was sat in his armchair reading. He jumped upon noticing Dumbledore's head in the flames. "Albus?"

"Time is of the essence, my dear friend," Dumbledore said. Doge had been the special adviser to the Wizengamot and was a very knowledgeable wizard. He would know Bob Ogden, Dumbledore was sure.

"Do you know a Ministry employee called Ogden—Bob Ogden?"

"Ogden … Ogden … Yes … Yes, he was once the Head of the Department for Magical Law Enforcement in the late 20s and early 30s. Demoted after a less than impressive run in charge. Was moved to the Department of Intoxicating Substances."

"Is he alive?" Dumbledore said, more sharply than he intended.

Doge looked surprised. "I believe so," he said, softly. "I haven't heard anything about his passing. Last I heard he was at St. Oswald's."

"Thank you, my friend," Dumbledore said warmly.

"Is anything the matter?" Doge asked, anxiously. "Anything I can help you with?"

"You have helped plenty," Dumbledore said.

There was little time to waste. Upon finishing his talk with Doge, Dumbledore made his preparations to leave the castle. As far as he was aware, Lord Voldemort hadn't decided to start hunting down loose ends yet, but there was always the chance he might. Especially if he caught wind that Dumbledore was hunting his horcruxes.

He wrapped up in a thick purple cape and hurried as fast as he could through the grounds to the Hogwarts gates. Upon leaving the castle grounds, Dumbledore apparated and found himself in the small village of Upper Flagley. It was a pretty place, home to a mainly muggle population with a number of wizarding residents too. There was a large, Tudor-style house at the end of the high street. To all appearances, this was a regular nursing home, but Dumbledore knew it was actually Saint Oswald's Home for Old Witches and Wizards.

He drew a few glances from some of the muggles out shopping, but he ignored them and strode purposefully to the house. He knocked sharply on the door and a squat, middle-aged witch opened it, gazing out suspiciously.

"Who are …" she trailed off, her mouth dropping open as she saw Dumbledore. "Professor Dumbledore! What brings … come in, come in."

"Thank you, Ms …"

"Bulstrode, Professor … Florence Bulstrode. You were my transfiguration teacher."

"Yes, I remember," Dumbledore said. He recognized the name but barely remembered Florence Bulstrode at all. She had been an unspectacular student, he vaguely recalled. Average in every degree. One of her grandchildren, Millicent was now at Hogwarts.

"I'm here to see a resident of yours—Mr. Ogden. Mr. Bob Ogden?"

"Ogden, yes … yes … he's here. He hasn't had a visitor for quite some time … are you … is he … are you related?"

"I'm an old friend," Dumbledore said. "My dear, Florence, can I speak to him. It is of great importance?"

"Well … I'm rushed off my feet here, hang on a second," Florence said and turned to a room on her right. "Millie!" she called.

A few seconds passed and a young, grumpy looking witch appeared. She was thick built with a large square jaw and long black hair. Her eyes widened upon seeing Dumbledore.

"Professor! Why are you here?" she looked worried.

Dumbledore smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry, Millicent, you're not in any trouble."

Millicent Bulstrode visibly relaxed.

"Millie's a good girl," Florence Bulstrode said. "Helps out here every Sunday—always comes to visit her Great-Grandad. Very popular with the residents."

Dumbledore smiled, feeling proud of Millicent. He noticed she was blushing, seemingly embarrassed at this. She had a bit of a reputation as a bully, and Dumbledore felt glad to see she had a soft side to her. He had always maintained that there was good in most people and that people had hidden layers.

"Millie, Professor Dumbledore wants to speak to Bob Ogden. Can you …"

Millicent nodded. "Right away, he's on the second floor, Professor," she said, leading the way towards a flight of stairs.

"Have you been volunteering here a lot?" Dumbledore asked politely as Millicent led him to Ogden.

Millicent lowered her head and blushed again. "Well, you know … my Grandma works here, and she doesn't have much staff. So I help out when I can. And Great Grandad is here too … and, you know …"

"It is a very nice thing that you do," Dumbledore said. "Giving up your free time to help those in need."

"It's nothing," Millicent said, blushing again. "Mr. Ogden is in here. He's a little deaf, so you might need to speak up."

"Thank you, Millicent," Dumbledore said, graciously.

Bob Ogden was a short, overweight old man wearing thick glasses. He was lying in bed. He held a hearing trumpet in his hand. He blinked short-sightedly at Dumbledore. "Who are you?" he demanded in a loud voice.

"Albus Dumbledore, can I ask you some questions, please?"

Ogden stared at him. "You are Dumbledore," he said, finally. "I recognize you now. Sit, sit—what brings you here."

There was nowhere to sit other than the bed, so Dumbledore remained standing.

"I want to ask you about something that happened many years ago. Tell me, do you remember visiting the Gaunts—1927?"

Bob Ogden screwed up his face and shook his head. "My memory isn't what it was. The name rings a bell—but I can't recall any details. It was somebody called Mortimer Gaunt? Morbid Gaunt?"

"Morfin," supplied Dumbledore.

"Yes, him," said Ogden. "I can't remember what he did."

Dumbledore nodded. He had been expecting this. "That account of what happened is very important to me," he said.

Ogden stared at him blankly.

"Can I please ask that you let me into your mind? I wish to retrieve it."

"Into my mind?" Ogden repeated loudly.

"Please—it is of the upmost importance that I know everything that happened that night. Your memory is intact—they never fade, you just fail to recall them. Please, Mr. Ogden."

"Will it hurt?"

"It's painless."

"And it is just that one memory?"

"Just the one," Dumbledore promised.

Ogden gave a small nod of his head. "If you say it's important, Mr. Dumbledore, then I will allow you to have it. Though Merlin knows what a memory from when—1926? 1927? Will do to help you."

"You have my thanks," Dumbledore said. He extracted his wand and a glass vial.