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Chapter Thirty-Eight—The Line of Gaunt

"What are you doing, Albus?"

Albus started a little and looked up from the book in front of him. It was a heavy wizarding genealogy, the kind that normally only pure-bloods obsessed with their own lineage took out of the Hogwarts library. He smiled. "Good morning, Augusta. I'm trying to learn enough about Voldemort's background that we might be able to find one of his Horcruxes' hiding places."

"I thought you were entrusting that to me."

Albus sighed. "But you haven't achieved results, have you, my dear? I don't mean to disparage your efforts as useless. But we need results."

"Why? What's so urgent about now, as opposed to the last time we talked about it?"

Albus spent a moment casting thick privacy spells around them. Augusta had found him in a deserted corner of the Hogwarts library; it was nearing exam time, but not even the OWL or NEWT students in Divination worried much about passing Sybill's subject or studying for it. Sometimes Albus regretted hiring her, but there had been no choice if he wanted to protect the source of the prophecy.

"There are many more Horcruxes than I originally thought," Albus said quietly, as he put his wand away. "There are thirteen."

Augusta's hand rose as if to cover her mouth or clutch her heart. "What?"

"Yes." Albus waited until a little of the whiteness around Augusta's lips had retreated and he no longer thought that he might have to drag her to the hospital wing. "I recently received a valuable source of information. One of the Death Eaters who grew disgusted enough with him to defect."

"He knows about Horcruxes?"

"He does. It seems Tom was careless and left the information lying around where my source could discover it."

"I don't trust information that was simply lying around, Albus."

"Well, he did go through some struggles before he could make up his mind to come to me. And of course he believes that he would be ill-treated by anyone else, because of the years he spent as a Death Eater."

Augusta squinted at him, as if trying to read his thoughts behind his eyes. Albus smiled a little. That was something she would never do, at least.

"Who is he, Albus? This paragon of spies?"

"His name is Severus Snape—"

Augusta jerked back and clutched at the table for a moment, as if she envisioned turning it over so that the book and the parchment Albus had been taking notes on all spilled. "That monster? I know he tortured people, Albus! That he killed good Aurors! That he might have been the reason that poor Edgar Bones is lying in St. Mungo's, raving from a nightmare that he can never wake up from! Potions invented by that monster!"

"He really does want revenge for what Voldemort did to him," Albus said softly. "And I feel that I need to give him the chance at redemption, Augusta. Even the most hardened criminal should have the opportunity to change his mind, you know."

"Someone as Dark as that? Why?"

"Because without information like this, there is the chance that Tom might win. I certainly never knew that he had as many Horcruxes as he does. I wouldn't have thought he had the sanity to refrain from war if he had thirteen. It must be that he's employing base animal cunning. Do you want to give up the victory in this war, Augusta?"

For a long moment, Augusta clamped her lips shut, while her nostrils flared. Then she slowly nodded. "Just make sure that we never come in contact, Albus. I owe that bastard for Edgar."

"Easy enough to do," Albus said, smiling at her. He was only relieved that Augusta hadn't stormed off in a huff, the way Minerva had when he'd tried to explain to her why they had to listen to what Severus said. "Now, I'm doing research on the Gaunt family that Tom's mother came from. It might be that he's hidden a Horcrux where they used to have property or hide their own treasures. Can you help me?"

"Gaunt?" Augusta laughed, a sound like a raven. "That's a name I haven't heard in long enough to nearly forget. They sank at the end, Albus. They refused to marry outside their own family. The last I heard, they had no magic left and they couldn't speak English."

"What did they speak, then?"

"Parseltongue only. Always scorning any outsider that couldn't speak it as beneath them, while they went their way with torn robes and tangled dirty hair."

Albus blinked. It did seem strange that a family like that would have any property or vault where Tom could hide one of his Horcruxes.

But Tom had always valued his ability to speak Parseltongue, too, and he had cherished the dark past of Slytherin's line more than any contribution he could make with his modern power. So it was still possible.

Albus leaned towards her. "Tell me more."

Lord Voldemort paused for a long moment before the carved oaken door. Beyond the door lay his Death Eaters. He intended to speak to them about his next plan—

The plan that had brought an emotion he had not experienced in years back into his life.

Lord Voldemort grimaced and renewed the spell on his eyes that made them look as purely crimson as before. Dark glints had an unfortunate tendency to show up in them now. Then he opened the door and strode into the room beyond.

The Death Eaters immediately dropped to their knees, with a murmur of, "Master." Lord Voldemort looked out over them, and realized that he could not be sure whether their devotion was honest or came from fear.

Or whether they stay with me because they think of what they can gain from me.

Lord Voldemort grimaced. Severus's "devotion" had been of that kind. He had already contemplated betraying his lord long before he did it.

Harry, it seemed, inspired genuine devotion in his brother and perhaps even in his allies. Lord Voldemort would have to work for the same kind of loyalty.

"Rise," he said, and watched as the Death Eaters climbed back to their feet. Then he turned to Bellatrix, who he had sent to watch Jonathan Potter at Hogwarts. "Report, Bella."

Bellatrix eagerly tossed her head back and began giving a report consisting of the boy's movements through most days of the term—or at least those days that snow and wind had permitted him to come outside. Lord Voldemort listened with a careful, retentive mind, but his attention was focused elsewhere. He would revise the report in a Pensieve later.

Could he go through with this? If their loyalty to him was already weak, would this option not make him think that he was becoming a doddering old man and should be replaced?

He banished the notion harshly. He had too many steps forwards taken already. And if they might think him weak, then his way was to strengthen his plans, and force them to forget his weakness.

"Thank you, Bellatrix," he said, when she was done. He turned to face Lucius Malfoy, one of his sleeper agents in recent years, whom Lord Voldemort used more for information than to conduct raids or torture. "So, Lucius. What have you found out about the new Minister's weaknesses?"

"Fudge is easiest to control when you appeal to his desire for money and flattery both at once, my Lord." Lucius stood a little too high, thought a little too well of himself. A year ago, that would have cost him a round of pain, perhaps a limb. Lord Voldemort knew Lucius had Harry to thank that he was undamaged now. Someday, Lord Voldemort would make Lucius understand and acknowledge the debt. "I do not mind spending some money to get the laws that you have proposed passed."

"See that you do so," Lord Voldemort commanded.

"My lord?" That was Rabastan Lestrange, always one of the more restless when he did not have enough violence to sate him. Bella had once been the same way, but Bella's undoubted loyalty was a good leash on her. Rabastan's appetites swallowed his common sense too often. "Of course it would be a great boon if we gained control of the Ministry, but…"

"Yes? Speak your mind, Lestrange."

Other Death Eaters winced, knowing the switch to surname was never a good sign. But Rabastan, blind to everything but his own yearning after murder, barreled on. "When are we going to go on a raid again? I've heard rumors that people think the war has actually stopped or you've died!"

"The war has changed."

"My lord."

"Did you know, Lestrange," Lord Voldemort murmured, "that you sound remarkably like a whining Muggle child who has been denied a sweet right now?"

There were a few nervous chuckles. Nervous for many reasons, Lord Voldemort thought. They not only thought they might witness him torturing Rabastan, they couldn't understand why he hadn't done it yet.

"My lord? Sorry." But Rabastan didn't sound properly sorry, and that meant it would have to be torture after all. "But it seems as though we've forgotten our proper purpose, going after Muggleborns and Muggles, and—"

Lord Voldemort sighed and cast the Cruciatus. It was much shorter than it would have been a month ago. Bellatrix only stood by, and even Rodolphus shook his head instead of pleading with Lord Voldemort for it to end. Rabastan trembled when it was over, but managed to crawl back to his brother's side.

"Do you know why I only held you under the curse for twenty seconds, Lestrange?"

"N-no." Rabastan was shaking badly enough that Lord Voldemort magnanimously decided to forego demanding the title.

"Because you are not worth more than that. Who looks at a long-term change in tactics and assumes that it will reverse itself? Who assumes that random killing is what the Death Eaters are about?"

A tension shot around the room, pervading all the Death Eaters. Lord Voldemort smiled in the depths of himself. They assumed the war would in fact come back, but under a law of targeted killing. There probably would be enough necessary murders before the end that he could keep up the pretense.

"I shall keep you out of the front lines, Rabastan, if you cannot muster more brains than that," Lord Voldemort drawled, and faced Lucius and the others who would likely end up being more useful. "Now. The plan is to keep our finger weighted on the scales of the Ministry, and tip them gradually more and more towards us. Tell me, Lucius, other than you, who does Fudge listen to the most?"

"Dumbledore, my lord."

"Exactly. It will be difficult, but we must wean him away from that source of counsel. And make it seem as if Dumbledore's reputation is tarnished. There, Rabastan, is our next assassination mission. Dumbledore's good name is a much harder kill than any ordinary Muggleborn."

Bellatrix clasped her hands and stared at him breathlessly. "Please, my lord, allow me to strike the first blow!"

"You are already helping, my Bella. I know that Dumbledore has plans for the Potter child. Continue to keep an eye on him. We must know in an instant if Dumbledore looks as if he might withdraw the boy from Hogwarts and send him elsewhere."

Bella nodded and then threw herself down hard enough on her knees that Lord Voldemort suspected she had cracked her forehead open on the floor. He only hoped that his grimace would be seen as one of distaste for her slavishness. "Of course, my lord! Of course!"

In truth, Lord Voldemort thought it unlikely that Dumbledore would send Jonathan Potter away from Hogwarts, but it made a good excuse to keep Bellatrix exactly where he wanted her. And there was always the chance that Dumbledore would do something else she could prevent.

Lord Voldemort turned back to Lucius. "You are to keep up the subtle prying into Fudge's mind, Lucius. I will provide you with the money. Begin hinting to him that we know dirty secrets that Dumbledore would not want revealed."

Lucius bowed. "Nothing better as a tactic, my lord. The man is one of the most inveterate gossips I have encountered."

Lord Voldemort assigned his Death Eaters other parts, telling them off to spy on key Ministry officials, subtly approach some whom they might have a chance of converting to their side, and infiltrate the Department of Mysteries, if possible. The Ministry might be hoarding weapons there that could prove hazardous to their cause.

He turned and looked coolly down on Rabastan when he was finished. Rabastan had pushed himself back to his knees and ceased trembling by then, but dared go no higher.

Lord Voldemort hid a sneer. Harry had told him a little about his first life, and said that he had dueled that version of Lord Voldemort when he was fourteen. He had been cursed with the Cruciatus for longer than Rabastan, and still he had stood straight and defied Lord Voldemort, and then resisted his Imperius and escaped.

"Stay out of this, Rabastan," he whispered. "I will not be pleased if I find that you have interfered. Rodolphus."

"My lord?"

"Keep a close hand on your brother, if you want him to survive."

Rodolphus nodded, and reached down and gripped Rabastan's dirty hair as if he meant the hand to be literal. Lord Voldemort smirked in a way that once would have felt natural and left the room.

He returned to his own, and shut his eyes once the door was closed and the spells that would keep anyone from spying on him had engaged.

Harry had brought embarrassment back into his life.

Lord Voldemort had once been proud of his name, of his achievements, of the Death Eaters who followed him. And now he looked back on everything that had mattered to him and saw it as the deluded dreams of a child.

Who assumes that random killing is what the Death Eaters are about? he had asked Rabastan. And once, for years, the answer was himself.

Lord Voldemort maintained silence for long moments. He had entered the meditative trance that, for years, worked to calm his emotions, in the time before he had split his soul into as many pieces as this.

And the control would not return to him. Perhaps the emotions truly were too new, and he had been too long without them to achieve control by such a simple measure.

Lord Voldemort opened his eyes and turned to the parchment and quill awaiting him on the table. When such weakness struck, the only way he knew to alleviate it was to write a letter to Harry. And perhaps even to Jonathan Potter, if only because he thought the boy might be a receptive audience for complaints about his brother.

Or an amusing one.

Jonathan was at least glad, when the Dark Lord Voldemort sent him an owl, that it didn't come with the huge black thing that Jonathan sometimes had seen carrying letters to Harry. This owl spiraled slowly down and extended ordinary brown wings to brake itself as it landed right next to his plate. The orange eyes still glared at him with a hint of madness, though.

"Who's that from?" Cedric asked, giving the owl a stare that made the owl stare back. Cedric ended up flinching away.

"My mum," Jonathan said, because certain secrets he wouldn't trust even to his friends. "She complained about the old owl she had, but now she's going to complain about this one." He tried to offer some bacon to the owl, who gave him another long stare and flapped slowly away. Jonathan supposed it might come back when he had a reply for it.

Jonathan waited until he was alone in the back of the Charms classroom to open it. Cedric was chatting with some of his friends from Ravenclaw. He had friends in all Houses, which was good for him, Jonathan supposed.

The letter said only, Your brother has introduced me to embarrassment.

Jonathan bristled for a second, thinking that Voldemort meant Harry was embarrassing in some way. Then he remembered what Harry had said about Voldemort getting part of his soul back. Oh. He hadn't been embarrassed before?

Jonathan grinned. He wrote back hastily, Well, you sure do have a lot to be embarrassed about, right? So it's good you recognize it, and then ran out of the Charms classroom to the Owlery. He might get points taken off by Professor Flitwick for being late since he wouldn't be able to make it back in time, but he absolutely wanted to get this out as soon as possible.

If only so he could imagine Voldemort's face when he read it.

Albus nearly overlooked the truth when he found it.

But then, it was understandable. He'd been spending more time researching the Horcruxes, but also trying to herd the Minister in the right direction, trying to flatter and cajole Severus into doing something other than hiding away in a room in the dungeons, making peace with Minerva, recruiting new allies, and seeking for Fawkes.

Fawkes was a mystery that could not concern him as much as the others because of the needs of the war, but nevertheless, Albus felt a pang in his heart when he thought of the phoenix. He hoped that he had not met with some misadventure.

So it was understandable that he nearly overlooked the modern, Muggle name of some of the land the Gaunts had once held.

...a village that Muggles now call Little Hangleton, from rumors that hanging once prevailed there to a degree unknown in the rest of the country…

Albus sat up slowly. He had heard of Little Hangleton, yes. Aberforth's wanderings had once taken him in that direction, and Albus, playing indulgent audience for his little brother's rantings, had remembered the name because it sounded genuinely ominous, unlike some of the places Aberforth tried to make sound that way.

Tomorrow, he had a journey to make.