crawlersout

by slexenskee

Harry is the girl who wanders in and out of time. Tom knows nothing about her, and despite the fact she has whisked him away from the orphanage to live with her, he's starting to think he never really will either. Regardless, he is determined to never let her go, not even in the face of time, space, or dark lords. timetravel

11. Chapter 11

Oml… how did this end up at 25k? So sorry for the wait! I kind of got stuck on this for a long while and didn't want to rush it, which ended up being a good idea because I ended up getting intense inspiration and now I'm actually satisfied with this chapter and not just resigned and done with it. Haha and then I went on vacation with Skee because god damn if I don't get my Korean skincare twice a year... yeah it's been a ride. I'll be traveling a lot for work so I don't know if this'll get updated again until... 2019? *hides in a corner*

Also can I just say I am high key mad about this new Grindelwald movie? Like I don't have any desire to watch it but I know I'm going to have to if only to see how they characterize him as opposed to how fandom does, and ugh. It makes me so sad.

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Tom stares down at the little puppies with an annoyed look. They stare back up at him, all floppy ears and big eyes. They're so cute it's irritating. He would have preferred snake babies.

Margaret's family does, indeed, have an astounding collection of the finest purebred Grand Bleu de Gascon— a fancy name for a, quite admittedly, rather blue colored dog. They're directly imported from France, she says, where they are considered the highest pedigree of scent hounds. Tom is just curious enough to try it out. The puppies stick their noses to the ground and track him out the barn and down the trail towards the lake, where they find him behind a tree and proceed to leap all over him. He supposes it's an interesting enough trait; Margaret's animals are also far better behaved than his own, and far more active. Spot might have just as keen a sense of smell, but he was far too lazy to ever execute on it effectively.

It's as he's kneeling down to let the puppies lick his fingers that Margaret finally gets around to lecturing him.

"Didn't I tell you not to be impolite?" She scowls, exasperated, as she flops down next to him.

Tom gives her an annoyed look. "How was I anything but polite?"

Margaret narrows her eyes at him, contemplating him closely. "I don't get it. Why do you dislike him so much?"

"Why do you think I dislike him?"

"I'm not blind, nor obtuse, Tom." She rolls her eyes. "I could cut the tension back there with a knife! What's going on between you two? I thought you didn't even know him!"

Not untrue, Tom agrees, darkly. He plans to change that, though. He wants to know everything about the man. Namely, why he was so interested in him, and by extension, interested in Harry.

"I don't know him," Tom reveals, pursing his lip. "Not really, anyway. I saw him speak to Harry once, is all."

Margaret looks at him incredulously. "That's all?"

Tom shrugs. "That's all."

Margaret continues to observe him. The puppies grow tired of him, and flop together as one uncoordinated unit to lavish attention at Margaret's feet. She spares them a vague look of annoyance, before her attention returns to him. She gently nudges them away with her foot, crossing her arms.

"He seemed very interested in you," she notices, thoughtfully. "Do you think it's because of Harry?"

"I don't know." Tom says, shortly. Rather, he does know, but he doesn't want to share his suspicions with Margaret. "And you didn't need to rescue me."

"Who says I was rescuing you?" The blonde girl returns idly. "Maybe I just wanted to show you my dogs."

"You hate animals." Tom points out, blandly. He raises a brow at her current state; she is valiantly attempting to be polite, but Tom can tell she'd rather punt these puppies across the estate than have them nipping at her finely polished shoes.

"They smell, and they're loud." Margaret admits. "Fine, yes, I don't like them. Forgive me for being concerned— you're playing with fire here, Tom! I already warned you about that man— and then you go off and goad him within two minutes of meeting him."

"Who the hell does he think he is, saying he's friends with Harry?" Tom scowls crossly.

"He's the dark lord." Margaret stresses. "If he wants to say he's friends with Harry, he damn well can. Who knows, maybe he is! You can't tell me you know every single one of her acquaintances, Tom."

This just makes him scowl deeper. Margaret's right. He doesn't know anything about Harry, and the reminder only makes him angry. For all he knows, they've known each other for years! Maybe they're even ex-lovers— maybe he was the one who gave Harry that ring. His eyes widen in horror at the thought.

Margaret checks her wristwatch. "It's almost time for dinner," she remarks. "I should show you to your room first. I hope you've had enough time to cool your head."

"I don't need to cool my head." Tom snaps in retort, annoyed that she could possibly think he was incapable of handling this.

The level look she sends his way is beyond irritating. He follows her inside anyhow.

They leave the grounds in favor of the warmer interior; Tom's room is just as splendid as he had assumed it would be. That's not to say his room at home was anything less than luxurious, but it certainly wasn't this big, or this full of gold. His bathroom was full of marble and towels with intricate 'B's stitched in silk thread; Margaret didn't have house elves, but she did have enough maids and butlers to more than make up for it.

It was disconcerting, really. He liked his solitude; he liked the peaceful life he had with Harry and Spot, just the three of them, enjoying the relative anonymity and quiet. He certainly wasn't fond of the garish excess heavily prevalent in the upper echelons of society, but he supposed he would have to get used to it, if he wanted to be someone when he grew up.

He tries to keep this attitude in mind as he descends the grand staircase on his way to the dining hall. It sounded like such a chore to him, having to sit through a dinner being all polite and nodding when prompted and smiling at perfected intervals.

It's both better and worse than he had suspected.

Worse, because Margaret's parents really were the usual high-society sort. The meal was at least seven courses long and seemed to drag on unreasonably the further into the evening they descended. Margaret was doing an excellent job playing hostess, diverting the conversation with dexterous aplomb until her parents were all but eating out of the palm of her hand. The only two who refused to play her game were Tom and… that man. Grindelwald. The Dark Lord. The man merely watched with amusement as Margaret turned the subject back towards Tom's academic achievements. She did this every so often, and Tom wasn't sure what her end game was with it. She seemed to want her parents to have a high opinion of him, although for the life of him Tom didn't understand why. Because they were… 'friends'? He shriveled his nose. He supposed this friendship thing did seem to have his benefits though, because Margaret was working hard to make sure her parents knew every amazing thing he'd done since arriving at Wolcroft.

"And that's to say nothing of Necromancy," Margaret is in the middle of saying, giving a lamenting sigh. "I'm very sorry father, but I just don't think I'm cut out for such filthy work. Summoning creatures from the dead does horrible things to one's shoes."

"There's nothing worse than ruining a perfectly good pair of dress shoes." Margaret's mother, Daisy, nods sagely.

Tom resists the urge to roll his eyes. Suddenly Margaret's unabashed and shameless narcissism makes so much sense.

"Those shoes were Mainbocher," Margaret laments, sadly.

"So, necromancy." Fortunately Margaret's father seems just as annoyed with change of subject, directing the conversation back on track. "Do you see a career for yourself as a necromancer, Thomas?"

"It's just Tom." He corrects, valiantly smothering his irritation with a cordial smile. "And, I suppose I haven't really thought about it."

What was with adults and asking about his career choices? Did they really think a ten year-old would know what they wanted to do at such a woefully inadequate age?

"Necromancers, though," Margaret's mother begins breathlessly, with a bit of trepidation rising in her voice, "my, that's rather… bleak, don't you think? Especially for someone so bright in all his subjects, like Thomas."

"Tom," he corrects, half-heartedly. He supposes he should just resign himself to the fact they seemed to want to make his name sound more… stately, or something. He can't say he was fond of Tom, but he didn't think Thomas was all that much better.

"There's nothing wrong with Necromancy," says Margaret's father, "it's a perfectly acceptable branch of magic. A prestigious one among practitioners of dark magic, if I recall correctly."

"But still!" Daisy protests, looking concerned. "Necromancy is so… so unnerving, I suppose. To be a Necromancer— why, people probably take one look at you and run the other way!" She laughs.

Her laughter stalls out when no one joins her.

"There's no need to repeat such pedantic muggle views," Grindelwald drawls, causing a high flush to rise on the woman's cheeks. "We're not talking about the evil witch in fairy tales. Necromancers are highly regarded in magical society. It's rare to find students with any real aptitude for it; despite teaching it for generations now, Wolcroft has only ever had a handful of students go on to study it vocationally."

His eyes drift almost lazily towards Tom, a slow smile growing on his face. "I suppose it's no real surprise to hear Tom excels in it, what with Miss Potter being his guardian."

Everyone at the table seems confused at that, Tom included. What does he mean by that? What does Harry have to do with necromancy?

He plays it off though, turning a cool look towards the man. "Yes, I suppose that does help."

Margaret spares him a calculating look, but he has no eyes for her. He seems to be locked into a staring match with this dark lord, those pale eyes almost amused as they survey him. He bristles slightly. What exactly is so amusing? He hates being patronized more than anything else in the world. That condescending look, as if Tom is nothing but vapid dinnertime entertainment, makes a low simmering fury rise in his stomach. Whatever scant appetite he had was washed away in an instant.

The dark lord merely leans over the table, resting his elbows on the tablecloth in a way that makes Mrs. Buchanan choke a little. Clearly Grindelwald doesn't care— and doesn't need to care— about useless table manners for he merely props his chin on his tented hands and scrutinizes Tom with a close look.

"I'm not such a bad Necromancer myself," Grindelwald reveals, eyes dark despite his benign smile. "I wouldn't mind teaching you a thing or two, if you're up to it."

Margaret's father looks both surprised and interested at the turn of events, his eyes turning to Tom as if finally seeing him for the first time that evening.

Tom frowns, deeply skeptical. "Well, I'd really rather—

Margaret steps on his foot viciously.

He barely manages to hold his wince. "That sounds lovely, thank you. Yes I would appreciate anything you'd like to teach me."

Apparently he's as transparent as glass, because the Dark Lord doesn't look like he bought any of that. That said, he also doesn't call him out on it, making Tom even more suspicious; if anything, he looks positively pleased.

All the same, Margaret was probably right to stop him. Despite whatever misgivings he may have for the man, he was the Dark Lord. You weren't called that unless you were wholly deserving of the title. Tom couldn't even begin to imagine what sort of knowledge that man had; the cultures he's seen, the magic he's practiced… it makes Tom envious. He knows he's not even close to a teenager yet, and really has all the time in the world ahead of him, but he still feels a deep stab of jealousy. He wants to be able to do all that— he wants all that knowledge— and he wants it now.

He considers the older man again, this time in what could perhaps even be considered a slightly positive light.

Well, he had offered. Tom would graciously accept, and would use the opportunity to its fullest. He would learn everything the man taught him— and then some.

.

.

.

The morning sun leaves Tom bewildered and vaguely out of sorts. It takes a moment to realize where he is, and afterwards there is a brief onset of panic when he realizes he is not at home, and Harry is far away. He refuses to analyze such pathetic emotions, and instead readies for the day.

It's his first time staying over at anyone's house, let alone a 'friend's'. He doesn't know how to feel about it. The experience is rather uncomfortable; it feels as if he's constantly on stage, performing for a judgmental audience that already doesn't like him much. He doesn't know how Margaret's parents feel about him, but at this point it's probably too hopeful to at least think they have no opinion of him at all. And in return, he doesn't know what to think about them either. He finds them distasteful in the same way he finds all wealthy patricians vaguely unpalatable. He knows even less what to think of the Dark Lord. A gallant figure in an elegant suit, predatory but indulgent eyes; he was in equal parts exceptional and yet no more remarkable than any other aristocrat. That was the real peril, he supposed. How easy it was to overlook the danger that he made no show to hide.

A maid shows up as he's readying for breakfast, announcing that Lord Grindelwald is waiting for him in the drawing room. She waits patiently for him to finish buttoning up his collar and tying his shoes, clearly meaning to show him the way.

The walk is painfully uncomfortable, in the same way everything about this stay has been uncomfortable and off-putting. He's never stayed in a house so grand.

He doesn't know how he feels in it.

Sure, he's visited Ruth's estate, and had finally gotten around to visiting Washy's equally ostentatious mansion on the cresting cliffs of Newport, but those were always brief visits, little peaks into a world he didn't belong to.

In some ways, he wanted more than anything to be a part of it— to show them all he could be. That they weren't better than him at all. It was a dark, lingering envy that had started with bitter looks at the row houses in downtown London, and had never really left him. There would always be a part of him that hated these spoiled aristocrats and their hoarded wealth, the way they all seemed to think they were entitled to such luxuries without ever expending much effort for them. Why couldn't Tom have been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, like Margaret, Ruth, or Washy? And yet he knew he'd hate himself if he had been. No matter how much he envied them, he was disgusted by them in equal parts.

And yet, as they pass a long open corridor, beset on all sides with art deco mirrored panels, he can't help but look at his reflection and think he looks like he belongs here.

He doesn't know how to feel about that, either.

So instead he returns his thoughts to the Dark Lord.

The maid leads him to the drawing room without so much as a word, holding the door open with a simple but deep bow. Revealed within is a tall, well-dressed figure seated at the far end of the long room, near the arched windows. The stretching expanse of the drawing table is full of maps, and Tom finds his eye unwillingly drawn to them in curiosity. He only allows himself a brief look— it wouldn't do to look too invested.

They appear to be maps of… Western Europe?

He can't quite tell, but he refuses to allow himself even a mere second more to investigate. Instead he turns his full attention on the man seated away from him, who watches him with an open expression of interest.

"Good morning, my Lord." Tom greets, in a bland but perfectly perfunctory tone.

"Good morning, young Tom." The man replies, and Tom valiantly holds back a twitch of his eye at such a patronizing form of address. "How did you sleep?"

"Well, thank you." He replies, clipped. And before the man can continue to make useless small talk; "You wished to see me?"

"So I did." He agrees. Tom narrows his eyes slightly. It's impossible to tell anything from the man's tone, and it's infuriating.

Tom has always been an expert at reading people, since before he could even speak. He wouldn't say he's on the level of a master manipulator quite yet, but he rarely faces opposition, even from fully grown adults. That being said, he is a master of observation, and he hasn't met anyone who is as difficult to read as the man before him. It's as irritating as it is interesting.

Tom refuses to give in first, waiting patiently with his hands behind his back as he waits for the man to explain himself.

"I've been told you're an excellent student, and I'm sure your a brilliant child, so I won't bother to waste your time with posturing that will lead us nowhere," the man begins, casually, with an absent wave of his hand. "I have a vast wealth of knowledge on the arcane arts that I'm sure will interest you— and you have information that will greatly interest me."

"A mere student like me, truly?" Tom feigns surprise.

He reaches for a saucer of tea on the table by his side, eyes closed. "I rather think you have more potential than you realize."

"Potential for what, exactly, my Lord?" It irritates him endlessly to have to address someone so respectfully, but he can begrudgingly admit that the title might be well deserved. Becoming a Lord of magic was no small feat, after all.

"To be someone great, of course." He says, simply.

Tom isn't entirely sure how to respond. Everything about this seems like a trap. He doesn't want to play this man's game, and yet, how is he supposed to gain anything if he doesn't? He might dislike the man, but he can admit he's a Dark Lord for a reason and most likely has access to all sorts of knowledge and information Tom couldn't possibly even dream of.

All the same though, to give up information to this man in exchange for that? And what if he wanted more than information? What if he wanted loyalty, fealty, servitude? Tom had to decide what he was and wasn't willing to give up.

"I appreciate your confidence in me, but I'm afraid I don't quite understand." He imitates a wide-eyed, childish look of pure surprise. "I'm not sure how I could be of much use to you now, my Lord."

Those electric eyes seem to send shocks down his spine, the man's smile curling predatorily as if to say, you have more use than you know.

"Yes, perhaps there is not much you can do for me now, but I have full faith that you will eventually grow into a great wizard. All I ask is that, for now, you keep me in mind when that day comes." His pleasant expression came off so charmingly, it was disconcerting. "How does that sound?"

Sounds like a trap to me, Tom thinks, frowning slightly.

But he also isn't stupid enough or arrogant enough to overlook the opportunity at hand here. If their positions were reversed, and he was the Dark Lord, he would not give anyone the possibility of such freedom. If he met someone of great potential— either as an ally or an enemy— he would waste no time in either eliminating them or binding their loyalty. He doesn't know why the Dark Lord would allow him such lenience, but he doesn't plan to waste it. The Dark Lord will come to regret it, someday, and Tom will be sure to learn from this man's mistakes. All the same the opportunity has presented himself, and he sees no reason not to capitalize on the man's mistakes.

"It sounds very fair to me." Tom replies, dutifully.

The blonde man grins. "Excellent. Now, I've heard you are a fantastic student of Necromancy."

"I am proficient in it, yes." He agrees demurely.

"There's no need for such modesty," the Dark Lord dismisses, leaning back in his chair. "How far along are you?"

Tom considers how to answer this question. "I can raise most dead animals, and have just begun summoning demons."

"Have you ever raised a human?"

"Like, an inferi, sir?" Tom clarifies, surprised. That is extremely advanced necromancy.

The Dark Lord nods.

"No, my Lord. I haven't."

Grindelwald makes a noncommittal noise. Tom bristles; he despises the idea of the man being disappointed in him as much as he despises the idea of caring that much about the man's opinion. What does it matter if he lives up to the man's expectations? He doesn't care about this man. His opinion should be worthless to Tom. All the same Tom has always been the top student in his class, and excels in everything he does. The idea of falling short in anything is galvanizing.

"That's probably for the best," the Dark Lord acknowledges, surprising Tom. "Raising undead is a tricky business that can go wrong far too easily. If done incorrectly it can cause terrible damage to your magical core— which would be a true shame, considering it's still growing."

Tom blinks. He'd never heard anything about that. Upon further consideration he can recognize the truth in the man's words; all undead must feed off the magic of the one who raises them. To mess up such a delicate process, with something as complicated as human physiology, would surely cause irreparable damage…

He's actually a little impressed. He's learning things from the man already.

"Now, I don't want to bore you with a lecture, so I have an assignment for you instead."

"Assignment?" Tom repeats, skeptically. He sounds like a professor or something.

"Of a sort, yes." The man stands from his armchair, picking up a book that had been lying on the end table beside it.

When Tom looks at it, he near blanches.

"Why are you giving me this?" He asks with disdain.

He knows what it is. Who doesn't? He remembers painfully long hours on uncomfortable pews, dragged into the back of a cathedral with the rest of the orphans; strictly C of E for Wool's, and despite being an unbaptized heathen they were still 'magnanimous' enough to allow a sinner like him to sit at the very back of the house of God. There wasn't much to do, especially on the more miserable rainy Sundays when not even the birds outside the stained glass windows could entertain him, so he would often thumb through the hymnal in boredom. Everything was so cultist and elitist, he could never get through the first few lines without throwing it down in disgust. At any rate, it was never worth it to put up much fuss, even though Tom never bothered to believe in God. A God of this begotten, wretched world was worthless anyway. And Tom had always been told he was beyond salvation.

At any rate he's not unfamiliar with the Holy Bible, even if he does find it positively pedantic.

"Have you ever read it?" The Dark Lord asks instead of replying.

"Fortunately, no." Tom drawls, bored.

This at least stirs a chuckle out of him. "Yes, it's true that Christianity, as most religions, tends to run on the lengthy and pedantic side of preachy, the Bible especially. But you might find it interesting."

"Really." Tom looks at him flatly.

"At the very least it might be helpful." The man replies, as he stands. "The Buchanan's are attending church this morning, and you and I will join them."

Tom stares at the man as if he's grown two heads.

.

.

.

He's still wholly at a loss as to why he's here, and the church organs are beginning to grate on him.

Margaret is beside him, dressed in her 'Sunday best' — despite the fact it's not even Sunday, and why in Merlin's name are they even torturing themselves through church on a day that isn't even Sunday?— sitting primly with a frigid expression that speaks of years of practice. Right after breakfast they all got into cars and drove here as if it was a perfectly acceptable thing to do, and Tom still can't quite believe it. Her parents are on her other side, along with the Dark Lord, who looks perfectly at ease in a Christian church that would have burned them all at the stake only a few centuries ago. On that note, Tom has to wonder, for the umpteenth time, why the hell they're all here. He's still irritated by it all; the idea of having to go to this spectacle once again grates on him. He thought he'd left all this nonsense behind when he left the orphanage and realized his identity as a wizard. But he supposes the rest of the world doesn't cease to exist just because he learned to discard it.

It makes him antsy, being here. He is assaulted with memories from his time in the orphanage, making a terrible, cold fear settle in his chest.

Despite the differences, it feels too similar. The last time he'd been in a church like this he had been sad and alone and absolutely miserable, hating his life and everyone in it. It's all too easy to imagine himself in a life without Harry, stuck in that horrible reality from before, when he was alone in the world with nothing and no one to call his own. It was the kind of loneliness that would never leave him, the kind that would forever instill a foreboding sense of fear within him. He knew with terrible intimacy what it felt like to be entirely alone in the world, and he couldn't bear the thought of having to return to that.

It casts his latest fight with Harry into a whole new light. He wishes he hadn't yelled at her. He didn't want her to leave, yes, but he understood it was bound to happen. He knew it didn't mean she was leaving him forever. But all the same at the time it was so hard to be rational about it, when that pervasive fear had clamored to the forefront of his mind, blocking all other thoughts. He only hoped that she would forgive him when they saw each other next. And he refused to believe in any other future— she would return to him. To contemplate otherwise was to tempt a descent into madness.

He threw himself out of those thoughts with a violent shake of his head, drawing Margaret's curious attention. Fortunately she had no time to discreetly ask over it, as the priest was asking everyone to rise for some sort of prayer. Margaret dutifully followed her parents and took out a hymnal book from the back of the pew; it reminded Tom of the bible the Dark Lord had given to him prior to their arrival here, still sitting on the pew next to him.

He still had no idea why the man would even bother. Tom could hardly care less about a religion that would cast them all into purgatory just for existing. Yet he couldn't imagine the Dark Lord to give it to him without reason.

With an irritated sigh he grabs the thing as he stands, pretending to sing along with the rest of the church as he flips through the pages. The text is so small and narrow it makes his eyes want to bleed. It's also hundreds of pages long. Does the Dark Lord truly expect him to read all this? He thinks he might perish in the attempt from pure boredom.

He frowns out into the crowds. No, that can't be it. He turns his gaze to the man in question, who, like Tom, has dutifully rose to his feet but does not sing along. He has to wonder why in Merlin's name the man would even come at all. Margaret and her parents he could understand; they were muggles after all. But Grindelwald, he imagined, was a pureblood wizard. He had no history with this nonsense— why bother to subject himself to it? Unless of course he was here purely to observe Tom.

If that was the case, then there clearly was something he wanted Tom to learn here. Tom scowls, returning his attention to the bible in his hand.

With a stroke of ingenuity, he recalls his first lesson in elemental magic. The way their teacher had asked them to use just a small spark of magic, just enough to light against the paper and trigger a chain reaction of the magic already inlaid within it.

Tom concentrates briefly, sending a surge of magic to the tips of his fingers.

The pages of the open book flutter as if in an invisible wind, turning themselves to a seemingly arbitrary passage some ways into it. Margaret clearly senses the magic, spine straightening beside him as she gives him a worried look.

Tom ignores it, devouring the contents on the page.

Dry bones of Israel, I will bring spirit into you, that you may come to life.

He stares down at it for a moment, trying to see past the banally pontifical and somewhat patronizing tone. Unbidden and unannounced, a memory wanders across his eyes; a desert capped with stars, full of dry bones and undead.

The hand of the Lord came upon me, and he led me out in the spirit of the Lord and set me in the center of the plain, which was now filled with bones. He made me walk among the bones in every direction and I saw how many they were on the surface of the plain. How dry they were! He asked me: Son of man, can these bones come to life? I answered, "Lord God, you alone know that." Then he said to me: Prophesy over these bones, and say to them, dry bones, hear the word of the Lord!

Thus says the Lord God to these bones: I will bring spirit into you, that you may come to life. I will put sinews in you, make flesh grow over you, cover you with skin, and put spirit in you so that you may come to life and know that I am the Lord.

I, Ezekiel, prophesied as I had been told, and even as I was prophesying I heard a noise: it was a rattling as the bones came together, bone joining bone. I saw the sinews and the flesh come upon them, and the skin cover them, but there was no spirit in them. From the four winds come, and breathe into these slain that they may come to life. I prophesied as he told me, and the spirit came into them; they came alive and stood upright, a vast army.

"Tom," Margaret hisses at him, causing him to almost drop the book. She grabs him by the elbow, and it's only then that he realizes everyone is sitting down once again.

He follows her lead, body numb as his mind whirls through endless realizations. His eyes catch the Dark Lord's. The man smirks at him.

The rest of the mass passes in a haze of passages laid out before him. He dog-ears each one, as every time he sends a new spark of magic into the book a new page is revealed to him. Eventually he has to put it down to give himself some time to breathe, blinking up into the blue cathedral light around him. He hates to admit it, but it is rather beautiful, purely from an aesthetic perspective. The architecture, the intricate stained glass art filtering in acidulous light, the high peaks and cavernous halls lined with pillars. He supposes it's no surprise it's so meticulously crafted; it's supposed to be the house of God, no? A place where humans worship their exalted deities in irritatingly cult-like ways.

This gives him pause.

A chant rises around him, heads bowed as the people bring their hands together in long chains roping across the pews. The scene is, indeed, extremely cultist. It almost looks like.. Tom watches in bewilderment, as the chanting grows and the priest raises something high into the air. He knows what it is of course; even though he's never actually participated in a communion he's been to church enough times to recognize it. But he looks upon it in a new light, now.

The resemblance to ancient sacrificial blood rituals is beyond startling. They had practiced one just before term ended in his Ancient Magics class. Washy was a total liar— the class had been far more than just curses and blood magic. Or maybe Tom was just too dense to read between the lines; blood magic, wards, and curses in combination with each other were called rituals, and they were some of the most difficult and catastrophic magics to exist on this earth. They were banned in every country, so the vast majority of the class was merely theoretical, as they went through different ancient societies and the different ceremonies and communions involved in their cultures. Some were certainly more malevolent than others, but they were all based off of the same principles. They could cause plagues that wiped off entire civilizations from the face of the earth; they could conjure calamitous natural events that changed the landscape of history; curse entire peoples; raise armies of undead. They could also be as simple and benign as a simple prayer at a temple in hopes of good luck or good health.

There were different levels to rituals, just as there were different levels to all branches of magic. Most prayers were of a simple sort of ritualistic magic; often times they have already been deeply ingrained into a culture or religion for centuries now, and people have forgotten they're even rituals. Tom remembers having to say 'grace' at the table before meals, and wondering what the point of it was. It was nothing but artificial words now, but perhaps hundreds of years ago, it actually did serve a purpose. After that there are the rituals that are more widely recognized as the dark arts— summoning demons, divination into the past or future, communion with the dead.

The most condemned of them all though was, unsurprisingly, the darkest and strongest of rituals; human sacrifice. They had been banned for centuries now, the height of their popularity waning with the ancient civilizations, after catastrophic consequences forced the magical community to accept how dangerous they were.

Tom looks around the room with stunned eyes.

These muggles… they have no idea what they're even doing right now.

Not that anything could happen, anyway, since the priest was not a sorcerer. But to imagine this exact same room, chanting these exact same words, holding hands and melding magic together in front of a sorcerer of untold power who could seize their energies and use it to his will… Yes, for now they are metaphorically eating the body and blood of another human, substituted by wine and bread, but Tom had a feeling this wasn't supposed to be metaphorical in any sense of the word. This was a ritual of human sacrifice, of literally eating another human's blood and body.

Tom blinks into the sea of moving crowds, as muggles shift down the lines of pews to walk up to the altar, he can't help but watch them in dazed disbelief. It's clear the Dark Lord knows he's figured it out, for he discreetly draws them outside the cathedral in the chaos of communion.

"Fascinating, is it not?" He asks idly, as he leads Tom to a shaded park bench on the grounds outside.

Tom stares blankly into the fountain before him. It's a stone sculpture of a few angels and a cherub, all holding water pots with water pouring out of them, sparkling in the midday sun. He wonders if it has some kind of significance. Now he has to wonder if all of it has some kind of significance.

"Enlightening, maybe." He says, once he's recovered himself. He's still holding the dog-eared bible in his hands.

"Humans have been participating in rituals since the dawn of time; many of them still continue to this day, even if they have lost their meanings." Grindelwald remarks, peering out into the sunny day with a slight smile, as if they weren't discussing perhaps the deepest scourge upon human history.

"Rituals are considered the worst of dark magic and are banned by the Wizengamot. If convicted of conducting one, it is a crime punishable by death." Tom parrots blandly, from his lessons in Ancient Magic class. His teacher had been extremely dogmatic about drilling that into their heads, and for good reason.

Grindelwald makes a noise of agreement. "Yes, they are the sort of magic not to be trifled with by inadequate hands."

Tom turns to him with wide eyes. "Have you done one before?"

"A ritual? Of course." He answers promptly, to Tom's shock. "Of what level is perhaps a better question. If you are asking me if I have ever conducted a ritual of the proportions of the Mayan or Khmer Empires? No, fortunately."

Tom is silent as he digests this. All the same, the knowledge of blood and death rituals is mostly lost and not taught in schools. To think that this man beside him clearly had the necessary knowledge to execute them…

"You're currently taking Ancient Magics at Wolcroft, yes?" Grindelwald continues, drawing Tom's attention away from his own internal musings. "Is Dr. Sodhi teaching you?"

Tom nods.

"What have you learned so far?"

"Before the mid-term ended we walked through a necromancy ritual from the late Persian empire." He reveals, thinking back. "It was quite a process."

"Yes they usually are." The Dark Lord agrees, sounding amused.

Tom recalls the day with something of a feverish piety. He studied up beforehand of course, because he was interested and also because staying up late in the library was a surefire way to avoid Harry. But no amount of studying could prepare him for the actual event itself. Of course they weren't actually conducting a ritual, but even just from walking into the room Tom could feel a certain dark magic permeate the air. It had a very specific scent, he recalls. It was heavy and thick in the air, despite the cold. He had felt different, at the time, and he wasn't sure if it was just the effect of the atmosphere or if something within his magic had actually changed. At any rate, their normally bright and sunny classroom had been thrust into darkness, blood red candles casting crimson lights across the black room. There were offerings of pomegranate and myrrh, wine and bread. It was a fairly simple and benign ritual, just a seance to communicate with deceased relatives, normally used on Samhain, and yet Tom could fully grasp the severity of this branch of magic from this brief taste. To imagine a great and terrible death shaman, wielding such powers over the masses of an ancient civilization…

For a brief moment, the pleasant morning drifts away from him, and he is again struck with the image of bones in a desert. But this time Harry is there, dressed in royal azure, an army of undead kneeling at her feet.

Dry bones of Israel… arising and standing upright, a vast army in the desert...

He pulls himself out of the vision with a shiver, making a valiant effort to put it aside.

"Did it surprise you?"

The Dark Lord's voice draws him away effectively. He lets out a breath. "The— the mass?"

"Yes." The man is observing him carefully.

"Not entirely. It seems obvious in hindsight." He admits, feeling a bit annoyed with himself for not putting two and two together sooner. "Of course most modern day religions have their ancestry in times before antiquity, when such rituals and black magics were common. It's only natural that those practices would bleed into their practices now."

"Yes, indeed it's not surprising. And yet we have a tendency to leave a disconnect between the ancient past and the modern day, as if a vast channel separates them from each other. In reality of course that's nonsense; history repeats itself in telling ways. The ancient past is not so far away as we like to believe."

Tom frowns up at him curiously, not entirely sure if he's following such an enigmatic response.

He thinks he understands, though. After all, Tom is starting to notice that the Deathly Hallows have proved themselves to be a figure carved into nearly every society since the beginning of civilization, despite the fact no one ever seems to notice it. He has a good feeling they even exist today, in the modern era, but he hasn't been able to trace them throughout history to figure out where they are.

"At any rate, I thought the experience might prove enlightening to you. It will certainly prove useful for our next assignment, if you're up to it."

Tom eyes him guardedly. "And what would that be?"

The man gestures to the book in his lap. "Why, to try one out, of course."

.

.

.

"You know, considering you dislike him so much you're spending an awful lot of time with him." Margaret remarks later that evening when Tom is preparing to embark on his very first ritual.

He shrugs as he rifles through his Ancient Magics textbook. "He knows a lot," he returns, simply.

Margaret gives him a deeply unimpressed look from the top of his bed, where she is lounging with her feet propped up in a most unlady like fashion. Then again, Tom is well aware how much Margaret hates wearing dresses and stockings, so it's no surprise she was so eager to rid herself of them and return to her usually pants and fashionable shirt and scarf. He ignores her in favor of his book. He had flipped towards the back where the book covers the era of antiquity, hoping he might find something on either Christianity or Judaism. He's had no luck so far, though.

Grindelwald hadn't been very specific about what ritual they were conducting, just that they would need to conduct it during the dead of night, preferably in the Buchanan family graveyard. As a necromancy ritual that seemed fairly par for the course, but he can't help but wonder what else will be involved. He was so impatient he couldn't sleep a wink, despite knowing he should.

"A lot of people know a lot," Margaret retorts, annoyed. Then she pauses. "But, I suppose he is the great Dark Lord… surely he knows more than most."

"Precisely." Tom replies, distracted as he rifles through his text. He doesn't see anything on Christian rituals, unfortunately, but he does come across a passage on ancient runes meant to strengthen rituals that commandeers his entire attention.

Margaret watches him with a fondly exasperated expression. Of course Tom is zealously engrossed in his books no matter the hour…

She had expected the boy to raise holy hell after having to sit through the drudgery of church earlier that day, but instead the boy had seemed pensive and almost… invigorated? She also had no idea why Lord Grindelwald had asked to attend with Tom to begin with— the whole thing seemed rather suspicious. And then, after that, Tom's interpretation of the man does an entire one-eighty? The two were definitely up to something. But it wasn't Margaret's place to poke her nose in it. Normally she would waste no time in doing so, but the Dark Lord's involvement gave her pause. Tom didn't understand it, because despite going to a dark school and being impressively talented in all dark arts, Tom was not part of dark magic society. He didn't understand the power and prestige the Dark Lord wielded. He could waltz up to him and talk to him casually— even rudely— because of his ignorance, but Margaret could not. She knew too much about the man to ever dare to speak to him so intrusively.

Perhaps it was for the best though… after all, the Dark Lord seemed rather charmed by the young wizard, in a way that surprised Margaret. Of course, Tom was a gifted wizard at the top of his class, attending a prestigious dark school, so his interest in the boy was not all that strange. But Margaret was still intrigued to find him so… accommodating. On their return to the mansion, Tom had offhandedly complained about how annoying he found the Dark Lord's enigmatic answers to be— and the man had merely laughed. Margaret would have expected Tom to be held under the cruciatus for such an offense.

When they returned after mass for a late lunch, the two had spent most of it discussing the history of Christianity, to her surprise. She hadn't realized either of them were all that interested in non-magical religions of all things. She also hadn't realized the two of them had gotten so close. Tom had looked like he had swallowed a lemon when he had to talk to the Dark Lord last night at dinner, and now he was enthusiastically debating the origins of Judaism.

She eyes her friend speculatively, as he tore through his bag in search of parchment. He settles back by his book, scribbling away without any awareness of her gaze. He must be very invested in whatever he was looking at to be so unaware.

She wonders what's going on between the two of them with no small amount of apprehension.

Tom doesn't seem to be adhering to her warnings at all, flippantly dismissing them as mere concern. She wishes she could have drilled into him a bit more caution. Lord Grindelwald was a roguishly charming individual, but underneath that veneer of elegant aristocracy was a truly brutal and savage Dark Lord who would do anything to maintain and expand his power. Tom didn't know, because people don't often speak of him in anything approaching a negative light, Margaret's family included. But she knew he was not a man to be reckoned with. His actions in Europe spoke to that.

"Listen, Tom…" She starts, after a long moment of silence.

"Hm?" He answers, without looking up.

"I don't know what's going on between you two, but you must understand, Lord Grindelwald is an extremely powerful man."

"I'm aware." The boy returns, flatly.

Margaret makes an irritated noise. She wishes she could just be frank about it, but she has no idea who is listening in on them right now. She doesn't trust for a second that their conversation was truly safe from prying ears. "Extremely so." She emphasizes, leadingly. "They say the things he is capable of haven't been seen in the world for centuries."

This at least gives Tom pause. He seems to consider her words. "Yes," he agrees, at length. "I could see that. He certainly seems to have the ambition to push things further than the rest of the spineless lot of wizards that call themselves competent."

Margaret grits her teeth. That wasn't what she meant at all. "Ambition, yes." She latches on to that. "He certainly has a lot of it. The lengths he goes to and the things he can do are quite… severe."

To actually go against international wizarding law and practice rituals in earnest would certainly require a great deal of ambition and fortitude, Tom thinks. And Tom has every intention of following the man's footsteps. Tonight was just the beginning of that journey.

He would have to impress the man, he knows. He isn't entirely sure why the man is so interested in him to begin with, but he knows it can't purely be because of his intellect alone. He has a feeling Harry is somehow involved as well, which grates on him. There's no way he would ever gamble Harry, so he must merely make his intellect invaluable to the man.

He eyes the runic symbols he'd written down with fervor, tracing them with his eyes. They shouldn't be too difficult to carve into himself— none of the symbols were particularly difficult, in fact he knew most of them already. They were all centered around amplifying power and magical ability; he'd used them before in his enchantment class when making that ridiculous holiday card of all things. He'd traced them onto the back of the paper to sustain the enchantment indefinitely. He remembers how thrilled Harry had been at such a simple feat of magic. He was fairly sure she'd framed it somewhere.

"I understand." He replies, after a long while, dragging his eyes away from the page. "You don't have to patronize me."

Margaret's cheeks flush. "I'm not patronizing you," she insists. "I'm just saying—

"I know what you're saying." He cuts her off, annoyed. "I'm not a fool. I'm aware of what I'm getting into."

Margaret gives him a critical look that only annoys him further. Then she rolls her eyes, huffing. "Fine. Whatever. Don't say I didn't warn you."

Tom scowls at her. He doesn't want to put up with her condescending demeanor right now. It's late, he's cranky, and he's already on edge enough as it is.

"Fine." He parrots back, annoyed.

She takes that as her cue to leave, looking cross with him as she sniffs and stalks out of the room. Tom watches her go with a shake of his head. He really didn't have time to deal with her now.

He jumps off the floor and goes through his backpack, searching for his silver knife.

Hours later and he is wrapped in a silver cloak given to him by a confused maid earlier in the night, his face uncovered as per the instruction. His arms, beneath the pools of fabric, are wrapped in bandages that are still reddened slightly with blood from freshly cut wounds.

He meets the Dark Lord on the veranda out back. The tall and imposing figure is drenched in moon spill, silvery cloak dripping around him like moving water. His eyes are positively electric in the full moon. The dead of night, with a full moon… Tom considers this, and considers what he knows of most medieval rituals. It seems to fit. Is that the kind of ritual they were doing? Christianity had a long history, it could be a ritual from the time of the biblical era, in antiquity, in the medieval era or even the renaissance.

They embark in silence, Tom following the Dark Lord's lead into the dark lawns.

He leads them down a twisting path, down the pastures and down through a valley with a small stream. The path then cuts upwards towards another hill; the wintry moonlight illuminates the silhouettes of a small church and graveyard, crosses and gravestones rising from the grounds around it.

The air is so still and quiet as they make their way through the graves. Tom is no stranger to necromancy and raising the dead, but even he feels vague trepidation as they cross through hollow ground in the dead of night.

Grindelwald opens the grand oak doors to the cathedral; they creak open in one long, slow groan.

The moonlight filters in through the speckled stained glass, creating patterns of jewels on the wooden floor. The pews have been pushed to the sides to leave a large open space in the center of the room, with only the altar remaining at the head of the chapel. A cross rose from the shadows, the sacrifice of Jesus lit in shifting panels of gold and crimson from his mother painted above him in glass. Tom tore his eyes away from the ominous portrait, drawing his gaze towards the ground.

Everything was already set up for the ritual. The magic circles and runes were already drawn into the wood, in some sort of dark liquid that Tom had to assume was blood; there were baskets full of breads, apples and valerian root at the four cardinal points; cardamom and baby's breath on the secondary points.

The Dark Lord gestures for him to take one side, snapping his fingers to bring the candles to life. Upon further inspection in the dim light, it was most certainly blood. His arms seem to ache at the sight, as if in commiseration. He looks back up at the Dark Lord— that wasn't his blood, was it? He supposes he would have no way to know other than to ask the man, but he found he didn't entirely want to know where it came from.

"I assume you've never done one of these before," the man remarks, as he pulls out a bible of his own.

Tom nods his head.

"As you can see, I've done most of the difficult work already," he gestures to the fully prepared ritual circle around them. "We can go over that another time. For now, I just want you to try enacting the ritual yourself."

Tom frowns at him. "But how do I do that, my Lord? And what ritual is this, anyway?"

The man chuckles. "Yes, I'm getting ahead of myself, aren't I?" He hands Tom the bible, already marked for the passage in particular. "It's quite simple, really. Just as you did in church, you merely read the passage aloud."

"This is a ritual from the time of Carthage and the Phoenicians," the man continues, "it's a fairly basic communion of divination. It allows the practitioner a brief glimpse into the future. Nothing like a real seer, unfortunately, but an apt inauguration for our first ritual."

Tom stares down at the biblical passage, illuminated dimly in the candlelight. It doesn't look any different from the passages they had read aloud earlier in the day during the service.

He looks back up at the Dark Lord, standing across from him, a few feet out of the circle. He looks like an ancient death priest, in his silvery robes, burning orange light casting his features in sharp relief. Tom supposes he too must look quite similar, holding a book in hand, standing in the midst of a ritual circle.

The Dark Lord watches him with his electric eyes. "You don't have to do this if you don't want to." He says then, surprisingly gentle. "It would be perfectly understandable. We can just discuss the theory behind it and walk through the process."

The man is right, but if anything it just hardens his resolve to go through with this. The runes on his arms tingle beneath their bandages. He bites his lip. There's no way he's backing out now.

"I'm fine," he says, voice even.

The man does not look entirely convinced, but he nods along anyhow. "Very well then. Whenever you're ready."

Tom looks down at the words in his hands, swimming in his vision.

He takes a breath.

"I will pour out my spirit upon all mankind.

Your sons and daughters shall prophesy;

Your old men shall dream dreams;

Your young men shall see visions.

Even upon the servants and the handmaids, in those days, I will pour out my spirit.

And I will work wonders in the heavens and on the earth, blood, fire, and columns of smoke.

The sun will be turned to darkness, and the moon to blood. At the coming of the day of the Lord, the great and terrible day."

He looks up.

At first, nothing happens.

Then his arms begin to burn.

The blood beneath his feet lights as if on fire, candlelight flickering in a silent and terrible wind. The earth itself seems to rent in two, shaking in an endless quiet that swallows him whole.

The last thing he sees is the Dark Lord's face, expression fearful and surprised as he yells something Tom can't hear, reaching for him as he collapses.

.

.

.

"I'm so stupid," Harry sobs, voice muffled by her hands. "I brought him here to make sure he'd be okay, and he ended up getting hurt anyway."

Gellert is severely unprepared to have to handle a crying Harry, again. He sighs, looking away with an uncomfortable expression. "... It's really not your fault." He says, lamely. If anything, it's his fault.

He had all but laid the ritual at the boy's feet, after all. And all but goaded him into doing it. If he said that though, Harry's sadness would turn to rage and she might be so angry at him she might actually kill him this time. He didn't doubt she was capable, if given the right incentive. This certainly seemed like the right incentive.

Her reaction certainly wasn't irrational, though. It was only natural instinct to want to protect your young, and surely seeing your child like this would be devastating. Not that he would know from experience, or anything, what with his own mother flinging him at Durmstrang and calling it a day.

"He could have died," she says, despondently.

"He was fine, Harry." He tries to reassure her. Funny, he can't even reassure himself right now. "Have you forgotten I am a master of the Dark Arts? I assure you, he was in good hands."

"And what if you hadn't been there?" She wipes furiously at her eyes. "Fuck. I should have been there. How could I have left him like this?"

He blinks, never having heard her curse so explicitly before. It's incredibly unlady like, but exactly what he would expect from Harry. He wonders why he finds it so charming.

"Rearing the child all by yourself is already a herculean task. There's no reason to beat yourself up over this; accidents are unavoidable."

Harry doesn't respond.

He is silent for a long moment, at a loss as to what else to say.

Seeing the boy collapse in front of his eyes had been beyond terrifying. He supposes in theory he had no qualms in the killing of children, if it benefited his cause, but it was another thing entirely to lead a lamb for slaughter like this. He was but an innocent young boy, after all, bright and brilliant but still so young. So eager to learn, so eager to prove himself… it had been all too easy to manipulate him, to gain his trust through knowledge and power.

And if he was being honest with himself, he actually enjoyed the child. His zealous ambition for knowledge was rather endearing, and he had to admit his stubborn precociousness was more amusing than anything.

He certainly hadn't wanted this for the boy, and he still wasn't entirely sure why it happened.

It was a simple ritual, barely anything more powerful than the prolific seances already done during this time of year for Samhain anyway. The boy should have gone into a brief trance, seeing a glimpse of a vision of some kind. He'd tried this exact ritual during his hunt for Harry this summer, although it had been too vague to be helpful. The passage read aloud was short; the blood could be either lamb or calf. He knew exactly how it worked. So what had went wrong? Could it have been the full moon? But it was not a ritual that relied on astrology or moonlight. Perhaps because of the nearness to Samhain? That could have been it. But if anything, he should have just had a longer or more intense vision than usual. Samhain would merely heighten the power of the ritual, not change it drastically. The boy shouldn't have been in pain as he had. He had been incoherently screaming for what seemed like hours before he'd finally lost consciousness. And to lose consciousness for so long like this…

He hadn't awoken since then, and it had been hours. He'd already tried a multitude of healing spells to no avail. The boy hadn't even so much as twitched. And that was to say nothing of the black mist that had sunken into his skin after he had collapsed.

The Dark Lord stared down at the boy in obvious worry, fortunately out of sight from the inconsolable Harry.

Harry had been positively beside herself when she had come to pick up Tom that morning, only to find Tom in this state. He hadn't told any of the Buchanan's about his plan, so it was all too easy to lie to them and say he had merely found the boy like this that morning. No one had bothered to question why he would have gone to the boy's rooms so early, what with him offering to teach him earlier. The little girl, surprisingly, was not so easily fooled. The look she had given him was quelling, but she did not speak up. That was probably for the best. He liked little Miss Buchanan, but he had no qualms in keeping her quiet permanently.

His plans for Harry were too important to be messed up by a little girl.

Clearly though, he was doing a fine job messing it up himself already.

His plan should have been flawless.

He would use the weekend to slowly reel the boy in. It had become obvious to him that the boy was the easiest and most surefire way to lure Harry in willingly, and the boy had an obvious weakness. He craved knowledge. And Grindelwald had that in spades. It wouldn't be a bad situation for Grindelwald either; he enjoyed bright and charismatic young wizards who were eager to learn. And he had every intention of actually doing right by the boy and teaching him things he would truly want to know. There was a good possibility the boy would grow up to be an impressive addition to his ranks, after all. And if getting closer to the boy would by extension give him access to Harry, that was just an added benefit.

And if he was to continue to teach the boy the Dark Arts, then there was no point in lying to Harry about their endeavor. He may have, however, casually neglected to mention a few finer points of detail; namely that they had been in the middle of a ritual. He'd merely told her he'd given the boy a book of spells, and he had tried one out under his supervision only to find the results had been… not expected.

"What were you even trying to teach him?" Harry sighs quietly, running her fingers through the boy's hair with a forlorn look.

He hesitates for a moment, before lying swiftly, "A fairly simple spell; al-Maysān. It has the same effect as a lumos spell."

"Then why did this happen?" She rubs at her eyes with the back of her hand, wiping away tears before they can fall. "He's never had a problem with lumos before."

"Different lingual incantations require use of different parts of the magical core. Much like how the mouth and tongue move differently for pronunciation in different languages." That isn't untrue in the least, and Harry seems to be believing it. "I assure you Harry, he was not in any danger."

She turns to him then, viridian eyes sparkling so vividly it is difficult to meet her gaze. "I don't understand. If it was so safe then why has he been unconscious for this long? If he wasn't in any danger then, why is he clearly in danger now?"

"I don't think he's in danger," he answers, honestly. "I think he's just recovering. Learning spells from different lingual branches is a difficult business; it's usually taught at the university level."

She glares at him balefully. "And you couldn't have waited until he was university age to teach it to him?"

"He was very adamant. He seems to have quite an interest in different magical societies and their histories."

This is clearly the right thing to say, for Harry deflates and turns a solemn look to the boy on the bed.

"That sounds like him." She sighs, reaching out to cover the boy's hand with her own. She might not be the boy's biological mother, but all the same it's clear she's incredibly protective over him. She worries over him as any mother would. She loves him. Undeniably, unconditionally. Gellert will have to keep that in mind.

They're silent for a long moment, as Harry stares down at the child in the bed and Gellert hovers off to the side, speculative.

"Where were you, anyhow?" He asks, curious. Harry doesn't seem the type to leave the boy alone if given a choice.

Her shoulders stiffen. "I don't see why it's any of your business." She returns, evenly, without looking up.

The question serves to remind her just who exactly is in the room with her.

To say she had been horrified to hear Grindelwald was in the Buchanan residence would be a severe understatement. She had thought, given that they were muggles, they would be a safe choice for Tom. Far safer than the Washington's, at any rate. Clearly she had been very wrong. She would not make that same mistake again, but for now there was nothing to be done about it, and there were more pressing matters at hand. Namely, Tom's sudden collapse.

Harry had arrived early on Sunday morning, having managed to weasel out of the last of her trip easily enough. She had expected to be greeted with a sullen and still moody Tom, waiting eagerly to be picked up. Instead the morning turns into something out of any parent's nightmare; she left him for all of a few hours and returns to find him hurt and unconscious.

She would love to yell at Grindelwald for being so stupid as to teach a child such dangerous magic, but it wouldn't solve anything currently. Not to mention, she doubted he was the only culpable party here; more than likely Tom had realized the man was a legend in the Dark Arts, a veritable Lord of Magic, and weedled and manipulated the man into teaching him a few things. It certainly wouldn't surprise Harry to hear it. Tom was very good at acting as the eager academic— mainly because it wasn't much of an act— and Grindelwald was probably delighted at the opportunity to spread more knowledge of the Dark Arts.

Yelling at him would solve nothing, but she wanted to yell at someone.

Instead, she bottles it up, as she always does.

Anger has never gotten her anywhere, no matter how good it feels to use it. Yelling at the Dursley's had never done her any good— if anything, it normally made the situation worse— yelling at Dumbledore had never made her feel better, yelling at her friends had never solved their problems… So she takes a shuddering breath and releases it, gripping Tom's hand tightly.

He'll be okay, because he has to be okay.

Just like he couldn't bear the thought of losing her, she can't bear the thought of losing him.

"And why are you here, anyway?" She asks, sniffling a bit and damning herself for yet again being emotional in front of the man. She has perfect reason for it this time though.

"I'm quite close with the Buchanan family," he replies, calmly. "I have business dealings with them often."

Of course he does.

"Oh, and it was just a happy coincidence you were here this weekend then, wasn't it?" She asks sarcastically, rolling her eyes.

"Not at all," he answers truthfully, making her whip her head up in surprise. "I wanted to meet young Tom. I've heard nothing but praise from everyone around him."

Harry blinks at him, still surprised he answered truthfully.

She looks at him guardedly, eyes narrowed. "Why the sudden interest in Tom?" She asks, carefully.

Gellert studies her for a long moment. "Surely you've realized, Harry, that the boy is exemplary." He says, frankly. "Without a shadow of a doubt, he will grow up to become a great wizard. Someone who could change the world, even."

That the boy could complete a ritual at all at his age was impressive, even if it had gone wrong at the end. And his academic accomplishments were nothing to scoff at. But above all else what made him so impressive was his drive and thirst for knowledge. Gifted geniuses were not uncommon, but to find one with such ambition who was willing to work to improve himself was a rare gem indeed.

You don't need to tell me that. Harry thinks, darkly. She's well aware how powerful Tom will grow up to be— how great a wizard he will be. Terrible, but great.

"I'm well aware." She returns, hollow. Just the thought of it makes her exhausted.

Tom is on a knife edge, even if he doesn't know it. Harry is intimately familiar with a future in which he chooses the wrong path; but what can she do to make sure he chooses the right one? And what is the right path? Thinking he'll one day become an altruistic beacon of light like Dumbledore would be completely unrealistic. His love of the Dark Arts is something he's always been predisposed to, and trying to rip him away from that completely would be an idea doomed to fail. But there are other paths within the Dark Arts that don't result in terrorism and rampant mass murder.

"Then you must understand how important it is to give him a comprehensive education. He has so much potential."

Yes and that was the problem, wasn't it? Too much potential. Too much potential for things to go horribly wrong.

"I don't care about his potential," Harry replies, with a conviction that surprises him. "I just want him to be happy."

The Dark Lord watches her with open curiosity. His own mother couldn't have cared less about him. The same could be said of his father. They'd shoved him off to boarding school the first chance they got, and when that didn't work out they shuffled him off to a distant Aunt instead. They never wanted anything to do with him, and could care less about his potential, or happiness. Is this what a normal parent-child relationship looks like? He's seen the Buchanan's interact enough times to know their wealth has driven a wedge between them, much like it had in his own family. The father, preoccupied with his businesses and power; the mother preoccupied in her own vanity; the child, an asset, an opportunity to further their wealth and influence.

If this had been any normal pureblood family Tom would have already been thrust into the limelight, a genius, a spectacle, a great addition to the family name. His parents would use every opportunity to flaunt his genius, would push him to become something worthy and useful to them.

It had always been easy to see that Harry was not like one of those parents. She had no interest in her own wealth or power, and would much prefer to live her life in anonymity. All she wanted for Tom was a life in which he was happy and satisfied, no matter what that entailed. She was not a practitioner of Dark Magic and yet she allowed Tom to attend a prestigious Dark Magic school; she had no interest in necromancy but did not forbid him from practicing it; she took him all across the world to learn more about Dark Magic.

"And Dark Magic makes him happy?" The Dark Lord presses, even though he already knows the answer.

She nods, blinking back tears. "Oh, he loves it." She hiccups on a bubble of laughter. "He's always loved it. I don't think there's anything in the world that makes him happier than a new book on Dark Arts."

He smiles slightly, remembering a time in his life where he had been much the same. "He's very gifted in them, that's undeniable. Necromancy especially, which is incredibly rare."

He pauses, debating whether or not he should push further or not. In the end, he decides he's too impatient to wait. "Is that because of you?"

If he thought Harry had been on edge before, she was all but ready to leap out the window now. Her spine straightened; a curtain of her hair obscured her expression, but from the grip she held on the boy's hand he imagines it would not be one of impassivity.

"What do you mean?" Her voice is low and even.

"Oh, Harry, we've been over this haven't we? We both know what you're capable of. There's no reason to beat around the bush." He says, breezily. "You don't have to explain it to me, but you also can't tell me that this… talent of yours is not connected somehow to Necromancy. I have to wonder how much of it the boy learned from you."

"It's really not…" Harry says, but finds she can't quite believe the words herself. She doesn't know exactly what she is, or how it relates to necromancy and dark magic. For all she knew, they could be closely intertwined.

"Is that why you adopted the boy? Because of his talents?"

"Of course not!" She insists vehemently. This answer, at least, she has full confidence in.

"Then why did you, if not for his potential?" The man presses on. "You can't tell me it was purely for altruistic purposes. You're a pretty girl of marrying age with her whole life ahead of her who could even have a family of her own; why would you discard all that to raise a child out of wedlock that wasn't even yours?"

"It's fully possible for a pretty girl of marrying age to have ambitions that don't include marrying." She can't help but point out, acerbically. She looks down at Tom's sleeping face, biting her lip. "And no, it was not just altruism. I… we… we're connected. I have a personal connection to him, you could say. And I'll not speak any more on the matter, so don't bother to ask." She ends with crisp finality, marking the subject as fully off limits.

Grindelwald supposes he can accept that, although his curiosity only heightens at her response. What sort of personal connection? That could mean all sorts of things…

But that was not the matter at hand here.

"Very well then." He agrees with a nod. "I won't ask. Yet the fact of the matter remains that you are his guardian, and you are the only one who can grant me permission to teach him."

This conclusively catches her by surprise.

"Teach him?" She repeats, voice high.

The Dark Lord tilts his head. "I have already stated he is an impressive student of the Dark Arts. And I am a Lord of Dark Magic— there is no one better to teach him."

Harry has a few choice words to say to that.

She has so many, actually, that she doesn't even know where to start.

"Absolutely not." She deadpans.

The Dark Lord's eyes flash.

"You won't even allow me the opportunity to prove myself?" His voice is careful and measured, but it's clear her adamant and immediate refusal has irritated him.

"Prove yourself?" She laughs, perhaps a bit hysterically. "Oh, I'm sure you'll prove yourself to be a master of Dark Magic. I don't doubt your prowess, and I'm sure you could be a good teacher if you wanted to be."

She pauses then, giving him a dark look. "But I know exactly who you are, and I wouldn't trust you as far as I could throw you. Why in Merlin's name do you think I would ever let someone like you near my child?"

Ah, that stings a bit.

Still, he can see her point.

And letting his disgruntled pride draw him into anger would not get him anywhere. He'd thought he'd made some kind of progress with her during their last meeting, but it seems that was a false hope. But he wouldn't be deterred. He has to merely take a step back and survey the situation with a clear mind. Harry is like a mother bear protecting her cub; she sees him as dangerous. A threat to her child. She doesn't trust him, so she bears her teeth at him when he tries to get close and will rip him to shreds if he makes one wrong move. All the other times they've met it had just been the two of them, alone. Having the boy she considers her child here would of course throw the dynamic.

She doesn't trust him, and he has never given her any reason to do so.

He realizes in hindsight that this was the wrong avenue to take. He pushed too soon. So he does what any good hunter would do, and backs down.

"Yes, I suppose you would have no reason to trust me, would you?" He agrees drily, not insulted in the least.

Harry says nothing to this, holding his gaze with a guarded look.

"And for what it's worth," he continues, "I am truly sorry for what happened with the boy."

Harry thinks he's actually sincere about that, strangely enough. Despite his insistence earlier that nothing was wrong, the man had looked hilariously worried as he told Harry what had happened. If Harry wasn't so worried herself she would have laughed at the man's bewildered expression; he probably hadn't worried over anyone in his entire life.

"Yeah, I know." She sighs, the exhaustion of the day hitting her all at once.

There's a knock on the door, and a maid pokes her head in asking if she'd like lunch delivered. Harry has absolutely no appetite, but she should probably eat something, if only so she doesn't collapse. In the ensuing chaos of maids hauling up carts of food the Dark Lord takes the opportunity to dismiss himself, much to Harry's relief.

She stares at the feast of food in front of her reluctantly, eying for a bread basket or something that will be light on her stomach.

Her eyes drift back to Tom, who looks deceptively peaceful as he sleeps on in the afternoon light.

His vitals were all fine, apparently. He just wasn't waking up.

Harry wasn't sure if that was better or worse. To be medically fine but mysteriously ill, or have a concrete diagnosis?

She feels as if she's aged a lifetime in these last few hours, walking over to a nearby armchair to sit down and eat her lunch properly. Tom is still well within her line of sight, but she feels anxious without his hand in hers. She doesn't want to be separated from him by even an inch. That's not physically feasible though, so she tries to allay her fears by keeping him within sight.

With her stomach full and her anxiety still alive but no longer a rollercoaster of waves of terror, the exhaustion well and truly catches up to her. Traveling always exhausts her, and on top of that was all the stress and fear from today's events only extrapolating her fatigue.

She fights it as hard as she can, but she knows it's a losing battle. Within a few minutes she's lightly dozing in her chair, promising herself she'll only close her eyes for a little bit.

.

.

.

He returns when she's asleep, not surprised to find the sleep potion worked faster than it usually does.

The girl was quite clearly on the brink of collapse. He feels a bit bad for drugging her against her will, but he also thinks she could use the rest. And anyway, he's the Dark Lord. Giving a young woman a few hours of well-needed rest is hardly the worst thing he's ever done.

He'd felt the boy's magic begin to spike during their conversation, an eminent sign of his awakening. He had been wondering how he would manage to get the boy alone long enough to discuss the outcome of the ritual when the maid had announced lunch. The opportunity was too easy to pass up. Now he simply had to wait for the boy to awaken— hopefully he wouldn't need the full five hours the sleep potion will be effective for that. He needed to discuss things with the boy, after all.

Gellert doesn't have to wait long.

The boy groans a bit, shifting underneath the blankets.

His eyes widen in alarm as a dark mist seems to seep out of the boy. His wand snaps into his hand, and he is immediately throwing up defensive wards around the room as a precaution.

He keeps his wand aimed at the boy, watching with apprehension as the black mist seems to take form. It's faint in the afternoon sun, but it appears almost… humanoid? It slides in and out of his vision, a dark blur like melted shadow, flickering in the warm light of day. If he concentrates too hard on the shape, it vanishes. But if he turns his gaze away from it, watching it from the corner of his eye… It is a figure dripping in shadow, spine curled, shoulders bowed as it hovers over the boy.

Then the boy groans again and opens his eyes. The figure is gone completely. The air in the room seems to settle, as if it's presence had disrupted the world around it.

Grindelwald frowns, keeping his wand ready.

"What— " The boy rubs his eyes sleepily. He looks around the room, of course seeing the Dark Lord first, who is discreetly tucking away his wand. Then his eyes find Harry.

"Harry!" He all but leaps out of the bed, the Dark Lord barely having any time to catch him by the chest and push him back.

"You're still unwell," he reminds him, as the boy struggles to get up. "You've been unconscious for over twelve hours."

This effectively gives the boy pause. "Twelve hours?" He repeats, eyes widening. "What— what happened?"

"I wanted to ask you that, actually." The man returns, coolly. "The ritual was not supposed to do that. I know for a fact that it's preparations were done correctly, so it could only have been because of something you did."

At first the boy looks mutinous.

Then he pales.

The Dark Lord spares a moment to be triumphant. Ah, as he had suspected. There was no way the full moon or Samhain could cause a ritual to go so poorly. It had to have been something the boy had done.

"Well?" He prods, raising a brow. "What did you do?"

Reluctantly, the boy rolls up his sleeves, revealing bandages up his forearms.

The Dark Lord's eyes widen when he sees them.

"I didn't think it would make it all go wrong." The boy insists, in a small voice. "They were just supposed to give me more magic."

He quickly unbinds the bandages, revealing the wounds beneath. They are runic symbols, scabbed over at this point from where the boy must have cut them into his skin. Gellert turns both his arms over to full inspect them. They don't appear to be anything strange. These are incredibly basic runes; people use them for charms and potions all the time. It's not uncommon to find these same runes transcribed on the bottom of cauldrons or on school-issue broomsticks. They're especially effective for young wizards and witches who can't quite regulate their magic.

They're elementary. Not nearly enough to cause a ritual to go wrong.

Gellert frowns down at them. It doesn't make any sense.

Then he looks at the bandages, and realization hits him.

He has to take a step back for a moment, as the implications hit him in full force.

Tom watches him with alarm. "What?" He asks, panicked. "What is it? What happened?"

The Dark Lord takes a moment to collect himself, expression grim.

"You started a blood sacrifice." He reveals, succinctly.

The boy pales. "I… What?" He swallows, gasping for air. "I didn't! When did I—

Grindelwald points to the boy's arms, wounds still freshly pink. The boy stares down at them. It takes a moment for the realization to sink in, and when it does, the child looks as if he'll be sick. Unfortunately, Gellert does not have any words to console him.

Blood sacrifices are powerful and dangerous magic, not to be trifled with by amateurs. He couldn't think of anyone more suited for the word then the boy in front of him. He barely even knew the theory of rituals, let alone the consequences of them.

The child looks to be hyperventilating, growing paler and paler by the second.

"I'm assuming those wounds were fresh last night," the man remarks, impassive. "And if they were, then you entered into a ritual circle with fresh blood. Your own blood. A child's blood. You know what that means, don't you?"

Tom nods numbly. Yes of course he knows what it means.

He just can't believe he overlooked something so obvious. He's never felt so stupid.

The Dark Lord sighs. There's no use yelling at the boy. He clearly knows the consequences he's facing, and there's no use crying over spilt potion. "Sacrificial rituals involving children are considered the darkest and most hideous of all magics. Their consequences can be… cataclysmic. Fortunately, it was only a small bit of blood given— not your life entirely. Still you must realize how powerful your blood is. The blood, body and soul are the three cornerstones of magic and to give one up so freely and thoughtlessly is careless indeed."

"I understand." The boy whispers, still looking lost as he stares down at the wounds on his arms.

Gellert sighs again, and waves his wand to heal the boy's injuries. Soon enough they are nothing but small, almost insignificant silvery scars on his arms.

"I had told you earlier that the ritual was of Carthaginian origin, did I not?" He waves a chair away from the wall to trot over to the boy's bed, seating himself beside the boy's bedside. He has a feeling this may take a while. Tom nods in response, so he continues; "The Carthaginian pantheon of gods was immense. Most of their sacrificial rituals were done at the altar of one of these gods."

Tom nods slowly, aware of all of this already.

"The grandest of their offerings to their gods were their own children," he reveals, to the boy's horror. "Child sacrifice was common in the Phoenician colonies. Children were most likely sacrificed for all the gods, but were often burned at the altar of one particular god, Baal-Hammon. Scholars dispute why exactly they did this, but most agree it was out of religious piety and a belief that the sacrifice would bring good tidings to the entire community."

The boy takes a shaky breath. "...Was that true?"

Gellert blinks. "Did the sacrifices work, you mean to ask? Yes, I would imagine so, at least to some degree. They were scorned by all communities at the time for the practice, but there must have been a reason for it. At any rate, Baal-Hammon, as he was called in Carthage, was a god that went by many names. The interpretatio graeca identifies him as Cronus in the Greek pantheon, and Saturn in the Roman one. As such, he is a wildly powerful god that was worshipped quite widely around the world in the age of antiquity."

Tom frowns at the explanation, a sinking feeling growing in his stomach. "And… what does that have to do with me?"

"Well, as I said, the ritual was of Phoenician and Carthaginian origins." The Dark Lord explains, calmly. "And you, a child, entered into a ritual with offerings to the other planes with your own blood coating your arms. By anyone's standards, that is a sacrificial offering of a child's blood."

Tom blanches. He looks down at his arms, pale and shaking and scarred. He looks small and scared, as he stares wide-eyed down at the bedspread. Gellert is annoyed to realize he seems to have somehow, unfathomably, become fond of the boy in their short tenure together. He can't help it though, their similarities are so startling; he sees so much of himself in the boy.

Tom rubs absently at his arms. "So, what now?" He makes a valiant effort to sound calm, but his fear is quite evident. "Did I mark myself for death?"

"I am unfamiliar with human sacrifices." The man admits. "I have a colleague that could perhaps shed some light. But in the meanwhile, to answer your question— no, I don't believe you've marked yourself for death. You would have been dead already had the god wanted your life as sacrifice. And at any rate, those children were all in infancy, and were burned alive. The methods of sacrifice vary too much to be considered in the same light."

The child nods silently, looking as if he has not been mollified slightly by Gellert's words.

The Dark Lord frowns thoughtfully, recalling what he had seen earlier. He had come to the conclusion that the form he had seen hunched over the boy had been none other than the ancient god, Baal-Hammon. And yet, the god did not seem hostile to the boy at all, and had not made any move to collect on his sacrifice. Gellert had to wonder if the ritual could even be considered a sacrifice at all. Blood rituals normally were sacrifices of some kind, but to what extent? The boy hadn't sacrificed his own life. He'd merely given his blood. To Gellert, that sounded more like…

"I will have to confirm it, but I have a suspicion that you have entered into a pact with the god." He says, suddenly, mind whirling with possibilities.

The boy sits up straighter. If possible, he looks even more alarmed. "A pact? What kind of pact?" He presses, panicking.

"As I said, this particular branch of Dark Magic is not my specialty," he reminds the child, "so it is merely speculation. But Baal-Hammon, or Saturn, as he is perhaps best known as in history, was said to be a benign god. He was the Roman god of time, wealth and agriculture, and although his exact role in both the Roman and Greek pantheon is complex and widely disputed, he was known for bountiful harvests and passing knowledge to men."

Tom digests this all in silence, unsure of how to respond. It was just… it was a lot. He still couldn't quite believe he'd managed to ruin a ritual so impressively. Not only had he not gotten what he was supposed to out of it, he managed to botch it so completely he'd ended up doing an entirely different ritual instead. He didn't know if his Ancient Magics teacher would laugh or strangle him. Probably both.

"So considering the god in question, I would have to say you are not cursed, but rather, blessed." He concludes, still in awe himself at this turn of events. He'd never met anyone marked by a god, whether benignly or not.

Then again, he had told Harry earlier that the boy was destined for great things…

Tom's gaze trails over towards the girl in question, sleeping quietly into the warm afternoon. "What did you— did you say anything to Harry?"

"Ah, yes, that." He pulls a book out of his coat pocket. "I told her we were practicing simple spells from the Semitic languages."

"Semitic languages?" Tom repeats, brow furrowing.

"A subset of the larger Afro-Asiatic language family, which notably includes Arabic, Hebrew, and Egyptian." Gellert explains.

Tom perks up with interest. No matter the circumstances, he is always interested in learning new things. "I've never heard of a language family. What is that?"

Gellert looks pleased to have such a captive audience in the boy. "I don't have much time to do the subject it's due, but to put it simply it is a family of languages that share a common ancestor. For example, Latin is part of the Indo-European language family. Germanic, Slavic, Persian, and of course English are also in this family. For this reason it is the language family taught in all magical schools throughout Europe."

"But it's not the only language of magic." Tom says.

"No, of course not. Which is why it is important to learn the other language families, as there are spells and branches of magic that are unique to each subset."

Tom listens eagerly, fully prepared to research the subject when he gets home. His gaze drifts over to Harry again. He wonders what she'd think of this. It's probably for the best she doesn't know.

"So, Harry thinks we were practicing basic spells?"

The Dark Lord shrugs. "Basic is relative. There are complications to transitioning between entire language families— although I may have exaggerated the extent of them."

Tom sighs. "She's going to have my head if she finds out." He says, mostly to himself.

She'll have mine as well, Gellert thinks, not unkindly. It seems he and the boy are already partners in crime.

"It's imperative she doesn't." He tells the boy, seriously. "I highly doubt she'd allow me to continue teaching you if she found out the true extent of our 'research'."

Tom's head snaps up at that. "You… you want to teach me?" He asks, perhaps a bit breathlessly.

The Dark Lord raises a brow. "Has that not been what I've been doing this whole weekend?"

Well, yes. But a weekend was one thing. To receive tutoring from a Dark Lord indefinitely…

Tom's eyes narrow then.

… sounds too good to be true.

"What do you want in return?" He demands, sharply.

The man smiles. Tom has learned not to trust those smiles though, so he remains unmoved. "Is it really so difficult to believe that I think you have potential? I think you will grow to do great things for Dark Magic."

Tom is not fooled in the least. "And it has absolutely nothing to do with Harry, huh?"

He debates the best course of action as he observes the boy. He could lie, of course, but he wonders how effective that would actually be. If he lies the boy will remain mistrustful of him, and if the boy doesn't trust him, there's no hope that Harry will. If he wants Harry to trust him, he has a feeling the simplest path is through the boy in front of him.

"Not entirely," he settles for an enigmatic half-truth. Enough to content the boy, but not enough to give anything truly important away. "I truly believe you will become an impressive sorcerer in your own right—" (and a great follower, if he plays his cards right) "— And as a Lord of Dark Magic I have a responsibility to see the magic continue into the next generation. Harry and I are a different matter entirely. That you happen to be her ward certainly isn't a bad thing, but no, my intentions with you are not related to her."

Tom still looks skeptical, but there is enough truth in his words to mollify the boy. Or at least enough to get the boy to drop the subject.

"And what about this… this god?" He shrivels his nose. "What should I do? Can I— can I get rid of it somehow?"

He's never heard of anyone getting rid of a god, although he supposes they had to have been banished from this realm somehow to begin with. But the banishment of such deities and demons was a long time ago, and he's not sure if he knows anyone alive who would still know how to do it. It will have to be yet another thing he will have to ask Amir, when next he sees him. And if he's truly wishing to speculate, he can't help but imagine that the most likely sorcerer currently on this earth who could have the power to do that would actually be the girl sleeping in this room.

"If there are ways to do so, I don't know of them." He replies. "All we can do now is wait, and hope it is not malevolent."

Tom shivers at the thought. He looks down at his arms again. It's almost as if he can feel it, in some strange way…

"Okay." He agrees. There's nothing else he can do. If even a Dark Lord of Magic doesn't know the answer, there's little hope a pre-adolescent student would.

.

.

.

The Dark Lord leaves soon after that, saying there are people he needs to talk to before he can give Tom a clear answer on his situation.

Tom doesn't want to be left alone right now, especially not with this— this thing apparently haunting him. An ancient god from a time long lost to history. He still can't believe it happened. He still can't believe he was stupid enough to let it happen.

And that's to say nothing on the emergence of this new Dark Lord in his life…

He knows even less what to think of that.

"At least you're pretty straightforward, huh?" He traces the symbols on his arms, idly wondering why it seems so comforting.

And then there's this whole mess with Harry.

That at least, he can do something about.

He carefully climbs out of the bed, walking towards the girl slumbering in the armchair by the window. Grindelwald had given him the antidote to the sleeping potion he'd given her, although he also said she would wake up on her own soon enough, and it seemed like she needed the rest. Tom could admit he was probably right; the day couldn't have been easy for Harry. He feels terrible for worrying her like this. He feels terrible for the way he'd treated her these last few weeks, too. He felt like he was always messing up when it came to Harry.

He holds the antidote below her nose, waiting a couple seconds before hiding it in his pocket.

She stirs almost immediately, moaning slightly as she stretches.

"...Harry?" He calls, tentatively.

Her eyes snap open at that.

"Tom!" She cries, leaping towards him to envelop him tightly in her arms. "Oh thank Merlin you're okay… I was so worried…"

"I'm sorry for worrying you." He croaks out, holding her just as tightly. "It was just an accident, promise."

"Don't ever do that again okay?" She whispers fiercely, sounding like she might fall apart.

"I'm sorry." He says again, because they both know he can't promise that. They both know there will always be dark magic that will entice him too greatly.

Never in his entire life had he ever said those words with any real sincerity. Not until he'd met Harry. And he's never felt more remorseful than he does now— he just, he's sorry for everything.

"It's okay," Harry murmurs against him. "I know, it was an accident. I was just so scared, you know? I know you love the Dark Arts and I would never try to keep them from you, but I never want to see you like that again. I was so scared, Tom."

"I'm sorry." He chokes out, yet again. He doesn't think he'll ever be able to say it enough. "Not just for all this, but for earlier too. I'm sorry I yelled at you… I know you really weren't trying to abandon me, but I just thought…"

"Oh, Tomcat, it's okay." He's relieved to hear the familiar name roll off her tongue; he'd worried she would stop using it for good, after how he handled it last time. "I know it was hard on you. I probably could have handled it better too. I'm not going anywhere, okay?"

She leans back to smile at him, perhaps a bit tearfully. "I think these days I have more reason to worry about you going somewhere."

He ducks his head bashfully. "I really didn't mean to cause trouble."

"From what the Buchanan's told me, you've been nothing but a courteous guest." Harry shakes her head. "Aside from trying out spells you probably shouldn't be— which isn't anything new— I don't think you've caused trouble at all."

"I'll be more careful next time." He swears, and he means that wholeheartedly.

He'll never make such a foolish mistake ever again.

The Dark Arts leave no room for error. They punish any and all mistakes; this goes for all branches of it, but extremely so for its more malevolent niches. To so stupidly botch a blood ritual like that… Tom shivers at the mere idea. He still can't believe he was that stupid. He could have died. He was so close to it— so close he was positively terrified, even hours later. But he had to be strong now, for Harry. He couldn't ever let her know what he had done, what he intended to continue doing. The Dark Lord was probably right in that. Telling Harry would be a disastrous idea.

He didn't like the idea of keeping secrets from her, but he's been keeping secrets from adults his entire life.

"Okay," Harry breathes, rubbing his cheeks with her thumbs as she smiles at him. "I love you Tomcat." She says, so simply and easily it knocks the breath out of him.

He feels overcome with emotion for a long moment, and doesn't manage to respond. His throat feels dry and his heart three sizes too small. He doesn't think he'll ever get used to hearing that. "...Harry…" He manages to get out, eyes wide.

She shakes her head, smiling ruefully. "You don't have to say anything," she assures him. "I just really want you to know. I don't want us to ever part on bad terms again, okay? No matter how mad we are at each other."

"Okay." He nods fiercely, diving into her arms once again. The idea of never seeing her again and never getting the opportunity to apologize is a terrifying one.

He would never do something so monumentally stupid again. No more stupid fights with Harry, no more stupid mistakes. He would be better from now on.

He vows it to himself, in the silence of the room as Harry's arms wrap around him. And he's never broken a promise to himself.

.

.

.

Tom,

I have spoken to the colleague of mine who is well versed in the matter.

As I had suspected, you have entered into a pact with the Carthaginian god, Baal-Hammon; known to the Romans as Saturn; known to the Greeks as Cronus. He is also sometimes referred to as Chronus, as he is the god of time. Chiefly, he holds domain over time, but his powers differ in account by region and culture. As this was a Carthaginian ritual the god will most likely be in its Carthaginian personification.

That was probably for the best, for what he had read on the Greek Titan Cronus was a rather daunting account of castration and cannibalism.

Baal-Hammon was the King of Gods in the Carthaginian pantheon, and was best known as the weather god. He is also the god of fertility and vegetation. From what my colleague can infer, a pact with Baal-Hammon would give a sorcerer powers over weather and the natural elements, principally wood, water and fire, the elements associated with vegetation and life. He also suggests a possible career in Herbology.

Tom snorts. As if he would ever give up his dreams of Dark Magic to be a gardener of all things.

Baal-Hammon is, indeed, a relatively benign god, especially in comparison to his other forms, Cronus and Saturn. As your pact was unintentional, whatever covenant you have with the god is impossible to say. More than likely the only way to get a definitive answer on the entails of your agreement would be to speak to the god directly, however, I would not advise it quite yet. He appears to have left you alone for now, and in the meantime I suggest researching him more thoroughly.

My colleague does not think you are in any immediate or imminent danger, but gods are powerful and mercurial, and may change their minds at any time. As you have given him a blood sacrifice you currently hold his blessing and his favor, but that could easily change. Take caution.

The letter was unsigned, but there was only one person who could have sent it.

To his lack of surprise, the letter morphed itself the moment he was done reading it. He would expect nothing less than the utmost protocols of secrecy from the great Dark Lord. What did surprise him was what it turned into; an incredibly innocuous school letterhead advising on scheduling for the upcoming holidays.

"Oh, is that your schedule for next term?" Harry peers over his shoulder, skimming the note.

Tom's heart almost leaps out of his chest. He barely manages to recover from jumping out of his chair. "Um, yeah. Looks like."

She plucks it out of his hands, clearly oblivious to what it had been a second ago.

Tom stares down at the envelop it had come in this morning; it even had the school address on it. How had the Dark Lord managed that, he wonders? Aren't magical addresses protected from tampering? At any rate he can't help but be relieved over the man's secrecy measures; otherwise, he would have to do a lot of explaining to Harry.

As it is, she makes a noise of intrigue and pencils something into her calendar, looking none the wiser.

Things have settled between the two of them, to his endless relief and gratitude. He still refrains from sleeping in her bed too often, not only because he thinks he's getting too old for it, but also because he's worried she'll notice the faint scars on his arms. They're barely noticeable now, and with the colder weather he's rarely out of a long-sleeved sweater or shirt, but all the same he's so hyper aware of them he worries everyone can see them. Harry certainly hasn't noticed yet, but there's a good possibility she will if he spends too much time that close to her. He'll wait until they're entirely gone before he lets his guard down.

He hasn't said anything about the Dark Lord to her, aside from a brief explanation for what happened while she was away.

Her expression had been… curious, when he'd mentioned him.

He'd asked her if they were 'friends', and she had blanched almost immediately and insisted otherwise. That being said she did admit to having some kind of acquaintanceship with him, which was alarming in and of itself. She wouldn't say how they knew each other— just that they'd met a few times, what with the small circles of upper aristocracy being the tight-knit groups they were. He had a feeling the two were being intentionally vague about their relationship, which irritated him to no end.

Unfortunately though, Harry was an adult, and he was a child. It was inevitable they would have separate lives and relationships from each other.

He loathed to admit it, but if his stay at the Buchanan's had taught him anything, it was that he was a child, and had a lot to learn. He deserved to be called an ignorant and immature child after the stunt he'd pulled. He was lucky he'd managed to come out of it in one piece, with nothing but a vague alliance with an ancient god to show for it.

He wanted to be someone impressive. Someone special. Someone better than the rest. But he had a long road ahead of him, and getting arrogant and overconfident would only lead him to make the same mistake he'd made with the ritual— only the next time, he may very well pay for his mistake with his life. Or worse.

He shivers at the thought, brushing it away so Harry doesn't see his horrified expression.

Fortunately Harry is very distracted. The mail came in this morning, and Harry has put down his 'school schedule' in favor of a pristine white lace card. Upon further inspection, it was not quite white, but rather, a shade of pale blue with white snowflakes falling endlessly down the paper. It looked like an invitation to something boring and involving a lot of people, so Tom dismissed it in favor of sneakily tugging his 'school schedule' away from her. He breathes a sigh of relief when she doesn't even notice, tucking it into his back pocket.

"Harry?" He asks, and it takes a moment for her to tear her eyes away from her mail.

"Yes?" She returns, perhaps a bit too quickly. Tom is so concerned over hiding his own letter that he doesn't notice when she does the exact same to hers.

"Are we going to go to Diagon Alley again for Christmas shopping?" He asks, if only to carry some kind of conversation. "And when are we getting our Christmas tree?"

Harry blinks, completely blindsided.

Christmas had really snuck up on her this year. But it just felt like so many things were going on. Work was always interesting and fast-paced and an entirely separate part of her life that tended to take on a life of its own, but then there was also all this stuff that happened with Tom, and Tom's circle of friends inevitably dragging her into the clutches of American aristocracy. She'd been dodging invitations left and right and she was beginning to get exhausted by it all. She was dreading the amount of invitations she was going to get for the upcoming Yule season. She had a sinking suspicion that Charlotte Washington was trying to set her up with marriage candidates, and there were only so many times Harry could weasel her way out of it before it became impolite.

"Well, why don't we go right now?" She suggests, smiling.

"Right now?" Tom blinks. "Alright. Just give me a second."

He rushes up the stairs, which is just as well, since Harry could use a private moment too. She takes the card out of her purse, where she'd hastily stuffed it before Tom could take a look at it.

It was yet another invitation, but this time she hesitated in declining it.

She'd already heard of Lord Grindelwald's Yuletide Gala— it was practically infamous within pureblood society, and basically every parent at Tom's school had talked about it at least once as the season crept upon them. She had wondered if she would get an invitation; it was an exclusive gathering after all, only those from the richest families and highest pedigrees were allowed. Seeing as though Harry was from neither of those, she saw no reason why she would make the cut on that criteria alone.

But considering Lord Grindelwald's personal interest in her…

Harry sighs, rubbing her temples.

She was still no fan of the man. He made her on edge, and she knew she could never let her guard down with him. And it wasn't just about her and whatever he wanted from her. Now there were his intentions with Tom to think about too. He says he merely wants to guide the boy in his journey through the Dark Arts, but as if Harry would believe that nonsense.

And yet, Tom had been surprisingly agreeable with the idea. Harry had thought the boy didn't like the man much, just judging from his reactions to him. But Tom hadn't seemed irritated with the man as he had after his graduation ceremony; he had actually been rather complimentary.

He'd said that he found the Dark Lord annoying and interesting in equal turns, a sentiment Harry couldn't help but agree with.

She definitely found him annoying too. And yet there was something rather interesting to his character. He was not the two-dimensional specter of evil her history books had always painted him as. And if she was being truthful, she still didn't know what his real aims were. She had thought it had been the annihilation of muggles and muggleborns, but now she couldn't say that for sure. His actions certainly didn't line up with that train of thought. He had stayed in a muggle house, after all, and had even gone to muggle church, according to Tom. That in and of itself was boggling.

Then there was how he treated her. He said he wanted answers from her, but instead of ripping them out of her he backed away instead. She had cried on him, for Merlin's sake, and all he did was offer her tea and then leave her alone as she had asked. What kind of Dark Lord does that? For a man who was always depicted as bloodthirsty and ruthless in history books, he was surprisingly non-violent. Of course, he had tried to kill her during their first meeting, but even then he'd been oddly nice about it. There were all manner of torture and dark curses he could use to get what he wanted from her, and yet the last time they met, if she was being honest, he had been nothing but a true gentleman. And there was something unguarded to him then, that made her positive his words had been authentic.

And the man had a point regarding Tom, loathe as she was to admit it.

Harry knew Tom needed a mentor of sorts, someone well-versed in the Dark Arts that could lead him through the treacherous path of dark magic safely, someone who could teach him how to handle the intense strain of it. She knew he had professors, but Tom needed more than that. He was more than just a mere gifted student— he was a Dark Lord in the making. One day he would be even more powerful than Lord Grindelwald himself. One day, he would become the most feared wizard of all time.

She pulled herself out of those terrible thoughts. That wouldn't happen, not this time. Not if Tom had someone to guide him. What if someone had been there when he had been exploring horcruxes? Someone whom he trusted and respected, whose opinions he would listen to? Would he still have gone through the atrocious and grotesque path of condemning his soul and splintering it into pieces, if there had been someone to warn him against it? Harry was no practitioner of the Dark Arts, but even she knew that soul magics were the darkest and most abhorrent of them all. And Tom had been so young then, not much older than he was now; it was no wonder he'd made such a disastrous mistake.

Harry had always thought that the future of Lord Voldemort could change if he had merely had a warm hand holding his own. Someone to make him feel a little less alone.

But she was beginning to wonder if he needed more than that.

Tom wasn't going to slow down. He was going to continue pushing the boundaries of magic in his endless quest for knowledge, and there was going to be a time where he wouldn't listen to her anymore. He'd already shown his streaks of independence multiple times, pushing her away as he grew into himself. She could beg with him all she liked but occurrences like the one over her trip were going to happen again sooner or later. And Harry wouldn't be able to help him.

Lord Grindelwald, on the other hand, would certainly be able to help him.

But he might just lead Tom even more astray.

Harry bites her lip, conflicted.

How was she supposed to make a gamble like that? She didn't know anything about the man.

That was the problem though, wasn't it? Harry didn't trust him in the slightest, because she didn't know him. He was a mysterious and mercurial character, who tended to confuse Harry as much as he annoyed her.

And there was only one real way to rectify that.

To the party she goes, then, she thinks with exasperation.

At the very least, it will be an excellent opportunity to buy a new dress.

.

.

.

He's never bothered with fairy tales, but everyone knows this story.

Harry is no downtrodden scullery maid, and definitely didn't arrive in a pumpkin, but all the same she undoubtedly made an entrance fit for a queen when she had no business doing so. There are actual princesses here who did not arrive with as much style and flare as she did. No, Gellert is not surprised in the least to find that Harry effortlessly outshines all of them. Literally. He's fairly sure her dress lights up. Her entrance was so subtle and elegant it easily overshadowed the grand procession of the actual royal introductions. She just arrived, allowed the doorman to assist her up the staircase, and waltzed right inside without any announcement at all. There were no trumpets, no house elf proclaiming a litany of titles. It was the mystery of it all that was so fascinating.

Cinderella has finally shown up to the ball.

It makes his lips tilt upwards, almost unwillingly.

" — Lord Grindelwald?"

He— rather reluctantly— tears his attention away from the woman ascending the staircase into the ballroom, returning his gaze to the Austrian Minister and his wife.

He's sure she's probably wary and ill at ease, but it's impossible to tell from her expression or posture. She looks relaxed— perhaps even a bit bored. He makes sure to keep her within his line of sight, even as he allows Minister Hans to preoccupy his attention once more.

"Ah yes, the recent Scandinavian treaty," he replies, sharp as ever even as most of his attention is diverted. "I'm not surprised in the least with their neutrality. If anything, I find the situation to be highly favorable…"

The treaty signed between the Norwegian and Swedish Ministers is a topic that, by all accounts, should hold his full attention. That they're choosing to stay neutral through this affair is telling; hedging their bets in such a way that leaves them unaffected no matter who wins the war in the magical world is a sure sign that they— and the rest of Europe— do not hold much faith in the Allied powers. It's a fascinating turn of events, and one ripe for exploitation. And yet, he finds himself more interested in watching a stunning young woman across the ballroom.

He can't help but marvel at her mere presence here at all. He hadn't expected it. He'd sent the invitation mainly on a whim, expecting a prompt decline from the girl. But still, it was the polite thing to do, and he'd lived in high society long enough to know it was easier to just play by their rules. To say this was unexpected would be a hideous understatement indeed. Harry, voluntarily seeking him out? He couldn't imagine her attending for any other reason. She didn't have any political aims, and didn't care at all for her standing in society. She had no reason to associate herself with the upper echelons of European society, and that was really the only reason anyone attended these sort of gatherings. It was certainly why everyone else was here.

But if she was here for him, he was still left with endless questions. What did she want with him? Why bother to drag herself through all this pomp and circumstance?

It could be for only one reason.

She was considering his offer to teach the boy.

He was eager to seek her out. Unfortunately, he had business to attend to first. With that thought, he forcefully tears his eyes away from the crowds and back to the couple in front of him.

It'll have to wait until later. Already his mind has crafted the perfect way to get her alone. All he needs is a moment to call a house elf…

Meanwhile, Harry has surprised herself with how calm she feels.

She has always hated these sort of things. It was half the reason she had immediately fled Britain after she defeated the Dark Lord. The media circus was enough to give anyone an anxiety attack, but especially a girl like her, who had grown up basically ignored by humanity at large.

To her relief Charlotte Washington is quick to swoop her up into her exclusive entourage, and Harry willingly lets her. There is an appropriate amount of gushing over her dress, her shoes, and hairstyle, which Harry dutifully parrots back. It's almost reassuring how the absurd and complicated female protocols haven't changed in over fifty years.

However, she didn't come here to gossip and socialize. She came here for a very specific reason— a reason that is across the ballroom, and doesn't seem to have any interest in coming to her, despite the fact she's sure he already knows she's here. And hell if she goes over to him. She knows he's watching her, and she refuses to give him the satisfaction. Instead she plucks a glass of champagne off of a floating silver tray, and decides she may as well make the most of his generosity and get as drunk as possible.

She doesn't want to, but she finds herself glancing briefly at him anyhow. He looks good in anything, but Harry has to privately admit she's always had a weakness for men in well tailored suits. Something about the flowing and shapeless robes wizards tended to prefer were always so dreadfully boring to her. And she's not all that fond of the more Edwardian-era wear that is equally as prevalent in magical society either (although Gellert can pull that off excellently as well). She's surprised he had foregone his usual over-the-top opulence, high-collar, slim cut lapels, tailored frock coat and baroque brocade, in favor of a slim, modern-cut suit.

Harry tears her eyes away. Honestly, does she have to think of this now? She blames it on her recent trip to Vegas, surrounded by engineers in their hoodies and t-shirts. Any girl would be dying for a well-dressed man after that nonsense.

"— Harry! Harry!"

She's stirred out of her musings by Charlotte. At first she is relieved to be distracted from her thoughts; the relief soon turns despondent when she realizes the woman is guiding a man in full regalia her way. On the subject of well-dressed men, here comes another one. He's not unattractive in the least, but all the same Harry has no interest. Charlotte Washington seems dead set on playing matchmaker for her; Harry would love nothing more to tell her off, but unfortunately in this day and age an unwed girl like herself couldn't be seen as disinterested in the courting process. It was anomalous and, frankly, suspicious. She didn't want to draw any more attention to herself than there already was.

So she puts on her most facetious smile and turns towards them as they near.

"Harry, I'd like to introduce you to someone, a dear friend," Charlotte twitters, placing a shoulder on the tall man's arm. "This is The Viscount Charles Colville of Culross, he's a member of the House of Lords and an incredibly accomplished potioneer. And the best polo player this side of Wales, if I do say so myself."

The man smiles beatifically down at Charlotte. "I don't know if I would go that far," he laughs. "I've yet to beat Lord William Washington, after all."

"Ah, but I did say this side of Wales," Charlotte emphasizes with a wicked smile. She turns to Harry. "Viscount this is Harriet Potter, the girl I was telling you about. She's charming, is she not?"

Put on the spot like that, the Viscount really has no other choice but to say, "Indeed, Lady Charlotte." Harry sort of feels bad for the guy, really.

He gets off the hook though when another man approaches them and asks to borrow him briefly. Harry breathes out a sigh of relief as they step to the side, backs turned to them.

"He's a fabulous catch, darling," Charlotte demures, while his attention is occupied. "Handsome, perhaps a bit older in age, but from a very well-to-do family. The Colville's have been Lords of Culross since 1604— that's an impressive lineage."

Harry just nods along, most of that going over her head.

Charlotte rests her hand on her shoulder, an urgent expression on her face. "Dear, I really don't think you'll find better than this." She says, seriously. "Please don't get me wrong, I mean no offense. But as an unclaimed scion of the Potter family, finding an adequate husband of fine standing will be difficult. Not to mention raising a child out of wedlock… don't worry, I've explained the circumstances to him already. It's very charitable of you to raise a child that isn't your own, but it is quite a thorny situation, you know… it's just, what with inheritance and all, it's only natural to be concerned when he'll most likely want children of his own. And it's already difficult enough as it is, especially this courting season, so I truly advise not to let this opportunity go to waste."

Harry stares at her, unable to formulate a response that doesn't scathingly insult the contemporary patriarchy.

"I— I need some air," she says instead. Charlotte gives her a vaguely alarmed look.

"I'll be back," she reassures, with a hapless smile and a gesture to her champagne. "I just feel a bit light-hearted."

Charlotte's expression is worried. "Well, alright. But please don't take too long."

Harry nods, before turning swiftly on her heel and making for the french doors behind her. Fortunately they are open, and she pushes past them and into the cold winter night. She meets the cool air with nothing short of relief. She sets her champagne glass down on the stone ledge, leaning against the balcony with a long sigh.

"By Merlin, I forgot how awful this is," Harry sighs, absently nudging her glass with a finger. "Why can't they all just leave me alone?"

She has no interest in marrying anyone, Viscount or not, and everything about this strange courting process makes her skin crawl.

"It must be your effortless beauty and clever charm."

Harry does not turn around, finding herself wholly unsurprised by the new voice behind her.

"Effortless?" Harry snorts, straightening up. Clearly he's never seen her morning beauty regimen. And that's just skincare. "Not in the least. But thanks."

"Is that so? What's your secret, then? I ask for all the ladies in the room, who obviously want to know but are too arrogant to ever say it."

"Snails." Harry deadpans, not lying in the least.

Gellert blinks.

She pushes off the ledge, turning around to face him. "You're obviously not here to ask me about my beauty routine," Harry cuts to the chase. "As much as I would love to go over it."

"A riveting subject I'm sure— but no, it's not what I wanted to discuss. And, I suspect, it's not what you came all the way here for either."

Harry sighs, examining her almost empty flute of champagne. "You're not wrong." She shrugs. "Find me another one of these, and you'll have yourself a deal." She holds her glass aloft.

Gellert laughs. "Is that so? Well, I happen to have a brand new and absolutely exquisite bottle of the highest quality; it's not even on the market yet, but I happen to be friends with the owner."

"Of course you are." Harry scoffs, but doesn't turn him down. "Very well then, lead the way I suppose."

"Have you eaten yet?" He asks, contemplatively.

"...No." Harry hesitates in replying, knowing full well what this question is leading up to. She almost wants to say yes, just to avoid having dinner with him, before ultimately giving it up as a lost cause. She's already decided to talk to him, may as well have plenty of food and alcohol on hand.

Predictably he leads them far away from the party, down the marble steps of the veranda, and into the sprawling winter gardens. Harry feels as if she should be a bit more apprehensive about this; as it is she is warm from the champagne and the heating charms cast over the whole castle, and doesn't really care. She supposes if there's one good thing about being god, it's that you rarely have to be worried over your own safety.

They reach a pavilion deep inside the rose hedges, so far that the castle and the party are nothing but bright lights and the distant sounds of laughter. The music seems to carry regardless somehow, most likely through some spell of some kind. It's nothing Harry is familiar with; she's sure Gellert could probably tell her the composer and the era it was from.

When she steps inside the warm interior of the belvedere there is a table set for two, with a chilled bucket set off to the side. Clearly he had planned this in advance. Why must he always be so charming? She thinks, begrudgingly. If he wasn't an evil Dark Lord he could be a damn Disney prince.

But you don't really know how evil he is, do you? A small part of her points out.

Well, hopefully by the end of the night she'll have an answer to that.

"I would have set out aperitifs, but I wanted to ask for your preference first," he says suavely, as he pulls out her chair. Harry almost wants to bat his hand away and pull it out herself, but decides it's really not worth the effort. Anyway, if he wants to play gallant white knight he's free to do so, as long as champagne is involved.

To Harry's delight, the mystery vintage he was referring to is one she's already very familiar with. She turns the label towards her; Dom Perignon Rosé. Hermione's go to favorite. The last time they got this bottle was for Harry's birthday. It certainly wasn't cheap, so she'll be sure to savor it.

"Something amusing?"

She shakes her head. "My favorite bottle," she says, fondly.

His brow furrows. "It's not for sale yet." He points out, but she only smiles mysteriously.

"So, what were you saying about aperitifs?"

"Take your pick," he gestures magnanimously, letting the matter drop in favor of getting dinner started. "The house elves can make anything you like."

She raises a brow. "Anything?" She repeats, an obvious challenge in her eyes.

He meets her gaze head on. "Anything." He repeats, smirking.

Harry almost wants to say something exotic, before deciding it wasn't worth it. Also, the only exotic food she really wanted to eat right now was Ethiopian, and there was no way she would be able to eat that without getting most of it on herself— and in this dress, that was positively sacrilegious.

"I wouldn't mind French," she decides instead, and a basket with a fresh baguette and assortment of breads appears on the table, along with a generous cheese and charcuterie spread.

He looks a little disappointed, as if he had wanted her to rise to the challenge, but merely smiles ruefully. He certainly can't fault her choice.

Harry takes a bit of cheese and bread as it appears on the table, finding herself surprisingly ravenous.

Gellert watches her calmly, content to observe her for the moment.

It doesn't bother Harry at all, as satisfied as she is with the simple pleasure of brioche bread and brie. And champagne. A bit of champagne never hurt anyone.

"Did you enjoy the party?" He asks, innocuously enough.

She swallows, reaching for her glass so she can take a moment to answer. She feels a little bad; he'd literally caught her complaining about how awful she thought it was, which was really rather rude of her. It wasn't an easy thing, setting up such grand events like this. It seems horribly impolite to insult the host, even if that host happens to be Grindelwald.

"Ah, well— it's really quite lovely." She replies, flushing at the smirk she gets in return.

"There's no need to lie to me," he returns, wickedly amused.

"No, that's not really… well," Harry fiddles with her glass. "The castle looks beautiful, and the hors d'oeuvres were excellent and I've never once had to look around for someone to refill my glass. And the invite list seems to hold every significant person in Europe."

It reminds her of the slug club, actually, except on an outrageously exponential scale.

Grindelwald gives a unconvinced hum, "And yet, I don't think that's all there is to it."

She gives him a long look over her flute of champagne. What is he aiming for here? She decides to just answer him plainly; "If you're waiting for me to say I hate these sort of parties, and these sort of people, then I won't make you hold your breath on it. Yes, I'm not fond of both of them, but I'm well used to getting roped into events unwillingly."

That was basically what being an adult was, after all. Having to do a lot of unreasonable and irritating things that you don't want to with a begrudging acceptance.

"What is it you dislike about them?" He makes a vague gesture with his glass to the castle, lit up like Christmas in the dark evening.

Harry debates how to answer. "It's not that I dislike them," she refutes, carefully, "I think there are some truly nice and well-meaning people up there, I just dislike the pageantry of it all, I suppose. I find it inauthentic and tiring."

He looks intrigued by her answer, but not surprised.

Gellert isn't shocked at all to hear Harry's opinion, but he can't help but think she fits in so well with those people she dismisses so easily. Not in personality, but he doesn't think anyone would look at her and think, 'bastard scion of the Potter family'. She looks as if she belongs here, in his family's mansion full of opulence and luxury, in a dress that puts every princess to shame, and a mysterious, elusive smile he thinks could be framed in the Louvre. He shakes his head ruefully. He's probably getting ahead of himself.

"You seem to get along fine with Charlotte Washington." He points out, speculative.

Harry can't hold in her snort of amusement. "Out of necessity." She points out in return. Then she lets out a breath. She has always hated talking poorly of people behind their backs, and now is no exception. "I mean— she's nice." She adds, pathetically. "I'm grateful she always introduces me and takes me under her wing, so to speak. These gatherings would be far more difficult without her here to help me navigate around."

Harry sighs. "I just wish she'd stop trying to set me up. That poor Viscount earlier looked just as uncomfortable as I did! I understand she means well but I still find it so tedious."

"Viscount?" The Dark Lord repeats, voice markedly calm.

His tone of voice would have alarmed Harry if she was paying any attention. Instead she was reaching for more cheese, happy to have a willing audience to lament to. "Or maybe he was an Earl, I can't remember. Either way he was apparently 'the best option I'm going to get' given my— circumstances." Harry rolls her eyes, taking another bite of the brioche. Merlin, French was such a good idea.

The man narrows his eyes, tilting his head speculatively. "Does she do that often?"

"She hints at it often enough." Harry shrugs, eying up the camambert. "This is the first time she's actually introduced me to someone. I have a feeling it's just going to get worse as the winter social season continues."

He supposes he should have expected it.

He'd commented on it himself often enough— it was so anomalous to have a girl of marrying age so staunchly dismissive of the whole prospect. And she was an impressive candidate; young, lovely, and with a sum of her own wealth and no overpriced dowry hanging over her head. Sure, she was an unclaimed bastard of her family but as a woman she wouldn't have been the heir anyway, and it at least marked her of pureblood to some degree. There was the boy of course, to also complicate matters, but that was nothing having an heir or two of their own wouldn't fix; surely Harry would eventually acquiesce to giving the full inheritance to the heir by birthright.

And then there was the fact that Charlotte Washington of all people was willing to play matchmaker for her. Her network was near unrivaled in pureblood society. Having Charlotte as her sponsor during the social season would go a long way.

Yes, Harry receiving marriage prospects was not unexpected.

What was unexpected was his reaction to it.

Everything about the idea incensed him. He had a strong urge to go back to the party and find that stupid earl or viscount and shove him off the balcony, before turning his ire on Charlotte and proclaiming Harry off limits to such nonsense. The idea of anyone trying for her hand in marriage infuriated him, even though he wasn't quite sure he was interested in that himself. He'd never given the thought much consideration… he'd always been caught up in his fascination with her. He'd never stopped to wonder what could come out of such a fascination. Or what it might mean, really, for a man to be that fixated on a woman.

But it's just… She was so much more than just a pretty face for sale, a broodmare who would provide strong heirs to carry the family name. No one understood that she was beyond all that, that she was destined for things greater than marriage. No one knew what she really was.

The girl in question is entirely oblivious to his thoughts. She pops a piece of cheese into her mouth, grinning slyly. "Well, I'm sure you probably feel my pain." She can't imagine Grindelwald as anything less than the best catch around.

This effectively breaks him out of his musings.

Then she pauses, a thought occurring to her. "Unless, you're already— ?"

"No — marriage has never interested me." He answers smoothly.

Harry actually feels a strange pang of sympathy for the man. She never knew the details of the relationship he'd had with her former professor, but she could imagine it was something they would have had to keep carefully hidden from society.

She nods along. "It's really not for everyone." She feels like she's parroting Hermione right now. She's also a bit bewildered with this turn of conversation. How had they gotten here, exactly? "It's a bit annoying how much emphasis is put on it."

He looks curious at that. "You wouldn't marry, ever?"

"Well, I don't really know." She frowns thoughtfully. She doesn't see how a marriage could fit into her foreseeable future in any feasible way. Or any part of her future, at all. "To say never is a bit excessive, but I don't really see it happening for me. Right now, my only priority is Tom." And judging by Tom's reaction the last time the subject had been inadvertently brought up, he would never agree to it.

"That's perfectly respectable." He replies. "And I can tell you care for him deeply."

Harry leans back, pursing her lips. The table clears, leaving behind fresh plates and silverware as the elves prepare for the main course.

"Yes he's very important to me." She agrees, evenly. "So you can see why I would be so reluctant to let just anyone have an influence on him."

Gellert raises a cool brow. "Did his professors go through such a vetted interrogation?"

"Something like that, yes," she returns, raising a brow of her own. "And at any rate, the scale of difference between one of his school teachers and you is a bit… exponential."

He grins roguishly at that. "Oh? And what do you mean by that?"

Harry looks deeply unimpressed, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. "Modesty is lost upon you, isn't it?" She asks, drily, taking a sip of her champagne.

"I find it useless and trying, yes. What is the point in downplaying achievements?" He shrugs, grin turning winsome.

Harry just shakes her head. She sets her glass down. "I mean to say that I know exactly who you are, and exactly how dangerous you can be. So why wouldn't I be concerned over your intentions with my ward? How do I know you're not just going to manipulate him to further your own aims?" In all fairness, she didn't think Tom would ever allow that to happen. But it was the sentiment of the thing. And Tom was so young, still. It could still be possible, and Grindelwald was a master manipulator.

Grindelwald props his chin with an elegant hand, holding his champagne glass aloft for the bottle to diligently trot over and refill it. It settles back in its ice bucket as the man takes a sip. "I wonder, Harry— what exactly do you think my aims are?"

"That's what I wanted to find out tonight, actually." She sniffs primly, tugging her napkin onto her lap just as dinner arrives.

He blinks in surprise. "You want to know what my goals are?"

"Yes, and please don't say world domination." She rolls her eyes as she reaches for her fork.

He actually cracks a smile at that.

"I suppose I wanted to hear it from you, personally, rather than through whatever's going around through the grapevine." Harry explains, primly cutting into her coq au vin.

They've led her astray thus far in regards to him, at any rate.

She remembers her conclusive surprise and bewilderment after meeting him for the first time, back in Vienna. Aside from that whole death and resurrection spectacle, she had also been stuck on how… remarkably different he had been from what she had expected. His answers had always surprised her; his viewpoint always something she hadn't expected. He seemed so much different than the Dark Lord Voldemort, who set out to eliminate entire masses of people and magical creatures alike. And yet, from what Harry remembers from her history lessons the two of them should have been so similar.

Of course, history is always written by the victor, so of course they would want to paint him in the most horrible light possible.

"Yes, rumors have a terrible way of distorting the truth into something sensational." He agrees, reaching for his own silverware. "I think we've discussed it, at least briefly. I plan on changing the wizarding world, whether they want to be changed or not; I don't care what I have to do to get there."

Harry stares at him, digesting his words. He doesn't rush her, cutting in to his own dish as he waits patiently for her to consider this. She puts her fork down. "But what do you want to see changed?"

"All of it." He says succinctly.

That's almost as bad as world domination, Harry thinks mind reeling. "...All of it?"

"Wizengamot is a waste; the Ministries are no better. We look down upon the muggles for their endless wars but those wars are precisely why they've managed to change."

"So you want to start a war?" Harry asks, carefully.

"No," he answers truthfully. "Wars are a deep strain on populations and economies that the wizarding world simply can't handle. However, I said I don't care what means I have to do to get there, and I mean that. If war is the only answer, I won't do anything to stop it."

"So you would prefer not to, but if you had to you would have no qualms in starting one." Harry surmises, flatly.

"Yes."

"What sort of changes are so important that you'd go to such lengths to see them through?" She asks, honestly wanting to know.

She's been through a war before, and she can't imagine anyone wanting to go through it unless pushed to the brink. And yet she understands why the second wizard war happened, even if she doesn't agree with it. The purebloods felt that their way of life was being threatened by muggleborns and muggle culture; it was a hatred that hadn't just grown overnight. And wasn't exactly unfounded, either. Then there was decades of the Ministry ineptly juggling the two sides without ever trying to actually sit down and reconcile the problems; politicians who would do anything just to get re-elected, laws going up and being torn down solely by whose pockets were lining the current administration.

Well upon further consideration, she imagines Grindelwald's reasons are probably similar to that.

"You've seen much of this world already," Gellert begins, observing her closely. "What do you think of it?"

"I think it's corrupt, and inefficient, but I don't think everything about it is bad. For example, I think Wolcroft is really an amazing school. And I think the American Ministry does a good job handling the bridge between the non-magical world and the magical one."

"But it's not enough in the least." The Dark Lord counters. "And yes, Wolcroft is an amazing school— but only accessible to those at the upper echelon of society. Everyone else is left by the Ministry to fend for themselves. There is no standardized schooling, in any part of the wizarding world. There are private institutions that only the elite can attend, and the spaces they leave open for scholarship students are few. Some schools take muggleborns, but many of them don't. And when they take them varies as well. You can't tell me that's fair in any sense of the word."

"No, it's not." Harry admits.

"And what of magical creatures? Much like the darker side of magic and the more difficult side of muggle society, Ministries tend to shove them aside and pretend as if they don't exist. Many of them don't even have any rights at all, and those that do find their liberties are vastly unequal to those of wizards. And that's to say nothing of the inequalities between wizards. Most of the magical community lives in poverty, did you know? Not to mention they're mostly uneducated as well. And it's no wonder; the magical economy cannot sustain itself. Those purebloods up there who wish to see the annihilation of muggles and muggleborns are ignorant fools who know nothing about sustainability or supply and demand."

"To put it simply, the magical world is dying. It's already faceted and broken apart into what ultimately amounts to isolated kingdoms scattered across the world. As we continue to resist globalization and the very real reality that we are inextricably tied to the muggle world, we only ruin ourselves further. And right now, everyone is content to just watch our entire world crumble to ruin."

Harry stares at him, feeling a little breathless. His eyes burn with a fervent passion that surprises her in its earnestness. It's a little mesmerizing.

She finds herself leaning closer, finding herself just as fervent to continue the conversation, food long forgotten. "How exactly are you planning to change all that, then?"

He drums his fingers on the table, appraising the question. "The most straightforward way is to manipulate those already in power to change things. This is the path of least resistance, and therefore the most ideal. The wizarding world must be changed, but if colonialism has taught us anything, it is that killing off those in power only leaves a vacuum for power to be seized by someone much worse."

Harry peers over her shoulder, to where the mansion remains illuminated like a beacon in the night. "I'm assuming that's what you're already doing. Manipulating people, that is."

"Of course. Change of this magnitude cannot be achieved alone." He shrugs. "And my estate alone would not be able to handle such a financial strain— to that end, neither could the Ministry. There just aren't enough citizens to tax to keep up with the funds necessary to run a federal government, hence why they rely so much on private financial donors."

"Like the purebloods, who have their own agendas." Harry realizes. Suddenly Lucius Malfoy's incredible escape from persecution after the first war makes so much sense.

Gellert nods. "Or rich muggles with ties to the wizarding world, who also have their own agendas."

Harry frowns deeply. "But if that's the case, then aren't you only perpetuating the problem by taking their money? They still have agendas."

"Everyone has an agenda, Harry. What matters is what that agenda is. I pick my allies very closely, and I have many of them, in many places."

Of that, Harry was well aware. She couldn't believe how easily he managed to get so much information on her in such a short amount of time, especially considering how little she interacted with people in this time period. She couldn't imagine how vast his network must be, or how long it must have taken to build it up.

It's definitely something he's passionate about, she thinks. His life's work, really. From the way his eyes blazed vehemently with intensity, she couldn't imagine these views were anything but authentic.

And, despite herself, she actually thinks she agrees with him. Well, mostly.

His words on magical education and society couldn't be any truer. And she had seen exactly what he was talking about; the isolation of communities, the lack of resources and education provided to them, the way the vast majority of the magical community is exploited by the few in power.

She finds she's completely swept in his passion, and she wants to know more.

"But what do you want to change it to?" She asks, leaning close, eyes blazing. "Tell me, I want to know."

---

Hello dear readers! Thank you for your reviews and kudos, I treasure them greatly. I actually had a couple questions for you guys. Like, what do you think of the pacing? Are there parts of the story you skim through and don't think are all that relevant/interesting, and if so, which ones are they, and which ones do you *not* skim through? What would you like to see more of?

Of course answering these questions is optional, I'm just very curious :)