Heir Unapparent

by She

How can Voldemort surpass his former glory if his Heir is Unapparent?

11. The Return of Rita Skeeter

Heir Unapparent: Chapter Eleven - Rita Skeeter Returns

November arrived, wet and chilly. Despite the popular appeal of Hagrid's zoo, both the Griffindors and the Slytherins were shivering and moaning as they trudged across the soaking lawn for Care of Magical Creatures. Hagrid barely noticed the cold, wrapped snuggly in his vegetable lamb muffler. Remus Lupin had just sent him a large green tortoise, which was meandering idly around the small pond at one end of the magical enclosure. "This 'ere's a pi-his. A rare 'un, 'e is. From Mongolia. The water 'e swims in becomes enchanted. Ye'll be usin' it fer potions in Professor Snape's class. Powerful stuff combattin' poisons, 'specially arsenic."

Malfoy groaned under his breath. "Now Snape and Hagrid are in cahoots? What the hell is this school coming to?" He struck a dramatic pose for Pansy Parkinson and quoted, "From ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggety beasties and things that go bump in the night, good Lord deliver us!"

Crabbe and Goyle guffawed but Hagrid was not amused. He shot an angry glare at Malfoy. "I know many folks worsen' any beasties, if ye take my meanin'. Now shut yer gob an' start takin' notes 'bout this turtle!"

"Can't wait to massacre that git in Quidditch," mumbled Ron.

Ron's wish was to come true the following Saturday. The spectator stands were packed with students covered up in blankets and cloaks.

"At least it's not raining, misses," squeaked Dobby as he sat, warm as toast, between Hermione and Ginny. He had taken quite a fancy to Quidditch, especially to watching Harry zoom about the field with his scarlet robe rippling behind him. Winky, who was perched on Hermione's lap, was not so afraid as the last time she had attended a Quidditch match; these stands weren't as tall as the box at the World Cup.

Lee Jordan had a bit of a head cold but his commentary was as brisk as the weather. He was not as gracious as he had been to the Ravenclaws, sneaking anti-Slytherin comments into his report until Professor McGonagall warned him with a stern "MISTER Jordan!" He did, however, continue to favor his house team with comments like, "Sensational save by Weasley!" and "He may not have blazing speed but he rarely misses that Quaffle!"

Adrian Pucey struck the Quaffle fiercely at the Griffindor goalpost, which Ron repelled with an exuberant kick, striking Malfoy squarely on his forehead and nearly knocking him from his broomstick. "It was worth it!" he confided to Harry as Adrian Pucey missed the free shot that Slytherin had been awarded due to the penalty against Griffindor. Down to the last member, the Griffindor team heartily agreed with him.

The play was getting fierce as an icy wind whipped across the field. Ron fought valiantly as did his brothers, knocking Bludgers furiously into the strong crosswind. The Chasers were hard-put, pitted against the more aggressive Slytherins. Fans and players alike hoped the Seekers would get on with it and put an end to the game. Harry and Draco looked like overgrown dragonflies, flitting around each other as they pursued the elusive Snitch. At last, they both spotted it hovering twenty feet below them. They raced neck and neck, their faces contorted in concentration. At the last moment, Harry wrenched his broom skyward while Malfoy plowed unceremoniously into the turf. The Slytherins were in uproar, demanding a penalty against Griffindor. Lee Jordan bellowed so angrily his voice cracked. "It's the Wronski-Feint, you gits! It's legal! Pipe down! Brilliant execution by Harry Potter!"

The Griffindors were cheering heartily. Then Lee's voice really broke as he jubilantly cried out, "Wait - Harry's got the Snitch! Potter's got the Snitch! That's it folks, the Dream Team has done it again! Griffindor wins by thirty!!"

There was a general air of ill will from the Slytherins in the week following the match. Malfoy was outright hostile to the "Dream Team", referring to them as "Potty and the Weasel". This didn't bother Harry in the slightest. He had other matters on his mind; he couldn't shake the feeling that Snape was often watching him. As they walked hand-in-hand along a crowded corridor one afternoon, Cho shuddered and confided to him, "It's weird. I feel like the teachers are always watching me! Especially that Professor Snape - I can't think why! I haven't made a mistake in his Potions class since I was an ickle firstie and melted my cauldron!" This made Harry extremely nervous. What was Snape up to? Despite Hermione's protests of his innocence, Harry remained unconvinced. But what could he want with his Cho?

As if Snape wasn't bad enough, he and Ron were having a tough time getting through Divinity class. Harry had just laid out the Yin-Yang spread and was attempting to interpret his tarot cards when Professor Trelawney appeared behind him, saying, "You're not seeing to your fullest. Turn off your outer ears and LISTEN to the voice within; shut your eyes and rely on your INNER eye!"

"If I shut my eyes I can't read the friggin' cards…" muttered Ron irritably.

"The Yin-Yang spread sheds light on any situation where two parties are trapped in conflict," Trelawney continued. "Cards one and two in the center represent these forces. The twelfth card shows you what the outcome will be if events continue in their present fashion." She paused to look down at Harry's cards. "Oh dear," she murmured and Harry rolled his eyes.

"Here it comes…" he mouthed to Ron.

"Your outcome does not look promising. The 9 of Swords predicts worry, anxiety and many sleepless nights. It suggests that you will be going over and over this issue for a while. Ah, there is much sadness and despair. Many people are going to suffer because of this impasse." She suddenly gasped and sank onto a pouf at Harry's table. "The father seeks his heir…" said a harsh voice that came from Professor Trelawney. Her eyes started to roll and her mouth sagged. She spoke again in the same guttural tones, "He shall be satisfied at last!" Her head fell forward onto the table, scattering Harry's tarot cards. Several tense moments passed before she lifted her head and shook herself. "So sorry, my dears… Too hot in here, must have dozed…"

The class murmured with astonishment and concern for Harry. He had to admit, he was troubled too; the last time he had heard that voice from Trelawney, she had predicted Wormtail would return to Voldemort and was, unfortunately, dead-on accurate. Harry's first and second cards were the Devil and Empress. He had assumed them to be Snape and Cho…

He shared his concern with Ron on their way to Transfiguration. "The Devil is an obvious card, and the Empress represents forces of nature and goodness. I don't like it, Ron, not one bit!"

Ron tried to reassure him. "Listen, Harry, Trelawney is so rarely on target. Maybe she just did it to spook us, y'know?"

"No way, Ron. Last time I heard that voice, you know what happened…"

Professor McGonagall was not at all amused by the unsettling hubbub in her classroom. "Will you please put Professor Trelawney's dubious predictions out of your mind and concentrate on your rabbits? Need I remind you that you will be expected to recall what you are learning here for your O.W.L.s? Let's stick to solid magic, then, shall we?"

That evening, Severus Snape sighed deeply as he stretched his long legs before him at Albus Dumbledore's hearth. Both men shook their heads as Minerva McGonagall recited Trelawney's prediction verbatim. "I tell you, I won't have it, Albus! The Griffindors come to me after that charlatan has finished either boring them half to death or terrifying them!"

Albus sighed. "Minerva, I find Divination amusing rather than informative, but you must admit even Sibyll had a spark of intuition every now and again. I must confess, I am rather alarmed by her performance today. Neither of you have spoken to her of our… concerns, I trust?"

Minerva snorted derisively. "Hardly!"

Snape shook his head. "Nor I, Albus."

There was a sudden snap in the fireplace. Arthur Weasley's mild face appeared amidst the emerald flames. "Good evening, all!"

"Ah, Arthur!" Dumbledore turned in greeting. "Any luck today with our challenging comrade?"

Arthur Weasley sighed. "We've had some trouble getting the whole story from Alastor, Albus. It's possible that Barty Crouch may have damaged his memory during his recent ordeal… Percy has done some follow-up that might prove useful. Moody's report was written on parchment from the lokta bush. Definitely Nepalese. We think he consulted with Lama Li, whose knowledge of the elementals and their history is world-renown."

Dumbledore nodded. "Yes, the foremost expert, in fact. I hope to spend time with him myself over the summer holidays. In the meantime, is there any chance you can convince Alastor to join us here for a 'meeting of the minds', so to speak?"

"He is being treated at St. Mungos for some ailments related to his sciatica, but I believe I can bring him to Hogwarts for consultation upon his release. Perhaps Professor Snape can assist us with a potion to restore his memories?"

Snape nodded. Dumbledore finished the fireside chat, saying, "Thank you, Arthur. And my best to Molly…"

Snape, who had been following the conversation intently, shook his head. "The problem with the Longbottoms will not be as easily resolved as Moody's faulty memory."

Dumbledore nodded. "I understand that, Severus. The question is, can it be done?"

"It is a subtle potion of some delicacy, Albus, and much depends on the type of inhibitors that Malfoy has been administering to them. But I will do my best. If I begin straight away, it should be ready by Yuletide."

"Do so, my friend. We must make haste. And let us pray that their information has not been lost to us forever. Even now, Remus reports that Voldemort is gathering his minions. I have reason to believe we may find ourselves set against the dementors within the year."

Minerva shuddered at the horrible idea. Snape merely stood and asked her, "Minerva, where would I find Neville at this hour?"

"In the common room, I suppose. Shall I fetch him for you?"

"Yes, please. I must begin work this very evening."

Neville stood, awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to the other as Snape spoke to him before the Fat Lady's portrait. Despite the fact that he had gotten over the mainstay of his 'Snape-phobia', the Professor still made him a bit edgy.

"I am in need of something that belonged to your parents, Neville. Have you in your keeping, say, an article of their clothing? A keepsake?"

"I have this…" replied Neville, drawing from under his robe a small locket upon a silver chain. He reluctantly handed it to Snape. "It… it's something Gran made for me. See there, under the glass? The blond hair is my Dad's and the black curl is Mum's."

Snape's intake of breath told Neville it was better than anything he had expected. "Sir, it's very precious to me… I hate to part with it…"

Snape laid his long hand on the boy's shoulder. "Neville," he began gently. "With this artifact I can promise you something far better in return."

"Sir?"

"How would you like your parents restored to you for a Christmas present, Neville?"

Many miles away, on the outskirts of the quiet village of Little Hangleton, the dark lord sat in his armchair beside the fire, a king on his throne. Before him, Wormtail wrung his hands nervously.

"My Lord," he began, quivering. "I believe I will please you this time, surely."

Voldemort did not look at him, his attention devoted to Nagini. He was dangling a live rat before her, and she swayed as if hypnotized. "I hope not, Peter dear. Observe my darling pet. How she loves rats." His words were not lost on Wormtail, who had spent fourteen years as a rodent. With a flick of his wrist, he cast the rat before the large serpent, who opened her jaws wide and swallowed it whole.

Wormtail shuddered. He got the message, loud and clear. "But My Lord, at last, I have done your bidding."

Voldemort, engrossed in the way the rat slowly bulged down the length of Nagini until it came to rest in her stomach, smiled. "Very well, Peter. Show our guest in."

Wormtail shuffled out of the room and returned with a witch.

Voldemort had never seen a person to whom he had such an immediate and pervasive revulsion. The aging witch who stood before him, swaddled in speckled fur with matching pillbox hat, had a heavy-jawed face framed in rigid ringlets. Her emerald jeweled spectacles did not add to her appeal one jot. Voldemort took careful note of her outlandish fur. Made of Scandinavian gulon pelts, he mused. Despite its warmth, the fur was notorious for a terrible side effect; it made the wearer insatiable for power and for things of the material world. Voldemort's quick character analysis was right-on regarding the rapacious Rita Skeeter, who tucked her booted feet demurely under the folds of her coat as she took a seat across from him.

"What brings you out on this chilly evening, madame?" Voldemort's slash of a mouth curled into a sneer. With the horrible gulon fur wrapped about her, the woman could hardly have felt the effect of a full nor'easter blowing in her face.

"Lord Voldemort, I will get right to the point. Your servant here," she indicated Wormtail with a dismissive flick of her red-lacquered fingernails. "has made me aware of… what you seek, Lord Voldemort. I am here to offer my services of… investigation."

"Indeed?" Voldemort's eyes narrowed to red slits as he regarded the garishly dressed witch. "I believe I do not require such services, Ms…"

"Skeeter, Rita Skeeter. And I beg to differ with your lordship. I think my services will suit you to a tee."

Breath issued through Voldemort's flattened nose with a hiss. This woman annoyed him. He was relieved, however, that Wormtail had not brought her to him for breeding purposes. It was apparent she was well past the age to be of use to him, in that way. Although he needed an heir, he did have his standards, however low they may be. "You will explain yourself, Ms. Skeeter. Briefly, I trust?"

Rita Skeeter nodded and spoke quickly, as was her habit. "As a reporter I could not help but notice the number of young women who have… gone missing of late. I often meet interesting people at the Leaky Cauldron; it is there that I had the pleasure of running into your little man, not long after he had disposed with a certain young witch. One Rachel Greene, I believe."

Voldemort eyed her coldly. "What has this to do with me, madame?"

Skeeter smiled innocently. "I have not published this little tale of woe, my lord." She did not add that she was unable to publish it, as that little Granger witch made her promise to keep her poison pen to herself for one full year. "You must know that, by swearing secrecy I was able to find out why your servant has been snuffing out young witches in London. It seems that they are not willing to… accommodate… a certain request you may wish to make of them?"

Voldemort stiffened and hissed again. "Obviously, my servant is not very talented in procuring what I seek. Using Avada Kedavra instead of a simple memory charm, the fool! Ah, well, such are the weak - always abusing their powers. But what has this to do with you?"

Skeeter leaned forward eagerly, "Simply this. What if you already have what you seek?"

Voldemort rested his spectral chin on his bony fingers. "I don't follow you, Ms. Skeeter. Are you implying I have already sired an heir?" He laughed coldly but was surprised when Rita Skeeter nodded.

"That is precisely what I am saying, Lord Voldemort."

Voldemort snorted derisively. "I see. And when, may I ask, did I do so, for I assure you it was completely without my knowledge."

Skeeter smiled and explained. "Of course, it is understandable that you may have forgotten, there was so much happening at the time, and it was so very long ago. May I ask you to recall, my lord, what you first did upon leaving Hogwarts? Why, I believe the events took place on these very premises, did they not?"

Voldemort shrugged indifferently and began stroking Nagini's flat head. "If you are referring to my prompt disposal of my ill-begotten grandparents and their vile spawn, it is a story that holds no interest for me."

"No? Perhaps not, but you may wish to learn the fate of a certain young woman, one Sarah Bryce?"

Voldemort stopped petting Nagini and looked at Rita Skeeter sharply. "I have no interest in Muggle affairs, woman."

"Ordinarily I would understand your apathy, milord. But this particular woman, shall we say that you once showed more interest in her than you do at present?"

Voldemort remained impassive. "You are trying my patience, woman," he drawled, fingering his idle wand.

"I have many acquaintances in England, sir, and I have spent a great deal of time doing tedious research with which I will not bore you. I will come straight to the point. Frank Bryce's daughter died very young."

Voldemort regarded her coldly. "Yes?"

"In childbirth."

She was satisfied by his response. His intake of breath was a hiss, and he stood abruptly. "When was this?"

Rita smiled, like the cat that just cornered the canary. "It seems she left the estate shortly after the poor Riddles had gone to meet their Maker, so to speak. As to the time of her death, let's just say she followed the Riddles nine months later. Almost to the date."

Voldemort shook his head in disbelief. "The child. Was it… magical?"

Rita spread her hands wide, in an expression of uncertainty. "Lord Voldemort, these things take time. Muggle research is extremely cumbersome, dreadful, in fact. But I have reason to believe, as I have already said, you will be satisfied with my services."

Voldemort strode to the fireplace and spread his hands on its dusty mantle. "And what, precisely, do you intend to do, Ms. Skeeter?"

She smiled, knowing she had laid the foundation. Now it was a matter of negotiating terms and payment. "Within a fortnight, I am confident that I will produce the identity of your heir, and, given a bit more time, deliver this person unto you. Provided that it did not follow its mother to the grave."

Voldemort turned, a new light igniting his icy glare. "And why do I need you to do this for me?"

Skeeter inclined her head and met his stare without flinching. "Please understand, Lord Voldemort, that I do not intend any disrespect, but I cannot help but observe that your efforts have been, to date, less than successful."

Voldemort snorted. "Wormtail's handiwork. Or lack thereof."

"This kind of detective work requires a delicacy that your servant lacks. I, on the other hand… I assure you, Lord Voldemort, that I shall produce better results."

Voldemort picked up the gnarled cane beside the fireplace and laughed. It was a mirthless, high-pitched sound. "I see. Yes, I see. Very clearly. Wormtail!"

His obsequious servant bowed before him. "Yes, master?"

"Bring our guest a drink." He turned to Rita Skeeter, who was now sitting back smugly in her chair. "What is your pleasure, my dear?"

"Bourbon. Straight, no ice."

Voldemort inclined his spectral head. "Of course. See to it, Wormtail."

Wormtail shuffled off to the sideboard and rattled the bottle and glass nervously. He returned, proffering the glass to Ms. Skeeter, who raised it in a toast to Voldemort. "To a successful partnership, Lord Voldemort."

Again, Voldemort inclined his head as Rita downed the whiskey in one swallow. "Some more for our guest, Wormtail."

Wormtail repeated his performance as Lord Voldemort sat down again, placing the cane across his knees like a scepter. "We understand each other well, Rita Skeeter. I reward my loyal servants royally, be assured."

Rita accepted another glass of whiskey from Wormtail and nodded. "I am grateful for that, my lord. And be assured, I expect to be rewarded."

Voldemort smiled. His grin was that of a bald skull bleached by the desert sun. "And what would your reward be, I wonder?"

"Only this. That you appreciate my services and make good use of the information that I provide you."

"Of course." His smile was not a warm one. "And yet, I cannot help but wonder, dear lady, what holds such interest for you…"

Rita Skeeter smiled cannily. "Let's just say, in addition to the pleasure of seeing you achieve glory incarnate, that I am of the opinion I will avenge myself on certain persons."

"Ah, but of course. Vengeance - one of my strongest suits. We understand each other, at last. Perhaps you wish to make known these unfortunates?"

Rita Skeeter shook her head, refusing to be baited. "No, Lord Voldemort. Not until I am more convinced of certain… peculiarities… in my research." She continued, "I happen to be an unregistered animagus, my lord. I think you'll find my ability quite useful."

Again, Voldemort smiled coldly. "And what form do you assume, my dear?"

Skeeter haughtily regarded him. "A most practical one, my lord. I can assume the form of a beetle, barely noticeable to my… victims."

Voldemort laughed aloud at this. "Excellent! A most useful creature, my dear, and one that suits you well."

Skeeter brushed off his would-be insult. She had not expected more from him.

The dark lord regarded her for a long moment before he said, "While I reward my faithful servants lavishly, I denounce traitors utterly. Are we clear on that?"

Rita returned his evil gaze steadily. "Very clear, my lord."

"Very well. There is only one formality that we must observe, my dear Ms. Skeeter."

Wormtail, knowing what this formality would be, scampered from the room.

Voldemort continued. "Please give me your wrist, my dear. No, your left one. I must have some way of communicating with you, when I am in need of your charming presence."

Rita Skeeter flinched, but knew beforehand that this would be part of the bargain. If her hunch was on target, her vengeance would be grandly fulfilled; she supposed it was a small price to pay. She obligingly held out her left wrist, first taking a long swig of whiskey from the glass in her right hand.

Voldemort wrapped his skeletal fingers around her exposed wrist and smiled into her eyes as he whispered, "Mosmordre" and burned his Dark Mark into her flesh. She bit back her scream so hard she drew her own blood.

To be continued, of course…