Chapter 1 — Ignition
It had been a very long night with the promise of an even longer day ahead, but he, the Dark Lord's Best, had just successfully completed his objective for this critical stage of the mission while in hostile territory directly under the enemy's intrepidly crooked nose to boot.
Though he was seriously dragging as well. Barely able to keep his good eye open. That modified custom spell was so supremely draining, especially having to do it twice in such a short span, but he just pulled it off and got away clean, from what he could tell.
He did need a quick pepper-up; else he would've ended up face down in a hallway or on the moving stairs. That would lead to some very awkward questions or worse, another date with a dementor, except without a rain check.
Indeed, this was no milk run, but a difficult task requiring some serious prep work. He almost doubted himself at times, but, in the end, he had succeeded with a flourish, displaying a stylish cunning and clever precision definitely worthy of his Lord's praise, if he may say so himself.
Now, the only thing left is wait patiently for the trap to be sprung, but that'll happen tomorrow evening at the Selection Feast, if all goes to plan.
He huffed, feels like forever from now. He shook his head, knowing he's got tonight's debriefing followed by hours of classes from morning until nightfall ahead, then the Feast, the fallout, some investigatory follow ups, then another debrief, and then he could finally sleep like the dead, if he wished.
Fortunately he had a ton of modified potions designed to work around poly-juice use. The pepper-up alone could put an apothecary's kid into a prestigious apprenticeship.
Still deeply concealed in his cover, he stalked through the school like a shadow on patrol. To any onlookers such as paintings or ghosts, he projected the expected image of himself as manic intensity and unfettered resolve given form, inwardly he was gleeful, giddy with triumph.
He did need a quick pepper-up, right after; else he would've ended up face down in a hallway or on the moving stairs and that would've led to some questions.
He cannot wait to see everyone's faces at the Selection Feast
Once he entered his quarters, he triple checked his security parameters, assured of their solidity. He pulled out his mirror, appreciating the secure communication process even if he refuses to respect the one responsible.
Guess the Rat was good for something. He took a breath to regather himself so he can deliver a cogent brief.
"Yes?" A feminine voice answered. Her. The Lady. Of course.
He tempered his reaction, remembering the last time the Lady had thought he was testing boundaries before she put him in check and silenced all his doubts.
It's not like distance would save him, she'd proven that too.
As expected, the check in was to be voice only. As usual, he was not going to speak directly with his Lord.
The level of compartmentalization was certainly different than the first war. But she had proposed it and his Lord had easily accepted, so he had nothing to say.
The Lady was such a stickler for what she termed operational security, though given what they were up against once she'd actually revealed the scale of things, the merest hint of the scale of her plans, he could understand.
More than, really.
And that was just the tip of the iceberg, according to her. Not for the first time. It seemed like their previous campaign was barely a schoolboy duel in an abandoned classroom to her.
He was careful not to say that to her, he really didn't want confirmation. Or for her and the others to simply laugh at him like he was some snot nose greenhorn.
Again.
The agent smothered a sigh, knowing she knew anyway. "It is done, both were entered as ordered." He couldn't suppress the prideful grin, nor did he even bother trying.
"Good," he could hear the smile in the voice. "Any issues?"
"Went off without a hitch." He bounced in his seat a bit, kicking back and putting his feet up on his trunk with a pronounced thud. The unfortunate occupant of said trunk reacted, rustling a bit in spiteful defiance, to no avail of course.
He briefly sighed in empathy, knowing how it felt to be trapped so, but dismissed the whole thing with a shrug.
Needs must, Moody of all people would understand that at least, he knew. After all, Moody had taught him well. He shook his head, cleared out the wool-gathering and refocused on the briefing at hand.
"Good… good." Her tone was pleased. "And the secondary objectives, any progress to report?" Her tone was light but the undertone was anything but.
He swallowed, paling a bit, his prior giddy mood evaporating like mist.
"No. None of the other hidden heirs have been indisputably identified as of yet. I have some mockups and profiles for possible candidates, but no concrete evidence beyond supposition, I'm afraid.
"Hmm… They won't be pleased. Her pause was layered, foreboding. "You are aware it has been several weeks with nothing but your 'mock ups' to show for it, yes?"
He gulped. "That may be one way to surmise it." His eyes darted about, rallying for a rebuttal. "But we've no assurance that any of them are even here in the first place, much less a method to accurately identify them, the process takes time."
"Yes, we know all of that already. Which is why you have been given as much of a leash as you do, but that will only last so long." The promise in her voice was clear.
He gulped, stifling a whimper. "Understood, my lady."
"See that you do. Good help is hard to find. But not that hard. Clear?"
He gritted his teeth, but kept calm.
Barely.
"Crystal."
It had been an already long day that now promised to be an even longer night.
It is not often that Albus Dumbledore gets surprised, much less shocked.
But here he was, well past gobsmacked now running full tilt into utterly flabbergasted,
It has been that kind of Halloween.
When, after he'd announced young Cedric's name and directed him toward the antechamber, the fourth slip of torn parchment came out tumbling of the Goblet, Albus was forced to stifle a grown. He snatched it out of the air anyway, with graceful aplomb, already knowing what name on it, especially given the unfortunate misadventures of the World Cup and various other ominous portents.
And, of course, Albus was right.
Of course he was.
The Boy Who Lived, his prized protege and Ward, had been somehow chosen to be the Fourth Champion of the legendary Tri-Wizard Tournament.
Not totally preferred but not wholly unexpected either.
He could use this.
As he watched him stand up with grim resolve, moving amongst his peers to head toward the back, Dumbledore began considering what this meant and how to turn this to their advantage.
Already, 3/4 of the school was somewhat hostile to the boy's selection, an outcome both unfortunate yet also understandable.
Though he was quite proud of his Ward and his myriad of accomplishments, fanciful or factual, Albus was quite aware that the boy had all of his father's signature prideful audacity, with enough of both of his parents brains to be able to back it up in the classrooms and enough of his father's athletic gifts to do so on the quidditch pitch.
This frequently led him to be at odds with the student body, especially his natural rivals in his opposition House. Which of course made Severus have his hackles up. Frequently referring to the boy a disgracefully tragic pale imitation of his departed father, with nary an ounce of his late mother in evidence.
Albus often laughed privately about it, while never bothering to address or correct young Severus much. If he were being frankly honest, the student the boy most often reminded Albus of wasn't his father so much as it was young Albus himself, way back when.
Same prowess, same pride.
Same mischievous twinkling eyes, even hidden behind the trademark glasses.
But not the same mistakes, thus far.
And Albus would take care to help his protege reach and surpass the highs he himself did, without needing to endure the lows as well.
It's the Wise man who can learn from others and all that.
No, the boy should be fine, Albus believed. He was destiny's child, after all.
Indeed, both they had discussed the possibility of something to happen involving the Tournament, given Voldemort's increasing activities of late.
But a forced entry?
Quite bold of Tom. What could possibly be the purpose?
Another burst of flame from the Goblet startled Dumbledore out of his thought spiral, he was so distracted trying to decipher Tom's scheme that he had failed to notice that the Goblet had never gone out.
At that moment, a fifth entry came soaring out of the flame. It seemed to dance on a breeze it could only perceive before swooping gently to Dumbledore's waiting hand.
There was a chill that ran up his spine as the paper, not parchment, landed in his hand. Like there was no going back after this moment.
Dumbledore swallowed, gathered his mettle and looked at the name. He gaped, then he did a double take. Then he frowned. Then he swallowed audibly.
And shuddered, visibly.
This was an unpleasant surprise. Most unpleasant indeed.
"Headmaster?" His cherished deputy's voice intruded on his thought spiral. Albus shook his head clear, and pocketed the last entry. He projected his aura to establish authority and provide a tacitly balmy comfort at the same time.
Decades in the Wizengamot had some benefits.
Albus raised his arms magnanimously. "It's no matter, just something for the officials. With that said, will all entrants please proceed to the back room in order to receive instructions, all students may return to your dorms. Please, and thank you."
He watched the processions of students leaving the Great Hall, the delay granting him time to get himself together and gather his thoughts.
Albus moved toward the back room, entering to witness a posturing cockfight with everyone ganging up on the boy. Albus's eyes widened, he strode forward while projecting his magic with a gravity that stilled the room.
Exhaling, Albus stood beside his protege, placing a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder, showing his unflinching support for the boy to both him and those who would accuse him. "Please, please. No need for us to descend to such unruly unpleasantness. This night has already seen an unprecedented degree of interference that risks the sanctity of this great event. Let us not make matters worse, yes?"
Albus paused a bit, taking care to pace his cadence to better control the room. "Ladies and gentlemen, I beg you a moment of your indulgence, if you would." Albus looked at each of them with solemn conviction, taking each's measure.
The Headmasters seemed the most ruffled, Igor primarily, while the other champions seemed off kilter and aggravated. Albus squeezed his protégé's shoulder. "I can understand your confusion and frustration with the night's events, but please allow me to assure that this incident of foul play will investigated to the fullest." He made eye contact with Alastor, who nodded back. "The esteemed Mr Moody has agreed to lead a robustly through inquiry into what's happened here tonight. We intend to ascertain exactly when and how this prestigious event was compromised in such a cravenly insidious fashion, and most importantly, why."
The sight of him so serious definitely helped reinforce the gravity of the situation.
Igor placed his hand on his school's champion, Victor Krum, and snorted dismissively. "That's all well and good, Dumbledore, but is there a reason as why the last name has been withheld? Especially from us in here?" Karkaroff scoffed at his Ward, then glared defiantly at Dumbledore. "Is it because, not merely satisfied with using the legendary Boy Who Lived to stack the deck once, Hogwarts decided to cheat again to get a third bite of the apple!"
Albus met Karkaroff's gaze evenly. "No, I've not said the name as of yet because the fifth entrant is not presently, nor has ever been a student of Hogwarts." Albus sighed, fiddling with the piece of parchment in his pocket with his free hand. "For that matter, the young man in question is not in residence at any schools of magic I can name. Therefore, his entry at all is a significant piece of the puzzle."
Of his own volition, Albus slightly turned to his precious protege, the Boy Who Lived, whose face was ashen, seemingly guessing whose name it is. His mouth was anxiously open, silently asking a question he really didn't want the answer to.
Albus could only nod slightly, he remained steadfastly empathizing, to which Albus heard his Ward gasp, clearly taken aback. Albus grimaced, tightening his grip on the Boy's shoulder, before partially confirming the news for the rest of the room.
"It is one of the Lost Heirs." The entire room gasped like his protege had done, as if that mere fact was enough to suck all the air of the room. Everyone there was fully aware of the tragically controversial circumstances, there was no need to dwell on it so.
Albus looked solemnly, apologetically at Young James Jr and his deputy, declaratively affirming what the rising fears on both told him they'd already knew.
"It is Harry James Potter."
It was a long night to end an already long day.
Why did it have to be today?
But of course it had to be Halloween.
Given Professor Dumbledore's reaction to that last name, there was only one possible candidate in Dean's mind. He just needed to wait until the right moment to confirm his already rising dread at the foregone inevitability of things.
But he already knew.
Couldn't be any other way.
Dean moved through the Gryffindor common room surreptitiously, making mental notes. He spotted Jamie Potter, his two bookends and his flame-haired princess holding court, presenting their side of tonight's events
They are trying to appear composed, but the cracks are obvious to those with eyes to see.
Dean knew it would be best to wait until Potter's congratulatory party revved up in earnest before taking the earliest opening to slip up to the dorms. With any luck, those three would be busy soaking up all the attention.
He had thought Weasley would have still be in the snit he was in earlier, but the fifth name seemed to have punctured his temper tantrum, or maybe his sister did.
She did have the knack.
Which is good; Potter would need all the firm support he could get. Between his guardians and the steadfast Weasley family, Potter should be fine.
Should be.
At least he was informed, unlike someone else, Dean knew.
Before he left to remedy that issue and confirm the inevitable, Dean instinctively glanced toward Hermione, sitting in her favorite study chair, over large book in hand, as expected. She was already looking at him, surreptitiously though.
Curious that.
From what he could see, Her eyes were doing that unfocused calculation thing again, like she was running scenarios and numbers before readying her hypothesis.
Dean sighed inwardly, then sent a mildly inscrutable flicker of an expression toward her, acknowledging the proverbial elephant. She raised her eyebrows in further question, seeking more data, as always; he gave a slight shrug, cocking his head toward his dorm. She nodded and turned back to her book, but not quite reading it yet.
Dean finally made his way upstairs into his dorm, glancing toward his memorial candle, already lit in honor of the lost.
He took a breath, gazing solemnly, mournfully at the pictures on display.
So many, taken far too soon.
Though he was very fortunate to have such a great guy as his stepfather, Dean still missed his father, everyday.
He also missed his cousin and godfather so very much as well.
The stories were not enough, never would be.
Dean crossed his arms, in the traditional salute of home, and bowed his head in appreciation for those who meant so much to him and his, especially those he'd never been lucky enough to meet.
"…Forever." His voice cracked a bit.
Dean sighed. This time of year was always difficult for him and his. Thankfully, he knew some good folk, kith and kin, who could relate with more than just platitudes.
A black cat meowed, then jumped up to crawl into Dean's lap, knowing just what he needed. He smiled at her, scratching under her chin just how she preferred. "Love you, too, Noire." Noire simply rumble-purred in response.
With that, Dean sighed, shaking his head to clear it. He cast a series of tiered counterintelligence spells in a very familiar and oft-practiced sequence.
As usual, he double-checked his secured space before finally powering up the beads on his wrist band, activating the heads up display for his virtual satellite phone.
As expected, his smartphone connected in a hyper blink, unbothered by the heavily dense magical saturation of the school, as if he were in Harrods instead of Hogwarts.
Their technologies were always the best.
He exhaled, then engaged his speed dial. It rang twice, before they picked up. Dean looked at his friend, who seemed pleased before playfully smirking.
His emerald eyes aglow with power, accented by those iridescent flecks of radiant red, both so much like his mother.
Or mothers, Dean should say.
Dean grinned back, until he saw the moment his friend's face changed from perpetually playful smirk to a mockingly sycophantic devout facade that would've been more at home on a medieval peasant than his usual resting puck face.
Dean swore under his breath and glared at him, "no, don't you bloody dare start that rubbish again, Harry, I swear I'll—…"
"Why a pleasant evening to you as well, your most esteemed of all highnessness. Your most humblest, most woebegone of lowly acquaintances is most gratified that one as majestic as your regal magnificence has deemed that a meager, downtrodden, forlornly undercooked biscuit such as I am is worthy of a mere glimpse upon your august visage." His friend's face had attained an unnervingly pious solemnity that wouldn't be out of place at the front pew of a Holiday Mass.
Silence.
Dean gaped then glared. Harry looked up from his bowed form, as if Dean ware the sun. Still not breaking this ridiculous character.
There was a off-screen snicker from over Harry's shoulders. Dean huffed, rolled his eyes. "'Undercooked biscuit', mate? really?" The offscreen area exploded in snorting chortles.
Harry had the audacity to only briefly glance up at Dean in utter wonder before gratefully bow his head again in reply. "How else would one such as I be described in comparison to your prestigiously debonair gallantry. Why, you, my prince, are simply a 5 star feast of everlasting glory and wonder while I —…" Harry paused and mock sniffled, as if fighting back happy tears, "your humblest servant, am just lucky enough to simply aspire to be a leftover Christmas Cracker left undiscovered until Easter, when in your very presence." Harry waved a hand before his face, as if he had caught the vapors. "It is too much, your highnessness, I shall become overwrought if we were continue, your blessed royal splendidness."
The background chuckles rose anew as a one man studio audience laugh track.
Dean stared at Harry, who stared back, still unrepentantly shameless. Dean shook his head. "Tell me again why I'm stuck being mates with you two bloody arseholes?"
A sudden loud throat clearing sound from the peanut gallery chuckle box. "Bip-bip-bip! Language, highnessness!"
Harry finally broke character then. He just cackled at Dean like a wicked witch, accompanied by an even louder background guffaw in stereo. Dean facepalmed then sighed, rolling his eyes fiercely. "listen here, you know what, you bloody undercooked biscuit, you and that bloody bip-bip treehugger back there can go right ahead and treat yourselves to an supersized iced jug of 'shut the bloody hell up', on me. Then go kick rocks, k?"
They just cackled even more, Dean finally giving in.
It had been a long day, after all.
Harry simmered down to a pleased grin. "So, what's up?"
At that Dean sobered. "Gotta ask you something, mate?"
Harry shrugged. "Shoot… wait?" Harry's eyes narrowed. "Is this- is this about that odd feeling in my Magic a bit ago?"
Dean leaned his head back in a resigned huff. "So you did feel something?"
Harry's look was shrewdly calculating. The screen's view suddenly widened so that Dean could see Neville had joined them as well. The look on both of their faces was quite foreboding. Definitely reminded Dean of their mom.
Neville leaned forward, "what exactly happened, Dean?" The big brother bear vibe was palpable, even when it wasn't being focused on Dean specifically.
Dean regarded them both steadily. "Harry, first thing's first: your twin's name somehow came out of the Goblet of Fire as a mysterious fourth competitor, tonight."
Both Harry and Neville's face's scrunched up fiercely. Neville shook his head. "Wait, Isn't this for the Tri-Wizard Tournament?""
Harry rolled his eyes, then gave Neville a sideways glance. "Said it before, brother: Purebloods and logic fit like Shuri and a Luddite."
Dean chuckled absently while Harry mockingly ignored Neville's responding raspberry. Harry pursed his lips. "Could explain the hook I felt, but I get the sense there's more?" Harry looked at Dean, tilting his head.
Dean nodded, swallowing. "There was a 5th who Dumbledore neglected to announce. I think your name came out of the Goblet of Fire."
Harry looked down briefly, "Today, of all days," he mumbled. Then Harry snapped back up, his face brightened. "Well, upside is that guess you won't have to be all alone in Hogwarts secretly saving damsels solo anymore."
Dean snorted, "not exactly solo there, was I, guy?"
Neville sniggered. "Ain't that the truth." He shook his head wryly. "We have been looking to meeting them all properly for some time."
Dean grinned, "should be interesting, Hogwarts won't know what hit it." His eyes then took on a gleam subsequently matched by both Harry and Neville.
"Let's show them just who they're really missing with."
~~~~~