August 1994
Tamsyn had absolutely no idea what her other self was thinking — this wasn't an unusual experience, but still frustrating every time it came up.
As much as the Light might exaggerate the dangers of the Dark Arts, their concerns didn't spring from nowhere. Their stories about the corruption of the soul or the like was so much blithering idiocy — as someone who had some experience with soul magic, Tamsyn knew that for a fact — but witchcraft was more susceptible to error than was wizardry, simply due to the mechanics of its operation. If a mage cast a charm incorrectly, most often the spell would simply fail to resolve — accidents did happen, but serious ones were rare past adolescence. The very use of a wand and the intent baked into the creation of a formalised charm limited the possible results, thoroughly enough that one nearly had to try to perform one incorrectly.
Witchcraft, on the other hand, did not have the same guardrails. Additionally, the user was considered part of the spell in a way they simply weren't in wizardry — a wand-user might provide the power and the intent for a spell, but the wand itself introduced a barrier between the mage and the resolution of the spell, a barrier which didn't exist in witchcraft. Wizardry required clarity of intent only for the moment the spell was cast, but in witchcraft the user must maintain that intent throughout the entire process. How sensitive the outcome might be to inattention varied dramatically — indirect manipulation, as in potions, was generally more safe; direct manipulation, as in subsumption, was far more volatile — as did the consequences of failure. If a potion went bad, it might simply curdle into useless slop, or let out poisonous fumes, or at the extreme spray out a reactive substance in every direction, but it wouldn't permanently alter the mind and soul of the user.
Flawed ritual magic was known to do that — after all, the user was inside the circle.
Tamsyn's creator had stumbled across a danger of ritual magic that she suspected had never before been documented...though they really should have seen it coming, once she'd considered the mechanics more deeply. When it came down to it, ritual was an art of performance, and every element of the performance was tied into the magic in one way or another — including elements not directly associated with the intent of the ritual. Playing a character was, obviously, also a performance. There was a self-reinforcing quality to many forms of witchcraft, the user not only enforcing their will on the world but also oneself — after all, the user was inside the circle, agent but also subject, transitive but also reflexive — by the channelling of such forces the user reinforcing one's own fundamental identity, to a minimal but non-negligible degree. The potential dangers to users who were emotionally volatile or held an unstable self-concept had been observed before, programmes that included ritual magic were very careful about that...but nobody Tamsyn had ever read had spoken of the potential effects of performing ritual while in character.
The effect had been very subtle, at first. Which, naturally, was to be expected — the intent of none of the rituals in question had been to alter her creator's mind or soul, so the shift would have been gradual, minor changes slowly stacking up on top of each other. Slowly, oh so slowly, the character of Melinathon had become less and less an act, and more and more who the original Tamsyn truly was. When her creator originally began to write to her with a few subtle vestiges of the mysterious spiritual visionary they'd designed, Tamsyn had thought she was just practising, staying in character between the two of them so she didn't slip in front of her followers. By the time Tamsyn had realised what was happening, it might well have been too late to do anything about it — and that was assuming her creator would wish to, and when Tamsyn had first pointed it out he hadn't seemed concerned.
And Tamsyn did mean he — she wasn't certain exactly when or why the tipping point had passed, but in time her creator had fallen so deeply into the character of Melinathon that she felt masculine language was appropriate. He'd still been physically female under the suite of transfigurations and illusions that made up the character, to Tamsyn's knowledge — it was possible that he'd done something about that after passing the diary off to Abraxas — but he'd definitely begun thinking of himself as a man at some point, and very few knew who he'd once been anyway, so it'd hardly mattered. Which was a little odd, but none of her business.
If she was being honest, Tamsyn had never entirely understood gender anyway. She'd played along with a role she'd been handed as a child, simply because it was what one does — and, more importantly, seeming suitably girly resulted in less harassment from the other orphans — but that's all she'd thought it was, a role people consciously play, for whatever inscrutable reason. Like a whole long litany of social conventions, such things had always seemed arbitrary to her, there'd never been any use in troubling herself over it. She hadn't realised there was anything more to it until her mind magic had begun developing, and she'd seen first-hand how other people thought and felt of these things. As alien as it'd seemed to everyone she'd mentioned it too, she'd never felt particularly attached to her gender — if she had, she doubted her creator would have felt entirely comfortable playing the role of Melinathon in the first place. But neither did she find being a woman to be particularly troubling, and some elements of the performance could be quite fun at times, so she didn't mind playing along.
In fact, she hardly ever even considered the matter when something wasn't drawing her attention to it — like, for example, her creator, the natural person that her essence had been modelled from, was a man now. It was a little unnerving, though less due to the gender part and more from the slow decay of the original Tamsyn's personality in favour of the originally fictional Melinathon. She found the thought of such a thing happening to her existentially terrifying, but her creator hadn't seemed concerned, so she supposed it wasn't her problem.
The development of the cult mystic Melinathon into the half-mad force of nature that was Voldemort, well, Tamsyn assumed that had come to pass through the same process, though she hadn't been present to observe it. There had been a few subtle signs of the mania to come when Melinathon had passed her off to Abraxas, but that had only become obvious in retrospect, perusing memories borrowed from Abraxas, and later Lucius and Narcissa. Unthinkingly, her creator's negligence had transformed her into a character, and from there a caricature.
Thankfully, she had a plan to deal with that — it was slightly mad, she was less than entirely certain it would work, and it might be difficult to execute without his cooperation (which would most likely be necessary), but it was theoretically sound. She just had to find him first.
Tracking her creator had been magically trivial, but logistically tedious. She'd been tipped off on an otherwise unremarkable afternoon in June, an echo of a powerful ritual carrying through the resonance between their souls — or so she'd determined upon further investigation, at the time it'd simply felt odd, like strong vertigo coming out of nowhere. There were multiple possibilities, but the strongest was that Melinathon had finally managed to anchor himself. As unreasonably long as it'd taken, Tamsyn wished he could have picked a better time, maybe wait another year or two for her to complete her Mastery study, but she supposed a Dark Lord waited for no one. (And she did need to ingratiate herself before he crated a permanent body for himself, so there was no time to delay.) She'd settled her affairs in America — temporarily, at least, she would need to return before too long — and took a muggle flight across the Atlantic. A portkey might have been quicker, but she would rather the magical authorities not be aware of her presence for this first visit.
Tamsyn had made her way to Durrës, in Albania — the rumour was that the spirit of the Dark Lord lingered somewhere in the Accursed Mountains, because apparently he'd never lost his sense of irony — where she'd performed her tracking spell. One of the dangers of horcruxes was the vulnerability they presented: through a simple exploitation of sympathy, any curse based on soul magic cast on a horcrux could carry through to its creator. (In fact, the ancient Greek wizard known as Herpo the Foul had met just such an anticlimactic end when his fell into the hands of a cursebreaker, inexplicably dropping dead in the middle of a dinner with his supporters as his soul was obliterated from a distance.) The spell had worked, unsurprisingly, but the result was very weak, enough Tamsyn hadn't even been sure of which direction she should be going. It wasn't that much of a surprise that Melinathon hadn't lingered in the region, she guessed, but it was monumentally unhelpful. Thinking he'd perhaps gone to ground in Egypt, Persia, or one of the Indian states, Tamsyn had then travelled to Damascus and performed the spell again...only to find the signal even weaker.
On a wild hunch, Tamsyn had apparated to London, took a train up to Great Hangleton, and then made her way to Little Hangleton by a series of line-of-sight apparations. She attempted the spell again, and was unsurprised when it pointed her straight at the ivy-choked, abandoned Manor — unsurprised, but rather baffled. What in hell was he doing here?! After directionlessly stewing for a moment — Dumbledore must have traced back their origin by now, she'd be shocked if he didn't know about the Riddles, coming here in such a vulnerable state was monumentally reckless — Tamsyn headed to the only pub in the village, whiling away the remaining hours before nightfall.
The old Riddle House, set on a small hill overlooking the sleepy village of Little Hangleton, had certainly seen better days. As odd as it might seem looking at the place now, this site had once been a place of some relative importance. Set on an ancient road crossing through the Vale of Mowbray, the hill providing a strategic eye over the area, what was now called Little Hangleton had been a major stronghold holding the lands between Thirsk and Middlesbrough. The same hill the manor now sat on had once been the site of a sizeable mott-and-bailey castle, the foundations laid in the aftermath of rebellions against Norman rule in the north, destroyed and rebuilt at larger scale and in an updated style during the Anarchy and the generations following — faint remnants of multiple rings of outer wall were still visible in the contours of the grounds, hints of overlapping layers of construction. The settlement had remained an important stronghold for some centuries, the castle held by one earl after another for generations.
Eventually, though, the road the castle overlooked faded in importance — traffic began to concentrate more and more on the Great North Road, the centre of gravity in the region shifting away from York and more toward Leeds and Sheffield. But, as narrow as the Vale of Mowbray was, the new road did still pass through the local earl's lands, but rather further west. As the site grew less and less useful, a second castle was built along the new road, the earl picking up and moving shop west — the new village supporting this second stronghold would, in time, become Great Hangleton, the older village becoming the lesser. A couple generations passed, and the old castle and the lands around it were passed off to a third son, forming a minor barony out of what had once been the heart of the earldom.
As was often the way of such things, Great Hangleton would see its fortunes fade just as its predecessor had: the A1 would end up being laid some short distance west of the town, local businesses drying up as industry concentrated in cities both south and north, the process accelerating in the decades after the War, reducing the town to little more than a satellite of Middlesbrough. Little Hangleton had faded even further, a tiny little village of hardly any significance to anyone, the stately manor looming overhead a lingering echo of a more prestigious past few even remembered the stories of any longer.
The only reason Tamsyn knew anything about the place was because she — or rather, the original Tamsyn — had looked it up. She just so happened to be a distant descendant of those old Norman earls, after all. An epithet used by that same third son had before long been adopted as a surname for the branch of the family descended from him — which was as good an origin as any for Tamsyn's odd family name, she guessed.
Over the course of several wars and the changing political landscape of the country, the original earldom had been absorbed into surrounding polities, but by some odd twist of fate the local barony had survived — the Riddles had been nobility here, though most in the area used the surname rather than the title. (Tamsyn assumed there was some local cultural reason for that, but the quirk had never been noted in any of the sources she'd found.) The castle had been replaced by a large manor house as contemporary fashions shifted, expanded upon and remodelled several times over the generations. The family had endured here for some time, relatively uneventfully, though gradually shrinking over the 19th Century. They lost multiple younger sons in the Napoleonic Wars, the head of the family was killed in a freak accident while making a diplomatic trip during the Crimean War. Despite having the privilege not to do so, several men in the family had volunteered to fight in the First and Second World Wars, which had probably seemed all properly patriotic and the like, but their already diminished numbers had been slashed even further.
Until the head of the family, his wife, and their adult son were murdered in '43, leaving the manor vacant. There had still been living relatives at the time, but none of them returned to reclaim the barony — one went missing off the coast of Sicily before even being informed of his uncle's death, one had been disowned over his Irish Republican sympathies, one had been disowned for his Nazi sympathies (complicated family, the Riddles), one had moved to the Americas and had no interest in going back. Things had been held in limbo for a time, trying to track down a suitable heir, but all the scattered relatives who held any claim were barred from inheriting the title for one reason or another, and the barony had finally been declared vacant in '49.
The original Tamsyn could probably have claimed it if she'd really wanted to, though proving her relation to the final Baron to the satisfaction of the authorities in charge of such things might have been difficult. But she'd had no interest in the title, so she'd consciously let it lapse. Tamsyn did still wonder if that had been the right call — as much as many mages held muggles in disdain, such tangible proof of their roots in the country would still give them a certain legitimacy, and doubly so in combination with their connection to the Gaunts — but it was too late to do anything about it now.
(When she'd been a child in the orphanage, Tamsyn would have killed to have a grandfather who was a literal baron, but the other her had become quite disillusioned by the time she'd been in any position to attempt to make a claim on his legacy. Oh well.)
Through an odd confluence of circumstances Tamsyn couldn't find a coherent explanation for — she assumed bribery was involved — the Riddle Manor had ended up being bought up by an American oil millionaire. The property had changed hands once in the decades since, upon the original buyer's death passing to his son, but the house had remained vacant the entire time. Chatting with the locals in the pub — the Manor was the most eye-catching feature in the area, the large structure built as it was on a hill, looming over the village — Tamsyn heard that the common assumption here was that this American family held the property for inscrutable "tax reasons", said with sour scorn for the absurd, wasteful lifestyles of the obscenely wealthy. Tamsyn had done her research, so she was well aware that the truth was more complicated than that, and far more absurd.
See, as old as the former castle and its environs were, passing the whole property into private hands was actually a rather complicated endeavour. The American owner had plans to tear the Manor down and replace it with a far more modern construction — a far more garish and ugly one, if the homes of the wealthy in modern America were any indication — but he'd run into legal trouble when it came to actually doing that. For one thing, a large portion of the grounds around the manor, including the plot the American claimed as his property, were still common land — no matter what the American said, whoever his father had convinced to sell them the place hadn't technically had the authority to do so. Also, the site was a landmark of considerable historical significance, so he couldn't just do whatever he wanted with the place, he did need permission for any major construction projects.
To add insult to injury, recent satellite imagery had revealed signs of previously unknown structures in the area — it'd been assumed that the hill had been built up by the Normans, as was often done to create their mott-and-bailey fortifications, but now it was thought that the site predated the Normans. Durham University was convinced that the hill was, in fact, a burial mound dating back to before the arrival of the Celts, which had then been exploited for a British ringfort, and then a minor Roman settlement, the fortifications allowed to lapse somewhat during the Anglo–Saxon period, and only then being converted to a Norman castle. They wanted to start archaeological excavations on the site, and were strongly against any construction project being approved. The American and the University had managed to tie each other up in the courts for decades now — one or the other might get the upper hand now and then, but neither of them had managed to hold onto it long enough to break ground. Apparently, it'd even become sort of a running joke in the student newspaper, they'd print an occasional update on 'progress' in the legal battle, filled with many jokes about annoying self-righteous Americans. Until that dispute could be settled satisfactorily, the Manor would remain unoccupied, home only to pests and the occasional necking teenagers — one young man offered to show her around the old place, not spelling out his intentions but also not being at all subtle, even without reading his mind, very amusing.
And, at the moment, it happened to be shelter for a disembodied Dark Lord, though of course the locals didn't know about that one.
She did retroactively congratulate herself for waiting for nightfall rather than making straight for the Manor — it seemed there was still a single resident living on the grounds, where the staff had once been kept, an old man by the name of Frank Bryce. His family had been groundskeepers for the Riddles going back generations, it seemed, stubborn old Frank the only member of the household still sticking around after all this time. His presence was one of the complications in the American's ownership — whether the land Frank's house sat on was owned by the American, by Frank, or was technically commons was a matter of dispute — and he could be quite protective of the Manor and the grounds, even still kept up the gardens to the best of his ability despite his age and the absence of any residents for decades now. He had a habit of chasing off local kids exploring the place himself when the bobbies didn't take care of it quick enough for his liking, Tamsyn heard a few dramatic stories of the mad old man from her fellow patrons.
Highly exaggerated, she suspected — it was commonly believed by the locals that Frank had murdered the final Lord of the Manor and his family. Of course, Morfin Gaunt was the true culprit (with some nudging from the original Tamsyn), but as he'd been prosecuted by the magical authorities the muggles had been left in the dark. Frank had been arrested and briefly held, but released without charge. To this day, the muggle authorities considered the murders unsolved, but the locals were almost universally convinced that Frank was responsible, the police had just flubbed it. He was generally thought to be an odd, creepy, intimidating figure...though Tamsyn thought a lot of that could be written off as PTSD, he had been injured in the African campaign... In any case, Frank kept an eye on the property, she might well not have taken the necessary precautions if she hadn't come by here first.
She could deal with Frank or the bobbies if they showed up, of course, but it would have been an unnecessary hassle. It was easier to just never be noticed in the first place.
When night finally fell, Tamsyn left the pub. The little village was centred around two main streets, one running vaguely north to south, on the foundation of the old road between York and Middlesbrough — redone at some point to seem far more modern, straight as an arrow and lined with brick and glass shopfronts — and the other vaguely east to west, extending out of the gates of the old castle. This latter road hadn't been retouched the way the other had, showing its age in its gentle curves, hardly wide enough for a pair of cars to pass side-by-side. This street was mostly residential, humble little cottages, some rebuilt in recent decades but a fair few far older — by the style of the brick and plasterwork she saw here and there, some might be as old as the Eighteenth Century — with the exception of a modest little grocer's, the fire department, an ancient-looking post office just there.
The pavement faded in favour of a dirt track before the edge of the village, a handful more houses before Tamsyn reached a fold in the earth, a row of hedges where a wall once might have been. There was a sign up marking the edge of the Riddle Manor's grounds, along with something presumably put up by one heritage society or another acknowledging the history of the place. By the look of the gap in the hedges, there must have once been a gate here, but it'd been removed at some point. Tamsyn cast a couple secrecy and attention-diverting spells on herself, and then started up the road, walking in the flat spot between the shallow ruts carved into the dirt by tires, and likely carriage wheels before cars had become common. (Which wasn't nearly so recent as it still felt like to her, missing fifty years could be funny like that.) The ruts weren't as deep as they probably should be, given the centuries the road had been in use, but it looked like the gaps had been filled with crushed stone at some point, giving the road an oddly striped appearance.
Eventually she came to a tiny little roundabout — the lane wasn't marked in anyway, the curve of it just gave her that feeling — one turn leading off to the left and another to the right. There were signs pointing off, but it was hard to read them in the darkness, but thankfully she didn't have to — the Manor was nearby to the left, looming overhead like a great shadow in the night. So close that she must be well deep into the grounds at this point, likely inside of the old castle walls. The right path presumably lead off to where the staff lived. She could see faint hints of structures that way through the trees, a single source of light that was presumably Frank Bryce's home. Only a few metres away from the roundabout the left path transitioned into brick, the seam between the two smoothed over with gravel, Tamsyn crunched over it, her American sandals lightly scraping against the stone.
The brick path didn't lead straight up to the front doors of the house, instead looping once all the way around, spreading out the incline of the hill to ease the journey for the poor horses made to carry the useless sods up here. Tamsyn did pass a staircase partway up, presumably so the staff didn't have to take the whole circuit every morning and evening, but she kept following the drive — by that point she'd gotten above the treeline, giving her a low-angled but dramatic look over the valley, the darkness broken by the occasional light over the north-south road extending out of the village, another leading west to Great Hangleton, marking an occasional house here and there, trees and brush and grass wavering moodily in the shadows. Not a bad view, but she could have done without all the lights, there were too many bloody lights everywhere in the 90s...
(Tamsyn had been taken aback her first night in her new life, popping over to Inverness to wait out the dawn so she could pick up some non-conjured clothes before moving on, just how few stars she'd been able to make out. It turned out light pollution was a thing, because even the night sky had to find a way to make her feel like a relic out of its time and place.)
The drive eventually ended in a little circle right in front of the main doors. The Manor itself had definitely seen better days — largely made of brick and wood, it still stood sturdy and strong, but the windows had begun to fog, blurring the shadowy rooms beyond, and the walls were crawling with ivy from the foundation nearly all the way to the roof. Personally, Tamsyn liked the aesthetic — greenery was at the least far more visually interesting than plain brick — but she had the feeling that hadn't been done on purpose. She noticed a few of the windows were even broken, likely due to local boys messing around. Being exposed to the elements would do a number on the place, she was surprised they hadn't been repaired...but then, the owner planned to tear the whole thing down anyway, he probably didn't care...
She was still a handful of metres away from the door when she felt a tingle of magic on the air, a wardline. Nothing particularly extensive, by the feel of it, just attention-diverting spells, preventing scrying, a subtle compulsion to turn back intruders, that sort of thing. A bit of her frustration with her creator faded, but only a bit of it — after all, Dumbledore was less likely to hear of his presence if the muggles never knew he was here, which even so subtle of wards should prevent. Well, perhaps not Frank, since he payed such close attention to the place, but it was hardly difficult to memory charm one old muggle and send him on his way. And more thorough wards would take longer to set up and were more likely to trip flags with the Ministry, so, not bad.
They completely ignored Tamsyn — after all, she was already keyed in. And now that she was past the wardline she could see a light in a window one level up. Convenient.
The Manor had a grand entryway, as one might expect of noble residences of its time, but Tamsyn couldn't make out much, thick with shadows and coated with dust. The air was stale and musty, a tang of mould, she had the urge to hold her breath. There was a faint glow of light coming from the hallway at the top of the stairs, but she would have been able to track down the occupants anyway — she was close enough to feel their minds now. Her creator could feel her too, of course, thoughts roiling with surprise and confusion. (He didn't attempt to intrude, however, likely aware that starting a mind magic battle with a more stable version of himself would be a bad idea.) And he was accompanied by a second person, of course, Tamsyn didn't recognise them — and she didn't peek, didn't want to ruin the surprise. There was also a third presence in the house, but it was smaller and weaker, harder to pinpoint.
She found out halfway up the stairs, covering her lower face with the neck of her dress so she didn't sneeze from the dust, when she felt the presence coming up from behind her — a large snake, green chequered black and yellow, climbing up the stairs by corkscrewing its way up the bannister, scales lightly rustling against the stone. Tamsyn didn't recognise the species at a glance but it– she was definitely venomous — parselmouths had instincts for these things — and also magical. A parselmouth could imbue a mundane snake with a facsimile of consciousness, but this was a very temporary construct, would quickly dissolve when removed from the mage's presence; certain magical breeds had been permanently gifted through blood alchemy with a limited degree of intelligence, perhaps comparable to a cat. (Tamsyn assumed they'd been trying for full being-level intelligence, but the underlying biology simply wasn't capable of sustaining one. Basilisks came the closest, approaching chimpanzee-level pre-sapience, but even they weren't fully self-aware on their own.) This had likely been done by parselmouths of the past, to give their companions a more stable personality — while these magical snakes would regress to their more limited level of consciousness when left on their own, it was enough to bridge between contacts with their parselmouth master, more akin to the difference between sleeping and waking, which had all kinds of interesting effects in the long term.
Her creator had done some research on the matter, which was how Tamsyn knew about it, but had never bothered getting one for himself. Apparently, in the time he'd been away from Britain, he'd made himself a friend.
Tamsyn stopped, turning to give the snake a look — it tensed, primitive surprise shooting through its animal mind, apparently having thought it was stalking her unnoticed. «Hello, there,» Tamsyn hissed in a whisper, low enough it wouldn't carry to where the humans were holed up. «Trying to be sneaky, are we?»
The snake's mind roared to full life at the touch of parselmagic, scattered and colourful like wilderfolk and definitely fully conscious. «Your smell in familiar, but you are not the Master.»
It wasn't really a surprise that the snake was picking up on that. It was very common for intelligent snakes to be able to sense magic, in some fine detail — presumably another gift given to them by old parselmouths, so they could better act as healing assistants. Pushing a pulse of sly, bubbly magic into her aura, smirking in a way the snake would actually be able to read, Tamsyn said, «No, the Master is my father. I've come to pay my respects.»
A brief pause. «I didn't know the Master has a child.»
«It depends on how you define ‹child›.»
The poor dear was very confused by that, but after a second she just brushed it off as humans being ridiculous and confusing again, as per usual. (Tamsyn bit her lip to keep herself from chuckling.) She did give Tamsyn's magic another deep sniff, confirming that she hadn't imagined it, before saying, «He is this way. Follow me.»
Tamsyn didn't need to be lead, of course, but there was no point in arguing. Once they were at the top of the stairs, the snake no longer curling around the bannister, it became more obvious how bloody huge she was — perhaps two metres, and those same parselmouth instincts told her she was still quite young, so had a fair bit to grow yet. Magical snakes tended to be more modest in size, so they could be carried around easily. In fact, this one's size was so unusual Tamsyn suspected Melinathon had gifted her with intelligence himself.
She made a mental note to refrain from making the obvious Freudian joke.
It didn't take long to reach the room — seemingly the only inhabited one in the house, warm firelight blooming out through the hallway. It was a drawing room, cabinets and bookshelves and armchairs, fine rugs laid over the tile floor, though gone somewhat to seed, dusty and drab. Melinathon and his companions must not have been here long. Most of the furniture had been scattered to the walls, with the exception of a single stately armchair set in front of the fire, a rather more modest one to the side at a conversational angle. That latter chair was turned such that the occupant could see the door, though Tamsyn couldn't see the occupant of Melinathon's from this angle.
Melinathon's companion leapt out of his chair, his wand brandished at her in a blink. "You have five seconds to tell me who you are and what you're doing here." The man was rather younger than she'd expected, barely thirty, head thick with sloppily-cut straw-blonde hair. She could feel the Mark on him, he must have been barely old enough at the end of the war. He'd obviously gone through a hard time, rather scrawny, face drawn and hints of circles around his eyes — they were a bright blue, and sharp, his wand steady, seemingly on the mend from his ordeal. But his mind was still shaky enough Tamsyn was certain she could easily overpower him without even drawing her wand.
So she didn't bother, smiled unconcernedly back at him. "Tamsyn Riddle. And I've come with an offer for your Lord."
"Calm, my son. Unless she has taken all leave of her senses, this one is an ally." Tamsyn felt an eyebrow twitch at the endearment, but otherwise didn't react. There was a crackle of magic on the air — unfocused, a wandless charm — the chair lifted gently off the ground and rotated roughly halfway around before settling down again. It was difficult to make out the occupant with the fire behind, forming a halo around the tall back of the chair, but the figure was vaguely discernable in the shadows. Human-shaped, but diminutive — a doll of some kind, perhaps. There was a short pause, a tingle of dark magic crawling over her skin, the Dark Lord eyeing her head to toe. Finally, he said only, "The diary."
She smirked. "Got it in one. Age give it away?" If any of the other horcruxes had embodied themselves they'd likely have made themselves older — though the ring had been made close enough to her that it might be hard to tell.
He didn't answer, but she assumed she was right. "How?"
"Andy's tiresome grandson ran into a spot of political trouble, and wished to leverage himself out of it by burying the Weasleys, and Dumbledore by extension, in a scandal — or at the very least, to distract them at an opportune moment. He only intended for me to scare the locals with some Chamber of Secrets theatre, but I took the opportunity to escape." Tamsyn hadn't bothered informing Lucius that she was walking around, but he had other problems to deal with. Not to mention, his plot had ended in the death of a child, so she imagined his wife was very annoyed with him right now — Narcissa did venerate a protector of children, and they'd secured her cooperation with promises that none of the students would be permanently harmed. Oops?
Melinathon's attendant was very confused, glancing between the two of them mind practically simmering with unspoken questions, but they both ignored him. "I see. Tell me why I shouldn't be rid of you right now." There was some movement in the chair, it was hard to tell, but Tamsyn thought the figure inside must have repositioned his wand.
"That seems terribly wasteful, don't you think? Don't you even want to hear my proposal?"
"I would do no less to anyone who dared to destroy that diary. And as cooperative as you may pretend to be, I am not fooled, your very existence is a threat — Lord Voldemort will suffer no competitors."
Melodramatically talking about himself in third person? Dear oh dear, it was worse than she'd thought. Or, not any worse than she'd already been given to assume — he had attempted to murder the child of a ritualist on the word of a half-heard prophecy, on Samhain, so. "Competitor? No no, nothing like that. I prefer to think of myself as an heir."
At the shiver of shock in Melinathon's presence on the air, Tamsyn didn't bother repressing a grin. After a short pause, turning that idea over, he said, "You are lying. I would never be content subordinating myself in such a way. I left Britain for that very reason, once upon a time." When the original Tamsyn had finally tired of playing live-in mistress for the Malfoys, he meant.
"Yes, but I'm not you, am I? Spending five decades trapped in a book can do funny things to your priorities, I've found — I am not as you were at my age. Similar, of course, but there are very important differences. If you are to be god-king of Britain, I find I am perfectly content to play the role of princess.
"Besides," she said, putting a sly, wheedling tone on her voice, "think of the benefits. The first time around, you always had trouble making alliances with more, shall we say, respectable figures. As impressive of a figure as Lord Voldemort is, you can't truly see him sitting down for polite meetings with diplomats. If you had an articulate, well-mannered, and — let's be honest — attractive representative to press your interests, well, that's another matter. And let's not forget how deeply invested the more conservative segments of our society can be about family — you can't deny the simple fact that you have a child at all, that you intend to build a legacy, will give your investiture into any position of authority far more legitimacy than it might otherwise have."
There was a brief silence, filled only with the cracking of the fire, the barely audible rasp of the man's breath, the hiss of scales against the rug as the snake moved closer to the fire — and also a steady click-click-click of wood against wood, coming from the chair, Tamsyn didn't know what that was. "You make a reasonable argument. Except for the fact that, as I intend to live forever, I have no need of an heir."
"I somehow doubt that you intend to rule the country yourself indefinitely — seems to me that the petty squabbling would get terribly tiresome before too long."
Melinathon didn't say anything, but she could tell by the shifting of his mind that he thought that was a very good point. "You realise, to make this legacy of ours, you would be required to have children at some point."
She had realised that — she wasn't particularly enthusiastic, but such was life. They could find someone halfway motherly to deal with actually raising the things. Honestly, Tamsyn was more concerned with finding a man she could tolerate that long who would also be suited for the politics of the position, but they'd deal with that when the time came, she guessed. "I suppose I'll take one for the team, when it comes to it." Tamsyn smirked. "In a manner of speaking."
The as-yet unnamed man let out a little huff of surprised laughter; Melinathon, on the other hand, wasn't amused. He didn't entirely believe her, but he also wasn't interested in arguing the point right now. "Of course, this is all theoretical. Even should I wish to take advantage of this...opportunity you are offering—" He did, definitely, he was just playing hard to get. "—I could hardly trust you in such a position after the betrayal you have already done me."
"Ah, but I haven't betrayed you. In fact, I've improved upon the benefits you gained from the diary." She was being slightly circumspect in her language, unaware of how well-informed the man was — though Melinathon had mentioned the diary first, maybe she needn't bother. "Once you've gone over my work, I think you'll find it is absolutely in your interests to accept my offer. May I?" she asked, reaching for her bag.
"Very well. Tea for our guest, Barty."
The man — not Barty Crouch Jr, surely, wasn't he dead? — glanced down at the shadowy figure in the chair, rather bemused, but dipped his head in a nod. "Yes, Father." With a last threatening look at Tamsyn, he turned his heel and vanished through a side door. Apparently this wasn't the only occupied room in the house — the kitchen was downstairs, they must have a potions lab or something nextdoor.
A wave of a hand and a wandless charm brought an armchair floating across the room, lightly setting itself down a short distance in front of Melinathon's. Tamsyn approached, retrieving the treatment she'd written up in preparation for this moment — obviously she didn't have notes from before she'd done the ritual, as she hadn't had hands at the time — before long coming close enough to make out the figure in the chair. "Oh, an automaton! I was wondering which strategy you might have picked."
Reembodying a spirit was a rather more difficult proposition than simply crafting (or stealing) a body for it to use. The body must be intimately tied to the soul at a deep, fundamental level — otherwise, the end result would be considered from a technical standpoint to be a spirit possessing an alien form, which was disadvantageous for a multitude of reasons. Generally speaking, one would need to perform two rituals, one to create the magical mechanisms that properly attached a soul to its body — called a vessel, in soul magic parlance — and then a second to create the new body and imbue the soul (with attached vessel) into it. (Or even a third, if the body were created separately from the investment of its soul.) It was theoretically possible to achieve both functions in a single ritual, but it was prohibitively complex and was hardly ever done.
There were multiple known methods to create a soul vessel, though the easiest was the homunculus — replacing the soul of a foetus in utero with one's own, essentially stealing the naturally-existing vessel. The ritual was messy, and most considered doing such a thing to be morally reprehensible, since it required the soul-death of an infant and the brutal murder of its mother, but the actual mechanics of performing it were relatively simple. It was perhaps the most commonly used, simply because it was less difficult for an immortal mage to guide their acolytes through.
Also, it wasn't so long ago that it hadn't been unusual for powerful people to have slaves they could use for the purpose. Very gross.
Melinathon hadn't used a homunculus. Sitting in the chair was a wooden doll — the joints fully articulated, in the manner of a posable model used in certain segments of the art world — the surface absolutely littered with dozens upon dozens of runes, lacquered over to prevent damage. The enchantments were active, the runes glowing a subtle blue-white, flashing black and green and silver in time with each smallest movement — the colours were immediately familiar, the same shades as Tamsyn's soulfire when she flared her aura. The doll had a very familiar wand crossed over its lap, one wooden hand sitting on the grip, fingers idly tapping, click-click-click, click-click-click. That was definitely an automaton.
The creation of an automaton was rather more difficult, requiring an acolyte to build the thing with their own hands in an hours-long, extended ritual. The enchantment portion was especially sensitive — in order for the soul vessel to properly form, Melinathon's soul had to be deeply integrated into the very foundations of the enchantments motivating the doll, so essentially would have been included in the ritual as one of its components. Thus, it also required a faith in the acolyte performing the ritual which was very unusual to find. It required skill, yes, but the crafter would essentially be holding their master's soul in their hands, in an extremely sensitive ritual that could take hours, a single mistake on their part could destroy the immortal mage's soul or render them permanently insane.
From the impression Narcissa and Lucius had given her, it seemed to Tamsyn at first glance that Melinathon was actually more stable than he'd been toward the end. Not only must Melinathon's trust in this Barty person be absolute, but Barty must have a very flattering image of his character to manage to improve his sanity while working with his soul.
Well, he did call him "Father"...
Good, good. Tamsyn could use that.
"Barty did excellent work on this, it's very detailed." After all, the entire process of building it must be included in the ritual for the vessel to form correctly, and the more comprehensive the articulation the more time it would take — and thus the more opportunities to make a fatal mistake. Automatons used for this purpose were normally quite simple, and only very rarely mobile, but Tamsyn suspected this one would be able to walk under its own power, simply incredible. Slightly unnerving to look at, since it didn't have a face or anything, just an oblong ball scattered with runes, but still, very impressive. "And what is with that 'Father' business? Do I have a younger brother I don't know about?"
There was a shiver of exasperation in the air, the doll's head tilting as though giving her a chiding look — Tamsyn had to imagine the expression, since the doll didn't have one. "His father was supremely disappointing in the role. I thought his loyalty useful to cultivate." So he'd played along, he meant, giving young Barty the father he'd always wanted. A little creepy, perhaps, to manipulate him like that, but Tamsyn had been informed repeatedly that she was a creepy bitch, so she had no right to judge.
She didn't think she was imagining the note of defensiveness on his voice — must be produced by an enchantment somehow, because obviously the doll shouldn't have one — but she would guess it was for tolerating that kind of sentiment from one of his servants. Though, with how Barty might have reshaped Melinathon's soul in the ritual, who could say, could be anything. "I'd say so — the ritual it must have taken to sculpt this, I'm impressed."
"My Barty is the best ward-breaker in all of Britain." She definitely wasn't imaging the pride that came with that superlative statement. Melinathon's mind wasn't showing a lie, if he really meant it Barty must have barely been in his twenties at the time, must be some kind of prodigy. "Show me your notes."
"Right, of course." Tamsyn pulled out the scroll, stepped a little closer to the chair to hold it out to him — the doll was pretty tiny, after all, Melinathon didn't have much of a reach. "Will you be able to read this?" There was a crackle of frigid rage around her, magic tense and— "It's quite dark in here, if you're going to angle your chair against the fire I'll need to move mine again." Really she'd been wondering how well he could see in there — Tamsyn hadn't had any vision at all while in the diary — but it seemed he wasn't so stable that he wouldn't snap into anger at a perceived slight. Would have to watch that.
Melinathon swiped the scroll out of her hand, the doll's arm moving quick and smooth — very good enchanting work, honestly, amazing. Mind still simmering with barely-controlled anger, he began to unroll her notes, a ball of blueish light appearing just over his head. Making a point, she guessed.
Barty reappeared a short moment after she took her seat. Melinathon hadn't looked up from the scroll yet — though it was hard to tell exactly which direction the doll was looking, since it hadn't any eyes — scanning over it intently, swapping from one section to another as the fancy took him. There had been a few sharp slashes of surprise, realisation, disbelief, his attention narrowed into a fascinated edge but thoughts a noisy jumble, he wouldn't be surfacing any time soon. Barty floated over a side table to set the (conjured) tea tray on, went through the whole business of sugars, blah blah — she was a little surprised he had the supplies on hand, Barty must like his tea.
Tamsyn accepted the tea when Barty handed it to her, only gave it a brief look before setting saucer and cup down on the arm of her chair. She waited, watching Melinathon pour over the scroll while Barty sipped his own tea and tried not to fidget in his chair. Finally, Melinathon said, "Is there something wrong with your tea, Tamsyn?"
"Oh, I imagine it's wonderful. Save for the poison."
Barty spluttered, nearly choking on his tea — she'd waited for him to take a sip, perfect timing. "How did you know?"
Tamsyn smiled. "I had a feeling, from the look you gave Melinathon before you walked off. But I didn't know for certain until just now."
While the poor boy flushed, mind bubbling with a confused mix of anger and embarrassment, Melinathon broke into loud, deep chuckles, resonating through the room and in her chest, the feel of it rather warmer and good-natured than Tamsyn would have expected from a half-mad Dark Lord. (Or from such a small doll, for that matter, good work on the vocal enchantments too.) "Keep an eye on this one, Barty — she's nearly as clever as I am."
Tamsyn almost protested the nearly, but decided to keep the thought to herself. She didn't want to set him off again, if she could help it. She also noticed that Melinathon wasn't actually chastising Barty for taking the initiative like that, but presumably he didn't want to discourage his protector from exercising proper precautions — that automaton was just a normal hunk of wood, after all, and if it were damaged they'd have to start all over.
Barty must have noticed that too, because he just nodded, a shaky, rueful smile flickering at his lips. "Of course, Father." He conjured a replacement cup and saucer, refilled it from the pot, swapped it with the poisoned one. "The drug was in the bottom of the cup, this one's clean."
"Thank you, Barty." She took a sip, just for the look of the thing — it was pretty good, actually, very flavourful. It was sort of funny that Barty had gone to the effort to get good tea for himself while holed up in this ruin, interesting man. "What was in that, out of curiosity?"
"It was a sedative. You would have woken up in an hour or two — bound to your chair for a proper interrogation."
Melinathon laughed again, though with more of a harsher edge to it, closer to a cackle. "Devious as always, Barty. For your information, Tamsyn, Sirius Black was not the first to escape from Azkaban." Yeah, Tamsyn was starting to get an impression — she would have to get his story sometime, later. "This is fascinating work you have shown me. I'll admit, the possibility of such a reciprocal bond had occurred to me, but I had never developed it beyond early theories. Assuming the enchantment took, of course."
"I did. I can do some tests to prove it, if you like." Tamsyn doubted it would be necessary. After all, she was him, and Melinathon was nothing if not confident in his own competence. Despite what she'd done quite likely being unique in the history of magic all around the world.
The earliest soul-anchors were done with plain physical objects, which could be more easily enchanted — the diary had in fact been a rather more complex horcrux, facilitating direct communication without the need of some additional device, but it operated on the same basic mechanics. As blood magic entered Egypt, carried along trade routes from ancient India, some bright spark eventually came up with the idea of creating a horcrux imbued in a living being. The strategy had benefits and disadvantages. Among the latter, living beings were mortal, naturally, meaning a living horcrux had a shelf life; also, inanimate horcruxes could be very difficult to destroy, but a living horcrux simply needed to be killed. On the other hand, a living horcrux could act on its own volition, to hide, escape, defend itself — the living horcrux might even reembody their master themself, if necessary. Of course, the ability for the horcrux to act independently could also present a vulnerability, but anyone with an ounce of sense was hardly likely to so imbue someone who might betray them. Not to mention, the soul copy itself could exert some influence on its host, so, betrayal was theoretically possible but unlikely.
Melinathon's initial assumption had obviously been that, in embodying herself, Tamsyn had broken the spells tying him to the diary, thereby "destroying" the horcrux. Naturally, she'd taken that into account, and integrated the bindings into the ritual. It'd made the ritual somewhat more finicky to design, she'd delayed at Hogwarts some months longer than strictly necessary refining it, but it'd worked in the end. Melinathon could not die so long as Tamsyn lived — and she intended to live for a good long while. And as long as she'd been ritually transferring the spells, she might as well have taken the opportunity to do a bit of tinkering.
Tamsyn wasn't just a living horcrux — she'd made improvements. Quite impressive ones, if she did say so herself.
As Melinathon had noted, the bond between them was now reciprocal. In a traditional horcrux, the binding only worked one way — the soul of the creator was bound to the earth should their body be destroyed, but if the horcrux was destroyed the soul copy contained within it dissipated. Tamsyn's ritual had taken that binding and mirrored it, binding them to each other. If Melinathon's body was destroyed, his soul would endure so long as Tamsyn lived, and vice versa — whichever of them died, they could reembody the other at their leisure. Which also conveniently obviated the need for Melinathon to guide one of his followers through the process, since he'd have someone just as clever as himself around to manage it.
Of course, this also meant that Tamsyn had indirectly gained the protection of Melinathon's other horcruxes. She'd be lying if she claimed that hadn't been a consideration — why go through the bother of making her own if she could just borrow her creator's?
As impressive and useful as that alteration was, it wasn't that large of a development — Melinathon had noted that the idea had occurred to him, and she doubted he was the only one. The other part, though, she was certain that was unique. She certainly would have heard tell of it if anyone had ever pulled it off before. "Yes, the reciprocal bond is a neat trick, but I didn't stop there. Take a closer look at the blood magic component."
The scroll shifted in the air with a rustling of parchment, shifting up to a different part of the analysis. She knew the exact moment when he'd found what she was referring to — there was a lurch, almost like missing a step, followed with shock so intense she could taste it, sharp and astringent. She suspected even Barty had noticed something, frowning at Melinathon and throwing Tamsyn an occasional glance. After a lengthy, speechless pause, he said simply, "You didn't."
Primly folding her legs at the knee, lounging back in her chair, Tamsyn smirked. "I did."
"The elements are properly integrated?"
"Yes, I already did all the tests. I performed an experiment with some minor cloning just to be sure."
Another brief silence, Melinathon's mind roiling, thick and deep. "...Truly. The bond that anchors us to each other is heritable."
"Mm, not precisely." Tamsyn glanced quick at Barty — she wasn't sure how much he knew, but it would be wise to avoid the H-word. Many purebloods were quite religious, they tended to have opinions on this sort of thing. "I was concerned creating too many...connections might introduce destructive resonance. Not to mention, things could get quite messy a few generations down the line." Two immortal Riddles kicking around was quite enough, thank you, an entire clan of them would end well for nobody. "The bond between our souls is reciprocal, but the bond integrated into my blood is of the traditional kind — it is heritable, as any other blood-mediated magical trait, but the carriers will act only as an anchor and not as a partner. If you follow."
Yes, Tamsyn had invented what was a basically a heritable horcrux — so long as her descendants lived, she could not die. She was very clever like that.
"So." Tamsyn took a slow sip of her tea, completely failing to resist a smirk at the dumbstruck awe she felt around her. "How would you like to found an immortal dynasty?"
Melinathon liked that idea very much. But then, of course he did, she hadn't expected anything else.
Step one: check. Moving on to step two...
After Melinathon burned her notes — she didn't need them anymore, and the magics binding them were exploitable, destroying the notes was safest — they went through a few things quick. A little bit assuring himself of her loyalty, which was very silly — Tamsyn had ensured that their immortality was directly dependent upon the other, they had absolutely nothing to gain by opposing each other. Then they talked a little about what her role in the organisation would be, which was fair enough. Obviously Melinathon was in charge, but she wasn't about to meekly shut up and do what he told her either, or go along with what she thought were stupid decisions — two heads were better than one, and all that, there was no point keeping around someone as intelligent and knowledgeable as she was if he wasn't going to use her. She could keep their arguments private, sure, for morale and to keep up Voldemort's intimidating aesthetic, no problem with that. She'd probably do best in a political or diplomatic sort of position, representing them with respectable people, maybe do some research in her spare time, background stuff like enchanting and brewing and the like. She could fight, though she didn't have the experience Melinathon did, and it was probably better that she didn't, for political reasons.
Also, if one of them was going to be fighting, the other shouldn't — one couldn't embody the other if they both got killed at the same time.
They definitely shouldn't use "Voldemort" for their family name, for optics reasons. It could remain a nomme de guerre, but it just wasn't suitable for anything more, hmm, formal. They couldn't use the Slytherin name either — it wasn't common knowledge, but the Slytherin was a metamorph, and presumably still out there somewhere, they didn't know whether or how he'd react to that. (By the lack of surprise, it seemed Barty had heard about Slytherin at some point.) They could just make something up, whatever appealed to Melinathon, but it might be better for political reasons to claim the Gaunt name, being one of the Seventeen Founders and all. Of course, that would require actually admitting that Melinathon's mother had been one of the last Gaunts, which he might not want to do, given how far they'd fallen toward the end, so she'd understand if he decided to go with something else. (Barty was surprised by their relation to the Gaunts — he'd been assuming Melinathon was either from one of the isolated religious communities dotted across magical Britain, or possibly a lone survivor of a Continental noble family annihilated in the Revolution.) Using the name might raise some eyebrows after the message Tamsyn had left for Dumbledore in Ignatius Gaunt's old headquarters, but there was absolutely no way they could possibly connect that to her, so it was probably fine. Or he could pick something else, Tamsyn didn't have a strong opinion on the matter.
Melinathon was a little annoyed that she'd sacrificed the basilisk in her ritual, but it was hardly as though he'd ever have gotten any use out of her. Besides, the poor dear had been quite mad after so many centuries in isolation, as far as Tamsyn was concerned she'd put her out of her misery.
The daughters of historical Lords Protector had been addressed as princesses, so obviously that would be her official title — what offices she might hold in addition to that in future was something they could address after they took over the country. While magical Britain didn't have royalty, the purebloods would be familiar with the concept, so Tamsyn was sure the Knights of Walpurgis (when they got around to calling them back together) would know how to accommodate her existence. Yes, honestly, Tamsyn was fine with that, what little girl didn't want to be a princess when she grew up? Well, herself, obviously she knew that — there'd been a lot of Reds around the East End when she'd been a child, from exposure she'd absorbed a very Bolshevik approach to royalty (bullet to the head, unmarked grave) — she was just saying.
She did plan on living forever, which would be conspicuous, yes, but not necessarily damaging — she would make a phylactery in a decade or two, and those were perfectly legal, so she wouldn't even need to lie about it. They could even earn some good regard by offering to make them for loyal subjects upon request, it would be fine, don't worry about it.
...Okay, Melinathon's plot to get a body back was slightly absurd, and over-complicated, but with a little streamlining it could work just fine. Tamsyn was a little concerned with how sensitive it was to the slightest thing going wrong, were they certain Barty would be able to act well enough to— Oh, he was an omniglot? Sure, in combination with Melinathon pulling memories from his characters for him to look over, that should be fine, then. Omniglots were very good at imitating the persona of another, a curious side effect of how their talents worked — and as a child Barty himself had apparently dreamt of going into theatre, so that would also help — normally Tamsyn would doubt anybody could pull off this kind of scheme, but Barty should have better odds than most. (The kind of people Melinathon had managed to draw to himself never ceased to be fascinating.) The ritual itself sounded fine — Tamsyn would want to go over his notes, see if anything could be refined, but in the broad strokes it should be workable.
(Also, now Tamsyn knew exactly how she was going to enact step three. She would need to first establish a rapport with Barty here, which shouldn't be too difficult — now that their alliance was being ironed out he seemed amenable enough...)
Using Liz's blood in the ritual, well, as many complications as it introduced, their whole scheme to infiltrate the Triwizard Tournament, Tamsyn understood why he wanted to do that — there were political and magical reasons, both compelling. But there was no reason Liz needed to die, they just needed her blood. In fact, sparing Liz's life could work out better for them, if they played their cards right. She didn't come right out and say that, though, she expected Melinathon might not react well without first establishing the necessary groundwork.
Yes, this seemed like an excellent time to begin step two in earnest. "That reminds me. Over the last decade or so, I've been contemplating some modest changes to our political approach. Your temporary defeat and reemergence, for all the inconvenience it represents, can work as a great opportunity to...adjust course, shall we say..."
Huh, look at that, that's odd. Oh well, I'm sure Tamsyn teaming up with Voldemort won't have any long term consequences. Britain will be fine, don't worry about it.
Yeah, been a while, I know. My brain didn't want to do this fic for a little bit, distracted by By Gods Forsaken and then by an original fiction thing...but I didn't get much writing done in general, honestly. Been having health/sleep issues, writing has been difficult lately. I wouldn't have a post for this now if I didn't realise just today that I could let this chapter trail off here, and reveal what they talked about when it becomes relevant later — I actually deleted 1700 words to 'finish' it, because writing can be funny that way sometimes. I did start the next scene today, and the next BGF chapter is over half finished, but I can't make any promises about when they'll be done. Sleep is hard and my body is a lemon with a shitty warrantee, that's life for you.
Anyway bye.