I own nothing. Least of all this.
2)…IF YOU CAN'T BE CHILDISH NOW AND THEN?
Harry sat and waited.
The SEP fields had fallen the minute the emergency Portkey had activated; good to know Tom was still following the same procedures, even back then. Or now, depending on how you looked at it.
At first, Harry had been tempted to sit out in the open just to see what sort of reaction he could provoke from the Aurors. But as much as he enjoyed pushing Ministry stooges' buttons, he really needed to tread carefully here. The bloodbath that would certainly result from some less than enlightened individual attempting to drag him back to the DMLE wouldn't win him any favors from the Ministry, and the less enemies he made for himself the better. Tom Riddle was more than enough for anyone, even the Master of Death. If actual, legitimate authority were to be leveled against him in addition to Tom's efforts, there was a very good chance he would lose the war. True, he couldn't exactly be killed, but he could certainly be captured and held indefinitely. And the Unspeakables would probably love to get their hands on him for their experiments.
All of which meant he was currently not only invisible, but silenced, scentless, and generally hidden from practically any forms of detection, Magical or not, as he awaited the responding Aurors.
Huh. Only two of them. Either these were two of the Ministry's best, or they had vastly underrated the actual damage done here.
The minute the first of the pair removed his hood, Harry knew he had been correct on the first count. And when the second followed suit, he knew he had been right on the second as well.
Bellatrix hit the floor with a hard thud. This…this wasn't the meeting place. This looked to be…a Manor. The home of a pureblood Lord.
She tensed instinctively when she realized exactly which Lord it probably belonged to.
A moment later and she was grateful for her reaction. A boot caught her in the ribs and sent her spinning across the floor, crashing into a chair. It would have hurt much worse if her muscles hadn't already been taut.
"Foolish girl! What have you done? Where are the others?!"
"Dead," she gasped. "All dead."
A scoff. "Impossible! The Aurors would never…"
"It wasn't the bloody Aurors!" she hissed. "It was someone else; some-thing else. And he slaughtered them. All of them."
A hand grabbed her hair and yanked her head backwards, forcing her to stare into her assailant's face. Yaxley, one of the Lord's lieutenants, and a member of his Inner Circle. "How is it then that you alone escaped?"
"He…he sent me back…with a message. A message for…for Tom Riddle."
Yaxley's grip tightened in rage. "WHAT? He dares…! Tell me the message! NOW!"
She swallowed. "He…he wore a mask…blacker than anything I've ever seen before. Once they were all dead…he took it off, and just…stared…right at me. He said…he said the only reason he let me…let Tom Riddle see his face was that…no matter how hard he looked; he would never be able to match a name to it. That he knew all there was to know about Tom Riddle, and that Riddle would learn nothing of him. Except…who he was." Her voice trailed off.
A yank brought her back to reality. "Well? WHO IS HE?!"
"He called himself…Zarathos."
Yaxley pondered the name. Foreign, obviously. It sounded like the name a Malfoy would bear; or perhaps a Zabini. He would speak with Abraxas later, subtly, of course. The man was not yet fully committed to their cause, and his Lord's secrets could not be divulged to just anyone. But first, there was the matter of the girl.
The only reason he had yet to haul her before his Lord was her last name: Black. If their Lord were to harm her in his rage, their relationship with the entire Black family would be severely damaged. Something they absolutely could not afford. He would take matters into his own hands.
He released his grip on her hair. "Rise. You will provide a copy of your memory for the Pensieve in that corner of the room. Once you have done that, you shall leave immediately. Do not return. Our Lord shall decide your fate."
Slowly, she struggled to her feet, and made her way to the indicated corner. One removed silver string of memory later, and she was headed for the door. Halfway there, she stopped, and made one final statement. "Your Lord, he may be. But after today…I would not be so assured of his position over the Black family. Good day, Mister Yaxley."
Yaxley had to resist the urge to curse her in the back. Do that, and her family would wreak a terrible vengeance upon them all. Anyone with any amount of sense in the wizarding world knew at least one truth: never cross a Black.
He could only hope that his Lord was as aware of that as he was.
Alastor Moody scratched his chin.
He was ninety percent sure there was something wrong with the Ministry's detection systems (then again, when wasn't there). This was supposed to have been an open and shut case of too many wards and notice-me-nots in a Muggle neighborhood, and yet even from here he could see the Leaky Cauldron just down the road. He would have written it off as just another wizard as paranoid as he was, if it weren't for the absolute destruction he was standing in the center of.
Evidence of Blasting, Cutting, and Banishing Curses abounded, with what looked to be traces of Fiendfyre on some of the bodies. A wizard that could control that as well as they evidently had was not someone to trifle with. Add to that the fact that they had somehow managed to hide this much Dark Magic from the Ministry, and Alastor was beginning to get very nervous indeed.
"DAWLISH!" he bellowed. "Get the Obliviators. We got Muggles who've seen more than they should've, even with the SEP's. I'll replace the wards and keep things under control 'til you get back."
Junior Auror John Dawlish huffed. "Sir, its against Ministry regulations for…"
"I know the blasted regs, Dawlish, but we got some pretty important people dead here, and I'd say quite a few more vaporized. The book goes out the window at times like these."
Dawlish took one look at the body of Rodolphus Lestrange and promptly turned green. "Right, Yes, sir. Right away. Obliviators…"
And he stumbled away in the direction of the Cauldron. Alastor didn't blame him. A shot of Firewhiskey would be mighty welcome right about now.
"Quite a mess, wouldn't you say."
Alastor whirled, trying to pinpoint the voice. His magical eye rotated in its socket, looking for any sign of concealment charms or spells.
"I wouldn't bother if I were you. I am well aware of exactly how to hide from that marvelous optic of yours, Mad-Eye. Relax. If I were going to kill you, you'd be dead by now. You and that trollop of a partner of yours. All I want is a chance to explain what you're standing in without drawing too much attention to myself."
Moody continued looking anyway. "I suppose that makes you the one responsible for said mess."
The disembodied voice scoffed. "Hardly. All I did was buy a drink. It was these tossers that so rudely decided to interrupt my quality time."
"And I'm just supposed to take your word for that?"
"Check their wands. I believe you'll find several Unforgivables as the last spells cast. Even if I had started this altercation, I think you'll agree there's no need to escalate to those extremes on account of just one man."
The voice paused. "Unless your name happens to be Albus Dumbledore, of course."
Moody finally gave up his search. "Fair point, lad. But seeing as how you're the only one left standing after this little escapade, I'd go so far to say as your name might just warrant the same approach. Speaking of, what exactly is your name son?"
"What, you expect me to hand the Ministry the name of the man that put down so many of their precious up-and-coming pureblood heirs? No thank you, I like my head where it is."
Moody snorted. "Sensible. Still, got to have a name for the report. Can I get one?"
The voice was silent for a good while. "…Might as well. I'll give you the same one I gave them: Zarathos."
"Fancy. Italian?"
"Do I look Italian to you?"
"You don't look like anything at the moment, lad."
"…Touché."
"Now. To continue with the report. Open and shut self-defense, I assume?"
"Not exactly. More like defense of the Muggles in that pub who did nothing more than want the same thing I did: a drink."
Moody frowned at that. "So…what you're saying is…that this was…"
"An initiation into a little club that I'm sure has already caused the DMLE quite a lot of grief, even if you didn't know it."
"…You're talking about a rise in Muggle-baiting, hushed up and buried by some pretty powerful people."
"No, Mad-Eye, I'm talking about a methodically planned out war, followed by genocide on an unprecedented scale."
The air suddenly seemed very cold. "Another Grindelwald?"
"Worse. So much worse. And there's nothing you or the Ministry can do to fight him. Your only hope is Dumbledore, and that's a very thin hope."
"Thinner than you know, lad. Which is why, if you're telling the truth, I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. I'll make my report, and do my best to leave you out of it. I'll weave and bob some cock-and-bull story about deflecting these tossers' fire back at 'em, and that you only managed to survive by dodging cause you used to play Seeker in Quidditch or some such crap."
"…Ironically enough, I did play Seeker once. But that was quite a while ago, now."
A sigh. "I appreciate the gesture, Mad-Eye. The least I can do is return it."
A shimmer in the air. Then, with nary a sound, a figure appeared in front of Moody. It was all he could do not to cower back in fear. Now this…this was an Arch-Mage. Moody could practically feel the magic rolling off him. His appearance spoke of wars fought long-ago in far off parts of the world; bones strapped to various parts of his armor, and stains on his robes that could only be blood. But it was the eyes that really did the trick.
Moody was no stranger to the thousand-yard stare, but this one felt less like one of a thousand-yards and more like one of a thousand-year s. The cycle of Life and Death seemed to dance for eternity in those Killing Curse-green eyes.
"You think this is bad, you should see the mask that goes with it."
Moody's throat was completely dry, and yet he swallowed. "Any worse than the ones those bodies're wearing?"
"So I'm told. See you round, Mad-Eye. Oh, I almost forgot. If you need help convincing Dumbledore, tell him this: the Book of Joel. Chapter Three, Verses Nine through Twelve. He'll understand when he reads it."
And with that, a bolt of lighting struck the figure, blinding both of Moody's eyes. When his vision cleared, the wizard was gone, leaving only a smoking bit of pavement behind.
Moody sighed and turned away. "Show-off."
The pops of Apparition heralded the arrival of the Obliviators, as well as the return of his wayward partner. Hopefully, they would be able to tell him more than he already knew. And once they were done, he would do his best to ensure they told no one else.
After all, no one ever expects you to Obliviate the Obliviator.
Bellatrix stumbled as her feet hit the ground. Apparition while coming down from an adrenaline high had never been easy for her; it was just another reason she preferred to always be in the thick of things.
Well, she had certainly been in it today. And her continued existence through it all had been due more to an inconvenience on the enemy's part than it had to any skill of her own. And people, powerful people like this…Zarathos had been…like he was…to have him for an enemy was the surest of death sentences.
But to have him on her side…her mind was already whirling with the possibilities. She had known that to truly get anywhere in their society, she would have been forced to back a Lord sooner or later. Whether by marriage or other means. The Lord of the Knights had been a chance to gain the backing she needed, without the commitment of anything as drastic of marriage, leaving her free to choose her own husband from among his followers. Rodolphus had seemed to check all the right boxes, but now…
She swallowed. Rodolphus was dead. Executed, without mercy. And the Lord of the Knights himself could not have done it more elegantly.
A dry voice drew her from her ruminations. "I take it then that your little…excursion…was satisfactory?"
She nodded in a daze. "Oh yes. Quite satisfactory. I learned quite a lot."
Her father, Cygnus Black, leaned back in his chair and lowered his eyes once more to his paper. "I'll just bet you did."
She continued, paying him no mind. Probably the shock setting in, but right now she had no inclination of fighting it. "Quite a lot, indeed. For one, I learned that it is never a good idea to insult a demon. I learned that there are depths to magic not even the Dark Lord has touched. And perhaps most important of all, I learned that our generation of pureblood heirs is no more than a collection of kites dancing in a hurricane. Little scraps of paper, to be torn apart by the strongest wind that blows."
Her father's paper had dropped when she relayed her first lesson. It had been forgotten entirely by the second. And by the third, it, her father's chair, and in fact the entre room could have been on fire for all the lack of attention her father was giving it. His voice had lost its dry quality, and was now threatening to shake if he spoke any less carefully. "Daughter. What. Happened."
She hummed. "Hmm? Oh, he did. Just like a hurricane, actually. I wonder if that's what his name means? It is a very nice name."
"Bellatrix". He hissed.
"The first four he set aflame. A burning sword, probably Fiendfyre judging by the shape. Rabastan insulted him then. It was the last thing he did. The rest….gone." Her hands made a cloud shape. "Poof. Gone. Vaporized. Twenty of the best and brightest of our age…snuffed out in an instant. Poor Jugson. His coffin's going to be awfully light."
"Who? Bellatrix, who?"
"Oh, he called himself Zarathos. I don't think it's his real name, though. A pity. I wouldn't have minded hearing it more often."
Cygnus Black was a very practical man. He had seen the coming darkness, and knew there were none currently who could stand against it. Not even Dumbledore. So, he had laced his bets and insured that for his part, his family would stand with the victors. But for one man, no matter how strong, to stand against that many wands, and win…perhaps it was time to lace his bets in the opposite direction as well. That is, if this unknown powerhouse actually was of the Light. The efficiency with which he had dispatched his foes cast grave doubts on that particular fact.
He needed more information. "Daughter. I wish to see. To see it all."
"Of course, Father. The Knights already have, so it would be only right."
"….What do you mean the Knights have already seen it?"
"Oh, don't worry Father. I'll include that part as well."
He harrumphed. He would have preferred to be the first (and only) with this information, but at least now he could see what the Knights' reactions had been. Context could do wonders for one's decision-making abilities.
He gestured to the room just off of the study in which resided the family Pensieve. "After you, my dear."
Albus Dumbledore frowned as his Floo lit with green flame. There weren't that many people with direct access to the Hogwarts Headmaster's office, and of those, the only one that would ever interrupt him during his punctual mealtimes would be…
Alastor Moody stepped from the fireplace. "Constant vigilance, Albus! Here you are, sitting behind your desk, with a sandwich in one hand and pumpkin juice in the other. Anyone could have taken you out from here before you even drew your wand!"
Dumbledore sighed. "I would rather hope that the wards of Hogwarts offered better security than that, Alastor."
"You and me both, Albus! But it can't hurt to be too careful! Especially nowadays!"
Dumbledore gave a sideways look at the old Auror for that remark. At first glance, it just seemed to be the classic Moody paranoia raising its head, but after realizing Alastor looked like the cat that had gotten the canary, Dumbledore rather suspected it was something a bit more than that. He resisted the urge to sigh. It had been such a nice lunch, too.
"Very well, Alastor. I'll bite. What could possibly be so dangerous about 'nowadays'?"
THUNK!
A pile of paper over three feet high appeared on the desk in front of him. He glared around it at the one who had been audacious enough to drop it directly on his place. "And what is this?"
Alastor dropped into the seat by the fire. "DMLE case files. Going back over a year. Each and every one slated for destruction, twelve months from the date, closed or not. Go on; see for yourself. Not even I believed it at first, and I had it glaringly pointed out to me."
With yet another sigh, Dumbledore picked up the first document. A frown creased his face. He flipped to the next one. The frown deepened. Another. Then another. And still another. On and on and on and on…
"…All of them?"
"Aye. Each and every one. All buried in the best possible way: anonymity."
"…And when you said this was glaringly pointed out to you, I presume you meant you were a witness to one of these…incidents?"
"Nah! Just the aftermath, and even that was enough to shake me!"
"…What happened, Alastor."
"Blighters picked the wrong target, that's what happened. Bad luck they chose a Muggle pub that just so happened to have a wizard for a customer at the time."
"I see. And he managed to escape and alert the Aurors?"
"Alert! Albus, the only alerting that happened came well after it was all over and done. There were twenty of them; all lined up as pretty as you please, like one of the Nazi's firing lines. Four to drive the Muggles out, the rest to do the executing."
"…I must admit to some confusion, Alastor. If you were not alerted until after things were over, and there was only one wizard in the area, how could it possibly have been bad luck for these…individuals?"
"Cause he took care of it himself, Albus! All twenty of those tossers, put down like the dogs they were. I never even heard of some of the effects I saw on the bodies."
"…And I suppose you wish for me to do something about the parents of the dead who will no doubt be looking for some form of retribution, legal or otherwise?"
"Albus, that's the last thing you should do. Fellow made things easy for me by leaving only five actual bodies for identification, well-within my abilities to bury the same way these other cases have been."
"…It is impossible to Vanish human remains, Alastor."
"Impossible, maybe, but the cheeky blighter went and did it anyway. I can only assume he chose those specific five to send a message to a particular group of those…"
"Alastor."
"Fine. Those upstanding members of our society. There, happy?"
"Not in the slightest. Twenty people have been murdered, Alastor. And you have let the culprit walk free and buried the case. Tell me, how are you different than all those responsible for these papers on my desk?"
"Seriously? For one, I'm not burying it. I'm just being a might…selective…in who hears about it. And two…you know as well as I do that this was self-defense. Murder is for murderers, Albus. Not soldiers. Not warriors. And I can assure you, that is exactly the kind of person we are dealing with."
"…I cannot say I agree. But can I assume you were able to converse with said person?"
"In a manner of speaking. Fella laid it out real plain for me exactly what was going on, and more importantly, who had been doing it. Those files are all we need to start making things right uncomfortable for certain people."
"We? Not the Ministry?"
"Think about it, Albus."
"…Oh."
"Oh. That's all he says. Oh. We got bribery, extortion, and blackmail coming out of our ears, and all he can say is, oh."
"What would you have me say, Alastor?"
"The Muggles have a saying, Albus. Speak softly and carry a big stick. Be the soft speaker. Work in the background. Use this intel. And let me make sure the big stick is aimed in the right direction."
"Or?"
"Or said stick may very well swing back and give you the black eye."
"…Noted."
Alastor hauled himself up, and turned to the fireplace.
"One last thing, Alastor. This…stick…I don't suppose he happened to tell you his name?"
Moody paused. If the Arch-Mage had given his real name, he would never have dreamed of telling to Albus, but seeing as how it was clearly a fake one…
"…Zarathos. That's what he called himself. Got no idea what it means, but I can guess. And the only reason I'm telling you is because he gave me a message to pass on. Something else to read, methinks."
"Yes?"
"The Book of Joel. Chapter Three, Verses Nine through Twelve. I would advise you to take whatever advice he's just given you to heart. East wind is coming, Albus. We must weather it, or crack."
"Sherlock Holmes. From 'His Last Bow', if I'm not mistaken."
Moody grinned. "Why not? Even the Muggles can see when a storm is brewing. Some even better than we. And besides…"
Moody vanished in a plume of green flame, his last words trailing behind.
"…I've always loved a good mystery."
Dumbledore snorted. 'A' mystery. This whole business was nothing but mysteries. One, however, he could solve from the comfort of his own office.
Slowly, he ran his eyes over the bulging bookcases. "Now, where did I put that original King James printing…"
The monster once known as Tom Riddle shrieked in rage.
"WHO! WHO IS THIS…THIS…"
"Upstart?" Yaxley helpfully suggested.
He received a Crucio for his efforts.
"Tell me, Yaxley…who else knows of the failure today?"
His voice shook from the after-effects of the curse. "Just…the Blacks…my Lord. It was they…who supplied…the memory."
Another shriek. "THE BLACKS?! Do you know how long I have courted their family?! How many proxies and intermediaries I have used? And in one day, a single wizard has undone years of effort! My effort!"
Yaxley, wisely, said nothing.
Voldemort began to pace, determined to salvage at least something from the day's events. "You say only the Blacks know. And they will not tell, not until it becomes absolutely necessary. They have not survived this long by being hasty. That this…Zarathos…left no survivors plays into our hands. We can merely suggest that the dead are all out on important, secret assignments. Ones known only to me. And if the truth should out, we can use the existence of no witnesses to stress the blood-thirstiness of the Muggle filth."
"But my Lord…"
"SILENCE! This is my time, Yaxley, not his, not Dumbledore's, not anyone else's. I will not give this Zarathos the honor of being deemed a worthy opponent for me. You shall deal with him. Personally. Take as many men as you need, but do not tell them what you are dealing with. He is no more than a nameless obstacle to be crushed, and that is all."
Yaxley swallowed. "And… what will you do, my Lord?"
"I? A great many things, Yaxley. Repair my relationship with the Blacks. Determine the origins of this Zarathos. And finally…locate this Book of Joel. Perhaps there may be other useful information I can gleam from it."
"I believe the Book of Joel is part of a larger set of Muggle works, my Lord. A collection of histories, laws, but most of all, of wars. Both Muggle and Magical. As told from the perspective of the Muggles that survived…and of those who conquered."
"Hmm. Further proof of the Muggle desire for conflict. A useful tool, indeed. Go, Yaxley. And do not return, unless successful. You will not like the outcome."
With a nervous bow, Yaxley swiftly made his way out. As he did so, Voldemort's thoughts turned toward a collection of Muggle books he had collected long ago, and then secreted away from even the most trustworthy of his followers.
Oh, he had known what the Book of Joel was immediately. One didn't grow up in an orphanage without hearing a sermon at least once a week, after all. And while certainly out of place here, the Muggle Bible held a great many truths that Voldemort had been able to twist to suit his own purposes. The greatest lies always have some grain of truth to them, after all.
From the Bible, he had moved onto the works of men like Machiavelli, Sun Tzu, and Nietzsche. All of which had proven themselves time and again in his campaign. But now, it was to the Bible that he once more turned his attention. One more truth to be plucked from its pages.
Three passwords, a blood-tester, and countless wards and traps later, he stood amidst his collection. He ran his fingers down the spines, searching…
Dumbledore's hand stopped. "Ah! Here it is. Bit dusty; but still in good shape."
He removed the volume from the shelf, flipped it open to the correct passage, and began to read…
Voldemort's voice echoed throughout the stone chamber. "Proclaim ye this among the Gentiles; Prepare war, wake up the mighty men, let all the men of war draw near, let them come up…"
"Beat your plowshares into swords and your pruninghooks into spears: let the weak say, I am strong."
"Assemble yourselves, and come, all ye heathen, and gather yourselves together round about: thither cause thy mighty ones to come down, O Lord."
"Let the heathen be wakened, and come up to the Valley of Jehoshaphat: for there I will sit…"
"…to judge all the heathen…"
"…round about."
Voldemort's eyes narrowed. This…this was a challenge. But it was also…a clue. It told him that either this Zarathos was at least part-Muggle…or he had been around when these lines were written.
He thought back to the man's retort to Rabastan. If the man were undead…or worse, immortal…
He snapped the book shut. Ridiculous. There were only three immortals alive; himself, and those accursed Flamels. It was incredulous that another should emerge from anonymity solely to face him.
Impossible.
But nonetheless, for a brief moment, the monster once known as Tom Riddle shivered in fear.
