Entryway, Department of Mysteries, Ministry of Magic
2005
The Department of Mysteries was one step from being hypothetical to the average citizen of Magical Britain, which is what made the break in all the stranger. Senior Auror Hermione Granger stepped over the parchment strewn over the red carpeted floor, careful not to tread on hand scribbled notes in cryptic diagrams and cyphers.
She cast a quick eye over the room, taking in the hooded figures, crouched on hands and feet, meticulously going over every sheet of parchment, and the junior Auror slouching casually against the doorframe to the adjoining room, where the same process played out on dark stone tiles.
Following closely behind her, stepping carelessly, much to the muttered displeasure of the robed figures, Cedric Diggory sneered at the state of the room. Hermione often wondered why she was partnered with Diggory.
She was confident there wasn't a single Auror in the force that could cross wands with him one-on-one and walk away. He had the most confirmed Death Eater kills on the force, yet he had never been promoted past full Auror. While that could be the reason, she suspected a more layered decision. Diggory was everything she wasn't. Pure blooded, reckless, quick to jump to conclusions, and strikingly beautiful.
Though her head had healed completely, no magic could regrow an eye, and her patched skull still showed scars.
Then again, the reason was rather simple. She would never get promoted because she was a mudblood upstart who made the fundraisers nervous, and Diggory would always be suspected of his father's murder, no matter what the court decreed.
"Look at them." He hissed. "Scurrying around on the floor like… like muggles."
"If you think you can do better," Hermione ignored the unintended jibe. "Feel free, Diggory."
Stepping clear of the parchment, Cedric whipped his wand in a quick arc. Instead of flying back into binders and onto desks, the parchment whipped around the room, some plucked from the hands of the crouched figures, in a whirling torrent. Pages fluttered around the room, drifting slowly back to the floor.
"Whoever did this was good." Hermione observed. "The ward is keyed to… The Minster's Personal Wards. Damn. We'll have to wait until the Monthly Address to undo it. If we try to sort the pages by magic, or if a house elf so much as steps foot in the room, the parchment itself is sent flying."
"Auror Granger?" An Auror called from the doorway. "We have a Cloak here, claims he saw who'd done it."
"Lead the way." Hermione said, ignoring the way the man's eyes lingered on her pearl left eye. She walked through three more rooms, finally entering what looked like a wood panelled office. If the slowly drifting pages in the room were anything to go by, the effect wasn't limited to only one room. She cast a sidelong glance at Cedric, who had the decency to flinch.
"Granger. As if my day wasn't bad enough already." William Pinescrew, Director of the DMLE sighed.
"Sir." Hermione gave a curt nod in greeting.
"Well, get to it." Pinescrew sneered. "What groundbreaking new revelations have you brought me today."
Ignoring the bait, Hermione placed a small vial on the director's desk. Silver tendrils of memory swirled and flowed behind the glass. Pinescrew narrowed his eyes.
"The Ledger?" He asked, leaning back in his chair casually. "Have you even checked the Ledger? See who's passed the wards?"
"Hasn't updated yet, sir." Hermione didn't grit her teeth. "Our visitor keyed a spell to the Minister's Office Warding itself. Until the Intermission, we can't so much as look at what was done, let alone fix anything. Not without the Minister himself present."
She paused, waiting for the director to absorb the information.
"Lazy coward." Pinescrew grouched. "I have to do his whole bloody job. If he had been here instead of hiding like a rat, we would have had this sorted already!"
"Who, or what, -ever broke into the DoM knew the Ministry's security inside and out." Hermione leaned forward slowly, keeping her gaze fixed on the director. "Either a Ministry higher up, or someone in close contact with one."
"You seem emotional, Granger." He jeered. "Maybe we need a different pair of eyes on this. Someone who doesn't see a Death Eater hiding in every broom closet."
"No Death Eaters this time." Hermione allowed herself the small pleasure of leaving out the director's honorific. "Not even Voldemort himself."
"Use that name again and I'll have you suspended." Pinescrew spat, snatching the vial up between his fingers and clearing a stack of parchment from the pensieve on the desk. As he poured the memory in, the Director looked Hermione in the eye. "Have you got the stomach for a second viewing?"
"I'm sure I'll manage, sir." Hermione deadpanned.
Moments later, a white faced Director Pinescrew started from his desk.
"I have to-" He swallowed hard. "I need to make a floo call."
"I'm afraid, sir, you've got to be in the Atrium in five minutes." Hermione nearly smirked. "The Portkeys are due any moment now."
"Bugger the Portkeys." He snapped. "You handle it. Tell them I'm working the case! Tell them anything! Just go!"
"As you say, sir." Hermione managed not to roll her eyes at the man.
It wasn't the content of the memory itself that had unsettled Pinescrew, she knew. He had seen far worse in his days as a hit wizard, and apart from brushing them under the rug, Death Eater sightings didn't seem to affect the man one way or another. No, what had Pinescrew in such a fit was that he likely had no idea what the subject in the memory was.
It was barely visible for a second. A streak of black, trailing thick, lingering smoke, then it turned, as if it was staring directly at her. Two balls of light in place of eyes, as if the creature was glaring not at her, but through her. The black-feathered creature tilted its head, then a cloud of smoke exploded from it and by the time the smoke had vanished, so had the creature.
She felt a chill run down her spine.
The elevator gate swung open into the Atrium where, as expected, a bustle of reporters clustered around the international Portkey reception. She grimaced internally. All young, female reporters. The Magical Media certainly had his profile.
"Saved you a spot." Neville smiled as she joined him. "Unless you want to join the… press."
Said press was busying itself with an overall application of fresh coats of lipstick, undoing blouse buttons and hiking up skirts.
"I doubt I'm his type." Hermione grinned, stretching the mangled flesh that ran across her face.
Camera flashes and excited chatter announced the telltale distortion of Portkey travel, causing Hermione to push her way through the gathered reporters, shoving and threatening stunners.
Graceful as a diving bird, Harry Potter glided down from the high ceiling and landed in an elegant bow.
The crowd exploded, questions and welcomes filling the space immediately as Potter waved, laughing at his adoring crowd. A burst of noise like a thunderclap sliced through the clamour, allowing Hermione to push the rest of the way through the temporarily stunned press of bodies.
"Mr Potter?" She drawled, and to her surprise, Potter seemed completely unaffected.
"Could I be anyone else?" He grinned.
Hermione narrowed her eyes. Her mentor always said, "Constant Vigilance! You never know who's hiding what beneath their skin.", which he likely meant as a warning against complacency, but with a Magical eye to replace the one she lost, Hermione took the phrase more literally.
"See something you like then?" Potter smirked, taking her keen stare in frustratingly good humour.
"Do you always keep a pouch full of potions on your person, Mr Potter?" She asked evenly. "A bit of Liquid Luck to face the day? Awfully addictive stuff if you've the galleons for it."
"Harrow and Burke's Hangover cure actually." Potter's perfect smile turned a shade embarrassed. "Had a bit of a farewell party in Place Cachée. The La Croix école de danse was in town and we got along.. uh… very well."
"I see." Hermione mused. "Well Mr Potter, I would like to officially welcome you back to Magical Brittain."
"Great to be back, Minister..?" He offered his hand with a dazzling smile.
"Auror actually." Hermione had to fight herself from flinching when Potter kissed her hand. "Auror Granger."
For the first time since she came face to face with the man, Potter acted in a way she expected. His smile vanished, and his whole demeanour soured.
"What?" He growled. "I was told the Minister was going to be here personally!"
Cameras flashed.
"And why is that?" Hermione asked icily.
"In case you hadn't noticed," Potter sneered. "I am Harry Potter. The boy who lived? Only known survivor of the killing curse? Bloody hell this place really has gone to the dogs."
"I'm afraid the Minister's health only permits him to make public appearances once monthly." Hermione kept her voice even, waving her arm for him to follow as she made her way to the far side of the atrium. "I'm sure he'd be just delighted to meet you then."
"Fucked if I care." Potter spat. "He had his chance. See if I so much as look at him if we ever meet!"
Without another word he vanished in a flash of white light. Glares, mutters and grumbled curses left the now morose spectators as they slowly dwindled out of the ministry themselves. Hermione expected at least a few to prod for comments, not that she would have given any.
"Wow." Neville whistled appreciatively. "For once, I think you actually managed to dodge being the headline."
Hermione merely stared at the space Harry Potter vanished from.
"What a prat, am I right, Mione?" Neville tried again with an awkward laugh.
"Hmm." Hermione mused, running the space over again with her magical vision. "Did you notice as he left?"
"Yeah." Neville grinned. "Took the air out of the airheads quicker than I thought possible,"
"What?" Hermione snapped out of her reverie. "No, not that. He didn't turn. He just vanished."
"Really?" Neville frowned, considering. "Well, I suppose he did at that. But what's that got to do with anything?"
"Probably nothing." Hermione mulled it over. "Angelo's?"
"I could eat." Neville agreed. "And then you can fill me in on the case that's put your thinking face on."
"You know I can't do that." Hermione frowned playfully. "Pinescrew would have my wand if I gave details of an ongoing investigation."
"That's what you say now." Neville smiled. "Just wait until the Biscotti starts talking."
"Laying it on a bit thick, don't you think?" Sirius asked, leaning on his cane.
"I thought it went rather well, actually." Harry replied, walking past his godfather on the path to Potter Manor. "I didn't expect Granger there. Pinescrew, or even McGreggor, peacock that he is, but not her. With that Cloak seeing me, I must have made more of a scene than I intended."
"You? Make a scene?" Sirius deadpanned. "Never thought I'd live to see it."
They continued their walk through the immaculate grounds in silence.
"I had Nipsy prepare lunch." Sirius broke the silence. "Thought we might have it in the dining room."
"No time. I need to go over those notes again, Sirius. I'm overlooking something, I can feel it."
"Well, I thought as much." Sirius feigned grouching. "Which is why I had Nipsy set the tables in the study. And I took the liberty of copying the notes, so there's no worry of damaging them while you eat for once."
"You really thought of everything, haven't you?"
"I've had twenty three years to get to know you, kid." Sirius said as he slung his remaining arm around Harry's shoulders. "And you haven't eaten since we started cleaning the manor."
The manor's foyer was no less cavernous than Harry remembered, daylight spilling in from the domed roof, where raindrops disappeared before splattering against the gold gilded glass. Marble floors echoed with their quick footsteps as Harry took the staircase up to the study.
The table was packed with food, with the ends cleared for notes and stationary. Harry grabbed a sandwich as he passed, chewing on it idly as he grabbed a sheet of paper from the pile, standing by a window facing the grounds as he reviewed the page.
"Dumbledore came by." Sirius said, skimming the notes from behind his reading glasses. "Waited almost an hour by the gate before he left. Thought I'd have to chase him off with a broom."
"You're too hard on the old man." Harry replied as he dissected the page, his lunch all but forgotten.
"You clearly don't know him." Sirius gestured with his fork, scattering droplets of grease from the skewered bacon rasher. "He'd stick his crooked nose anywhere he can. Detests not knowing absolutely everything about absolutely everything…"
He paused, pinning Harry with a discerning stare.
"You'd think the bloody Department of Mysteries would keep clearer notes." Harry grouched, intently dissecting the next page of notes.
"Well they're not called The Department of Understandable Filing and Bookkeeping."
"What do we have on Granger?" Harry mused. "Muggleborn, born '79, Hogwarts graduate, year of 98…"
"Survivor of a troll attack when she was 12." Sirius sucked his teeth. "Brutal. Straight O record, notoriously uppity."
Harry crossed the room to a wall lamp, pulling on the gothic frame. The end of the bookshelf swung inward, revealing a cluttered space behind it. Harry stepped in and came back carrying another pack of paper. He absently bit into his sandwich again as he frowned at the file.
"She's been partnered with everyone from Proudfoot to Dawlish." He noted. With a flick of his wand, he sent a copy of the file floating to Sirius.
"To keep an eye on her?" Sirius suggested. "A muggleborn Death Eater would be a surprise, but not impossible."
"Only two confirmed kills, early in her career." Harry scratched at his chin. "Moral or willfully abstinent, do you think?"
"Doubt it's the latter." Sirius frowned. "A hundred and twenty seven arrests. Some of which even ended with one way trips to Azkaban. Granger gets evidence air tight when she makes arrests. She does her work well."
"But why send her…" Harry pondered. "She's clearly unsocial, unlikable and constantly looked over for promotion with a suspected murderer as a partner. Not the kind of person you send to greet a celebrity returning to the country. Even Weasley from Magical Games and Sports would be better."
"Some kind of message maybe?" Sirius rubbed his temples. "Keep your nose clean, Potter, or we'll set the Hound on you?"
"Maybe." Harry allowed. "But I doubt it. A head cut off and mounted on the Gate would have been more their style. No, this reeks of desperation."
"I know that look." Sirius warned. "No, Mr Potter. You've got a fundraiser this evening, to celebrate your long awaited return to the country no less. Wouldn't do to draw unwanted attention so early."
"You're right." Harry conceded, but not without a glance into the secret room. "What time does it start did you say?"
"Too soon to go out." Sirius chided. "But not so soon that you can't get some sleep. I'll wake you when your robes are ready."
Tom Marvollo Riddle nodded to the passing students, keeping his smile friendly and just on the border of professional. At 30 years of age he was still strikingly attractive to the female populace of Hogwarts, and he never passed up an advantage.
"Butterfingers." He whispered to the gargoyle, watching in delight as it rolled its eyes and still stepped out of the way. With a bounce in his step, Riddle ascended the spiral staircase. With a quick shave and a haircut knock he waited outside the Headmaster's door.
"Enter, Tom." Dumbledore called.
There was a time he would have cringed at the name of his pathetic, muggle father. Yet, seeing what would have become of him on the path he started on all those years ago had made him realise the flaw in his plan. Lord Voldemort had used the pureblood rhetoric to twist and bend his followers to his design, drove them to cater to his every whim and wicked pleasure, all the while relishing in the power and honour they showed a lowly half-blood.
Really he should have seen it coming. Splitting one's soul was also splitting oneself. His magical reserves became weaker, forcing him to undergo rituals and delve far deeper into transformative magics than he would ever have considered.
While not exactly retrospective, he could see his slow decline in perfect detail. Despite what many believe his life was not always a pursuit of power, but of control. The power to break from the bonds that held him, and bond others, yes, the power to take and do whatever he pleased and more than anything, the power to escape Death itself.
The power to have control over his fate.
Eventually his mind had deteriorated to such an extent that he had forgotten the basest pillars of his being; ambition, cunning and subtlety.
"Headmaster." In the time it took him to nod, Tom gathered everything he needed to know. The Headmaster stood by the widow, near the phoenix's cage, instead of sitting by his desk sucking on a sweet. The little instruments set on one end of the oak wood armoire still stood frozen in place, and most importantly… "Severus. You wished to see me?"
"Yes, my dear boy… yes indeed." Albus Dumbledore slowly stroked his Phoenix's head. "Please, take a seat."
With nary a bow, Tom did so. The lack of flamboyance paired with the headmaster's contemplative mood boded well. He was always the most receptive in this state. Even the bitter Potions Master would play to his ends. Severus would sneer and jibe, Tom would look hurt or regretful and Albus would defend him, without realising he was letting Tom's ideas cut deeper than they should.
"The meeting with Potter and Black went well?" Tom laced the question with just enough curiosity to seem hidden.
"Not exactly." Dumbledore grinned crookedly.
"What did you expect?" Snape scoffed. "Black has been clear that he refuses to drop his childish vendetta, and Potter is the very image of his father, may he rot."
"Visiting the sins of the father unto the son, Severus?" Tom made his best morally judgemental frown. "Hardly fair."
"Gentlemen, please." Dumbledore sighed just as Severus' nostrils flared.
"He's right." Tom pretended to seem regretful. "I'm sorry, Severus, that was unfair."
Tom relished in the way Severus went white with rage, yet nodded in acceptance in a feeble attempt to keep up appearances. If that wasn't reward enough, Dumbledore's proud smile was.
After his resurrection, Dumbledore had confronted him, alone, in the Chamber. Spells were traded, as well as words, which is how he learned of how, just a year before, he, Lord Voldemort, had succeeded in stealing the Philosopher's Stone and resurrecting himself.
At first he fled the school, sacrificing his ancestor's basilisk to cover his escape. He tracked himself down, pondering the decision to join his cause, creating the most powerful Dark Lord partnership in existence. They would rule together, and with their combined power, nothing could stand in their way.
Yet he hesitated. His older self was reptilian, hideous and malformed. His infallible charisma replaced with caustic mania and greed. Would his older self accept him for who he was, or destroy him for the very thing he now represented, his past.
He went to Little Hangleton, seeking his maternal family whom he had, from his point of view, only recently learned about. Where he found nothing but curses and peril, with none other than himself to blame. Yet he knew these wards, these spells and traps. He himself had devised their working, and as such, deduced what they were protecting.
He had often wondered what happens when a horcrux meets a portion of its creator.
Dumbledore welcomed him back with open arms, if not an open heart. As a 16 year old, he had not reached full maturity, and under Dumbledore's guidance and tutelage he took his OWLs and NEWTs under the name Tom Marvolo Riddle Jr., an irony that was not lost on Dumbledore.
Whether Dumbledore truly meant to give him a chance at redemption, or simply keep him under careful watch, Tom took up the position of Professor for Defence against the Dark Arts, a post he had always coveted. It took years to win Dumbledore's trust, but with the old man keeping his secrets better than he thought possible, Tom, being the handsome and charismatic man he is, was warmly accepted by the School's students and faculty. All except for…
"Severus," Dumbledore continued. "While your… unique insight into Sirius and James is appreciated, I'm afraid it is not going to be of much use in this case."
"Please." Snape sneered. "Potter is a glory hound. You've surely heard how he whinged and bawled at not being welcomed personally by the Minister himself? Meet with him, not as a professor, but as chief warlock of the ICW. If nothing else he will be tempted by the status your title represents."
"Perhaps at the fundraiser this evening?" Tom suggested as if the idea had just occurred to him. "Though perhaps a touch of subtlety would be required…"
"Hardly." Snape scoffed. "Potter's skull is so thick you couldn't send him the message with a hammer and nail."
"Severus, please." Dumbledore sighed. "What do you have in mind, Tom?"
"Say I was to join you." Tom feigned feeling out the idea. "You are allowed a plus one. We say I am, as a professor of the Dark Arts, keen to meet the only living survivor of the killing curse. I gush not only of the quality of your instruction, but the prestige of your position as well. Whether Potter values status or power, as most men seek either, we can at the very least get him curious."
"An interesting suggestion." Dumbledore mused. "One I think I shall take you up on, Tom. You will certainly enjoy the company of the high bred more than Severus."
"Hear hear." Snape drawled. "Now if we are quite done with the frivolities, I am afraid I have several papers to torture myself with yet. If you will excuse me, Headmaster."
Without waiting for a reply, Snape swept out of the room.
"With his flair for the dramatic," Tom mused. "I am quite surprised Severus does not enjoy the dance of politics."
"Indeed." Dumbledore smiled, eyes twinkling. He hesitated before taking a seat at the desk himself. "Tom, would you indulge an old man in a game of Wizard's chess? Young Mr Weasley came to visit and rather put me in the mood."
"I'd be delighted." Tom smiled back, surprised at how little fondness he had to feign for the old man.
"Lemon drop?"
"I'd love one."
