AN - Just wanted to say that I realize that, at this point in the original stories, Voldemort was not aware of the Deathly Hallows. I am changing that intentionally. Enjoy!
"In magic, many things are possible," Fudge said to the crowd of reporters and concerned citizens, and Howard Eden mouthed the words with him as he spoke, invisible in the shadows. "Bringing back the dead is simply not one of them." He was firm, resolute, just like they'd talked about before.
The pudgy man had all but gone into a panic when Task Force Ansible, in conjunction with MACUSA and the leadership of Hogwarts, released a report stating that Voldemort had returned and the Death Eaters were now, once again, active.
Eden, of course, knew all of this to be factual. Lucius Malfoy had been confiding in him for some time now about how he believed that Voldemort would return. For the most part he seemed all for it, the return of their great and powerful leader, who would usher them into a golden age. It was only when the man got a little drunk that he admitted to some fears that Voldemort would resent how quickly he'd been abandoned by the Death Eaters who had escaped sentences at Azkaban.
Two days before the report was released, Lucius had come to him, frantic and excited all at once, telling him that the Dark Lord had returned. He'd only gotten a little information out of the man before sending him off to St. Mungo's. He had been wounded in the leg by a muggle weapon, though in his fervor, he seemed oblivious to it.
Eden had spent the following half an hour deciding how best to exploit this. He needed to get into the Death Eater ranks, the higher the better. Malfoy had been a lieutenant previously, and Eden thought he could at least obtain that rank, if not maybe a bit higher depending on the cards he was dealt.
So, of his own accord, he went to see Fudge, and spent the next day convincing the obtuse Minister that there was simply no way Voldemort had returned from the dead. He really played up the whole dead thing.
Then, and he made very certain to ensure that Fudge did not link him to the accusations, he began giving Fudge the idea that the whole thing was part of an attempt by Scrimgeour to grab the Minister's spot.
Fudge, not particularly strong in independent thought, ate it all, hook, line, and sinker. Now, the very next morning, he was already slamming MACUSA, their muggle attack dogs, and anyone else who thought that Voldemort was back on the loose.
"I must admit, I am as surprised as you all that Headmaster Dumbledore would stoop to such blatant fearmongering, and shame on MACUSA for supporting it. I implore you all, let cool heads and logic be the rule of the day. Thank you." Fudge stepped away from the podium, smiling and waving for the cameras before heading back into the heart of the Ministry.
Eden's smile matched that of the Minister of Magic. Just like that, he had taken the return of Voldemort from being public knowledge, which would make it incredibly difficult to operate, to fringe conspiracy theory territory. He wouldn't be able to operate freely, but then that hadn't been an option to begin with. If this didn't buy him some goodwill, he didn't know what would.
Later that day, Lucius Malfoy showed up in his little apartment. He was dressed in a long, black, ceremonial robe, though he was holding onto the silver mask at least. He was accompanied by one other man, who did wear the mask.
"The Dark Lord requests your presence," Malfoy said formally. Howard could see it in the man's eye though, a sense of pride, maybe with a dash of fear. Yes, he'd done the right thing and now he had the boss's attention. His compatriot, on the other hand, puffed out his chest, as though to indicate that the request was more of a command.
It didn't matter, however. The goal was to meet this Lord Voldemort, and that objective was now on the way to completion. "Lead the way," he said to Malfoy, grabbing his arm for a side-along apparition. It wouldn't be prudent to tell a newcomer where the boss was meeting and, though he thought there was at least some chance that Malfoy trusted him enough to tell him, he'd rather take the points that came with knowing his place. That would go further, for now.
It turned out, however, that the precaution was wholly unwarranted. Though he truly couldn't fathom the decision, Voldemort was apparently holding the meeting at Malfoy Manor, which he had been to on more than one occasion.
It was a foolhardy move on the part of the Dark Lord. Malfoy was one many suspected Death Eaters that had managed to stay out of Azkaban and he'd even gained significant political influence. That might fly if they were just dealing with the Ministry of Magic. With TFA possibly hunting them, however, being in a location that already had ties to the Death Eaters was an unnecessary risk.
Malfoy led him to a large dining hall, lavishly decorated and dimly lit. Just the way a mysterious Dark Lord would prefer things, he imagined. Every seat at the table was filled by a robed figure, and there were at least that many standing around the table, maybe more. At the head of the table sat one of the most hideous looking men he had ever encountered.
He wasn't just bald, he was hairless. His skin was almost deathly pale and was stretched tight over his face. Dark, beady eyes and slits for a nose, much like a reptile...if Eden had been asked to conjure the image of evil, he wasn't certain he could have done a better job. For at least a brief moment, he wondered if he'd bitten off more than he could chew.
"I am glad to see you have returned," Voldemort rasped, and for a second Eden thought he was talking to Malfoy. Instead, another man stepped forward, through the packed room and into view of everyone. He was a thin, crazed looking man who appeared extremely pleased to be there. And Voldemort looked every bit as pleased.
"Crouch Junior here has more than proven himself loyal," Voldemort said, petting a snake that Eden hadn't noticed until just then. "He went undercover at Hogwarts and did the majority of the work to set my return in motion...killed his own father for the cause, I might add. And, not one for a missed opportunity, he even captured one of the muggle soldiers!"
Voldemort gestured to one of the dark corners in the room, and Eden saw a young man, maybe a boy even, sitting there. His eyes were dead in the telltale fashion of someone under the Imperius curse and he was dressed in fatigue pants and an undershirt. There were probably a million ways to utilize the knowledge in that head.
"Still," Voldemort said, and this time his voice was more hostile. "Crouch here insisted that he had a surprise for me." Voldemort let the sentence hang in the air and those present shifted uncomfortably. Eden got the sense that he wasn't a fan of surprises.
"I am certain you'll like this, my lord." Crouch said confidently, patting a satchel that he had slung over one shoulder. The guy looked a little insane, but Eden had to give credit where it was due. The fella had some balls.
Voldemort shifted his gaze to Crouch, who pulled a blanket or something from his satchel. The man presented it to Voldemort with a bow, and for a moment it looked like Voldemort might kill him. The venom in his eyes drained quickly as he picked the fabric up though, small parts of him disappearing as the fabric shifted in his grip.
"Ha!" Voldemort laughed out gleefully, and the mood in the room visibly relaxed. Even Eden found himself relaxing a bit, and he couldn't care less about this Crouch fella. There was no doubt about it, Voldemort had the pull of a powerful leader. "Never one to miss an opportunity."
Crouch bowed a little deeper, taking the last statement as his dismissal. Voldemort was quiet for a moment longer in thought before dismissing everyone. Eden stuck by Lucius, who shifted his gaze down to his arm at the same time Voldemort touched his wand to his own arm. He'd heard they communicate through enchanted tattoos and it was interesting to see it in person, at least academically. He was never big on body art though.
Lucius wordlessly led him to a pair of adjacent rooms, just as darkly decorated as the rest of his house. The man certainly had an affinity for artifacts associated with the dark arts. Everyone has their own hobbies. He'd been hearing talk around the Ministry about a lady who loved kitten plates.
"Wait here," Lucius said, gesturing to a chair. Eden smiled, clapping Lucius on the back and taking a seat. After the door closed behind Lucius, Eden stood back up and stepped over to the door. He was just in time to hear the end of a muffling charm go up, and smiled to himself.
It was going to be the perfect chance to test out one of his newer innovations, stolen directly from the muggles. While he hated getting the idea from them, he had to admit, it was useful. He'd killed, resurrected, and enchanted a housefly, which was sitting on the back of Lucius Malfoy now and would likely fly around the room.
The enchantment, if he'd done it right, would record the sound for him. He couldn't listen in real time as the muggles could, but this would be good enough for his needs. The fly would leave the room when the door opened and he could collect it from there, hopefully with some knowledge he could use.
Lucius' back stiffened as the Dark Lord entered the room. What little idle chatter there was among the Death Eater lieutenants died out quickly. It wasn't uncommon, back in the old days, for Voldemort to call his lieutenants together. It was exceptionally rare for someone else to be present.
But, what Voldemort said was law. So, Crouch sat at one of the seats in Lucis' private lounge. The Dark Lord was silent for several very long moments before finally sitting down. Malfoy wasn't certain what to think. It was impossible to read their master.
"Crouch," Voldemort rasped gently, letting the name hang in the air for the moment. "I have thought on this...I very seriously considered punishing you for your surprise antics."
"I accept whatever you believe might help me serve you better," Crouch said, bowing his head. Lucius had never been a fan of the Crouch boy. He seemed like he was only in it as a way to upset his father, and for a long time, Lucius had held that Crouch Junior was a spy. He was man enough to admit it when he was wrong.
"I'm certain you would," Voldemort muttered thoughtfully, running his wand through his fingers repeatedly. "Why did you insist that it must be secret?"
"For the same reason you appreciated it, my lord." Crouch glanced around at everyone present, looking uncertain if he should finish the answer. When Voldemort raised his eyebrow in a look somewhere between curiosity and a threat, he continued. "I believe it is one of the Deathly Hallows and I didn't want that to be common knowledge."
"You must be joking," Yaxley muttered from a corner somewhere behind Malfoy.
"Give me your arm," Voldemort replied. To his credit, Crouch didn't hesitate. He looked a little fearful, but he laid his arm across the table to Voldemort, who pressed his wand into the tattoo. Malfoy watched Crouch squirm as the tattoo shifted, the telltale ribbon that marked a lieutenant forming beneath the serpent. He was being promoted. "You have good instincts, a trait I appreciate in my leadership."
"I have personal business to attend over the next two weeks," Voldemort announced. "When I return, I expect that my loyal Death Eaters, who remain imprisoned in Azkaban, will have been freed." He didn't direct the order to anyone in particular, but Lucius responded anyway. He was something of the de facto leader of the lieutenants, no official power above the others, but they seemed to do as he said.
"Of course, my lord." He bowed.
"I think that takes care of our business," Voldemort spoke out loudly. Most everyone in the room left shortly. Malfoy stayed behind, one last order of business to take care of. "Yes?" Voldemort asked, a hint of venom in his voice.
"I thought you might wish to be introduced to Eden, our man responsible for keeping the Ministry at bay," Lucius replied, again bowing his head in deference. He hadn't expected it to sound like he was presuming to know what Voldemort would want.
"Ah, yes," Voldemort leaned back, opening his arms in a welcoming manner that still felt vaguely threatening. "By all means."
Daniel Burke stepped off of the UH-60 Blackhawk, scowling deeply as the rotor wash caused dirt to coat his sunglasses and undoubtedly wedge itself between his Brooks Brothers dress shirt and the nondescript ballistic vest The Company insisted he wear when overseas. A glance back at the crew chief revealed that the man was smiling deeply, obviously enjoying the fact that the FOB Phoenix landing zone was a dirt pad. Fucker could have said something earlier.
He forced his shoulders up in defiance of the whipping flecks of dirt as the helicopter lifted away again, destined to return to one of the RAF air bases that partnered with the United States. He didn't know and didn't care.
"Sir," a young kid of a corporal greeted him at the edge of the landing pad, shouting a little over the sound of the helicopter. He reached out, offering either a handshake or to take the briefcase Burke carried. He did neither.
"Where am I headed?" Burke said curtly. If the soldier was offended, he didn't show it. He just turned and started toward the largest building at the FOB. Burke followed him silently. As they made it inside, he felt the immediate relief of air conditioning.
"Mr. Burke," a gruff voice greeted him, neither friendly mor overtly hostile. A tall, well-groomed man in a neatly pressed uniform with an eagle patch on either collar. Obviously Colonel Sumner.
"Colonel," Burke returned. Sumner stepped aside, gesturing for him to step into the office, and he complied. He was sure that the Colonel was used to people waiting to sit, but he was tired and grumpy and sat anyway, laying his briefcase across the other chair.
"Welcome to FOB Phoenix," Sumner sighed as he lowered himself into his chair, still somehow maintaining that never-relaxed military look so common to soldiers. Burke didn't slouch, but he wasn't about to give himself a backache to impress this guy. "Did they brief you on the situation?"
"Yeah," Burke replied shortly, having the distinct impression that they both already knew the answer to that question. He worked in intelligence for crying out loud. Still, it wouldn't do to completely piss off the commanding officer of the FOB he was staying in, regardless of how he himself felt about it.
It wasn't being deployed to an FOB that pissed him off. He'd done it before, more than once. Afghanistan, Nigeria, Ukraine, and probably a few others he didn't care to learn the names of. It wasn't the fact that he was dragged halfway across the world from his wife, although that did piss him off a little. He'd assured Sandra after the last trip, to Egypt, that he was done traveling the world.
No, it was the fact that they'd pulled him off of the hunt for Howard Eden for this bullshit. They had more or less conclusive evidence that this pissant Dark Lord guy had returned, a situation of importance to the British but not a big deal in the US. The local Ministry didn't want to believe it, and he really couldn't be bothered to care. Yet, here he was.
"Yeah, I have the situation," Burke affirmed again after a moment.
"We just need to get conclusive evidence of Voldemort's return. The Ministry here is burying its head in the sand on this and it's going to get people hurt. We need to find him." Sumner said. Burke nodded his head automatically, internally rolling his eyes. He probably knew the full situation better than Sumner did. "You have quarters in the officer's hall. Corporal Ryland will show you the way." Sumner stood, the physical indication that their conversation was over. Burke grabbed his briefcase and left.
Brad gripped his duffle tightly as he stepped into the green fire. It was strange to feel the flames lick at him without the a burning sensation. When he turned back around to face the room, he no longer saw the office of headmaster Dumbledore.
Instead, it was the familiar office of Henri Delacour. The man was standing a few feet in front of the fireplace, and though he didn't want to look too eager, he found the not-burning fire a bit too unnerving and leaped out of the fireplace, sending ash everywhere. As he bent down in a vain attempt to prevent the ash from spreading deeper into the office, every nerve in his body exploded into a white-hot pain and he collapsed face-first to the floor.
That was piss-poor timing, getting hit bent over as he was. It only lasted for a brief moment, disappearing as quickly as it came and he pushed himself back up even as Henri offered him a hand. Brad bit the side of his tongue to stave off the embarrassment.
"Are you alright?" his deep voice rumbled as Brad made it to his feet. Brad shook his head, looking down at the mess, both on his fatigues and the floor.
"Sorry." It came out more like mumble and Brad cringed inwardly. This was off to a great start. Henri didn't waved his hand at it briefly, a good natured chuckle rising out of him.
"This is nothing, don't worry about it," Henri said, a gentle hand leading Brad deeper into the house, "You should see it when one of the gnomes gets stuck inside. That's a mess."
When they were almost to the door, Henri pulled out his wand, waving it over the room. Brad watched as the ash drifted up, both from the floor and his uniform, a miniature tornado pulling the ash back into the fireplace. "Simple fix," Henri nodded in satisfaction.
"Is 'e here?" Apolline's voice rang from somewhere deeper in the house. Henri lead him out of the office and started them down the hall. Brad felt like a child being brought to his room after being grounded or something.
"He's getting settled," Henri said, his voice carrying enough that he didn't need to shout in order to be heard like his wife. He stopped when they reached the stairs. "You'll be staying in the same room as before. We're glad to have you here."
He took Brad by the shoulders and Brad wasn't sure how to read the expression. Pity? Affection? Some combination, perhaps. "We're all here for you, just let us know if we can help." With a clap to his shoulder, Henri released him. "We will be downstairs when you're finished." He started down the stairs.
Brad watched for a moment, then slung the duffle to a more comfortable spot on his shoulder and started back to the room he was going to stay in. Back inside the expansive bedroom, Brad let the duffle drop to the foot of the bed. Everything looked the same as it had, only it felt...less inviting.
He felt like an imposter, though that had nothing to do with the room he was in. Over years of training and then fighting, he'd never seriously considered a life outside of the military. Of course, he had daydreamed a bit about spending time with Fleur in the French countryside, but that had been superficial, a daydream. It wasn't exactly the plan. He unzipped the duffle and started pulling out his few belongings, most of which were clothes and issued gear.
Now, he was more or less crippled. He'd lost his team, one of his operators was MIA presumed KIA, and his body would randomly lock up in pain, though the medical witch seemed to think that would end sooner rather than later.
The episodes were never very long, but that didn't matter. In a firefight, your team needed to have confidence that you were pulling your weight. If he couldn't be certain that his body wouldn't seize up mid-firefight, then how could anyone else? For now, and perhaps forever, he was out of the fight.
No, command had lost its trust in him and justly so. He hoped that maybe someday he'd be back on a battlefield. Until then, he would work on a cushy bullshit training assignment.
"Hey," Fleur's voice called gently from behind him. He couldn't resist a partial smile at the sound of her voice. He finished getting the rest of his undershirts placed in the dresser and felt her hands grip his shoulders gently, near the base of his neck.
He felt a subtle pain, one that he hadn't even known he was dealing with, drain from his body. His mind even felt clearer, as he relaxed himself into her grip. "Hey, Fleur."
Her hands slid away from him and he felt his nerves protest her absence. Still, he was able to again push it to the background so he could concentrate more fully on her. She took a seat on the side of the bed, pushing a stack of fatigue pants toward him so he could continue putting his things away. "How are you?" She tried to sound nonchalant, but he could still hear the concern in her voice.
"Surviving," Brad replied, taking the pants and arranging them neatly in the next drawer. He didn't want to leave it at such a short answer, but what else was he going to say?
"Yeah," she agreed, picking up the fatigue shirts. This time she stood and walked them over to him. "I'm glad you're staying with us." She handed him the shirts, but didn't let them go for a moment, letting his fingers overlap hers as she looked into his eyes. "You'll recover completely, just give it time."
She said it in such confidence and intensity that he couldn't help feeling a glimmer of hope that she might be right. She saw it in his eyes apparently because she let go of the shirts, smiling in satisfaction.
"Thanks," he said, returning the smile. It was a lot harder to feel down when she was around.
"Come on, dinner is almost ready." She grabbed his hand, pulling him out of the room, and he didn't fight it.
Dinner went by quickly for him. He didn't realize it until his plate was empty, but had no idea what he'd eaten. He just sat and ate mechanically. It didn't seem to bother the Delacour's, who included him whenever he showed any degree of interest, but never forcing it. He felt lucky, only locking in pain a couple times during the meal.
After dinner, Apolline disappeared while the rest of them cleared plates and silverware from the table and got the room set back to normal. Brad helped out until she reappeared, pulling him away and guiding him back upstairs. The others bid him a good night like it was normal to be excused mid-chore, so he went along with it.
"I drew you a bath," she told him, rubbing his back gently as she guided him up the stairs. It was both comforting and irritating at the same time. "I 'zink it will help with your pains."
Some part of him enjoyed being cared for, yearned for the sense of maternal concern, even if it was an illusion. She wasn't his mother, but it was still nice. The other part of him found it patronizing. He was a special operator for fucks sake. What kind of soldier wants a mommy to take care of him? Still, he knew she was simply trying to help and he really didn't have the energy to fight it anyway.
He let her guide him to the primary bathroom, between Fleur and Gabrielle's bedrooms. Inside, it was easily the size of a regular person's bedroom, and the majority of the room was a large bathtub. It was filled with steaming water and bubbles. She'd drawn him a damned bubble bath.
She slipped out before he could say anything, latching the door shut behind her, so he undressed and got in. The water felt surprisingly good, warm almost to the point of discomfort, but still comfortable. He got settled in the giant tub and as he relaxed, his body felt weightless.
It was soothing enough that he didn't even realize he'd fallen asleep until Odilon woke him gently to let him know everyone else had gone to bed and he shouldn't sleep in the tub. He got out, dried off, not pruny at all somehow, and was asleep again before his head hit the pillow.