So I've been turning over plot ideas in my head for the past few months, both for this story and for a few plot bunnies I've had in the works. I've realized that unless I have several chapters' worth of plot written the story tends to go off the rails and then I lose my motivation. So that's what I've been doing with my time.
ON WITH THE STORY
RECAP
Ed and co. return defeated. Croaker isn't mad, just disappointed. Meanwhile, Dumbledore realizes the diary's true purpose, and tells the Order, one of whom tells Croaker. Lucius Malfoy gets an unexpected visit.
The room was filled to the brim with occult books and esoteric diagrams. Smokeless, flameless lights ringed the walls, casting a flat illumination on the scene below. In the middle of a large engraved circle on the floor, a figure in heavy robes crouched over a tattered book, carefully slicing the last sigils into the runic equation that took up most of the available space.
With a satisfied sigh, Unspeakable Research Head Fermier sat back on his heels, taking a moment to double-check his work. As perfect as he'd expected, but one could never be too careful when dealing with this many runes in an enclosed space.
He gave a final nod and stepped out to the edge of the circle, where several other Unspeakables were observing. At his signal, the wizards around the room began feeding power into the magical construct, lighting the floor up with an eerie blue glow.
As the lightshow reached fever pitch, a translucent series of symbols began to appear around the edge of the circle. Time wore on, and the feedback was replaced and replaced again as attentive observers took notes on everything.
After what seemed like hours, but was closer to ten minutes, the last of the floating symbols vanished, and the lights on the floor dimmed and winked out. Fermier held out an expectant hand, and immediately received one of the copies made of the ritual's feedback. After a few seconds of flipping through he went very still. The murmurings of the laboratory's other occupants went silent. When an entire minute passed and Fermier had not moved a muscle, the entire ritual team filed out rather hastily, making their excuses as they briskly vacated the premises. When the door shut behind the last of them with a bass thud, Fermier's hands tightened on the clipboard in his hands. He took three long steps back towards the book in the room's center, and punted it as hard as he could. It soared across the room, slammed into the far wall, and fell to the floor with a dissatisfying flutter of pages.
"I take it you weren't satisfied with the results, then," a voice wryly observed.
Fermier turned to face his superior and gave a murderous scowl.
"Two weeks of research. A week of ritual design, and another week and a half carving it all out. And what do we get?" He threw up his hands, waving the clipboard full of results in the air.
"Nothing! No magical traces beyond some Dark background stain, no signs of any soul magic, nothing we can use to locate or trace anything relating to Voldemort or the fragment it held! We might as well have picked this thing off of a trash heap in Knockturn Alley for all the leads it's providing us!"
He tossed the sheaf of papers to the side in disgust.
"If we want a prayer at finding him, we're going to need a fresher sample. A live horcrux. And given that it's taken well over a decade for even one to surface, we might as well just conduct a manual search."
Croaker nodded in grim agreement.
"And meanwhile, we still have the issue of this Horcrux running around free somewhere. Who knows what kind of plans are already in progress?
"I need a plan, Lucius."
Tom Riddle was pacing briskly back and forth across the Malfoy's main drawing room floor, where not an hour ago a full team of Aurors had conducted a 'surprise' search of the Malfoy family home. It had taken but a few quick bribes to make sure a single room was overlooked, but the fragment of the Dark Lord was still rattled.
"I have no resources or allies other than yourself. No contacts, no informants, no network. And it'll take only one missed heads-up for an Auror check to find us out. We need a position of strength."
The seemingly sixteen-year-old boy paused in his steps, turning to glance at the Head of House Malfoy, who was currently lost in thought.
"Tell me, Lucius. Who besides yourself remains loyal, after all these years? Who can I call to my side to serve me in this position of," his face screwed up as he spat the end of his sentence, biting the thought off as quickly as he could, "weakness?"
Lucius Malfoy blinked slowly, stroking his chin.
"Of your previous servants, three categories remain. There are the traitors, such as Snape and Karkaroff, who would sell us out in a heartbeat if they felt our position was uncertain and they had something to gain. There are those who have cleared their names, mainly the wealthier pureblooded families. Also unreliable, but I can begin putting out some feelers for when our negotiating position is more favorable. The last group…" he trailed off, frown thinning and forehead creasing, "…has potential, but will certainly need some work."
"A word, Cornelius?"
The Minister of Magic glanced up from his afternoon tea to find Lucius Malfoy standing in front of his desk. A broad smile broke out on his face.
"Ah, Lucius, what a pleasure! How have you been doing? Pull up a chair, I'll have my secretary send for some refreshments!"
Cornelius Fudge's most prominent donor sat down in one of the comfortable seats and leaned forwards, hand on his cane. While his tone was light, his expression spoke of serious business.
"Cornelius, I'm afraid that I haven't stopped by just for the pleasure of your company. You see, I've been worried by the direction public opinion's been taking ever since the tragic events last semester at Hogwarts."
The portly Minister's mood plummeted instantly. He set down his cup and leaned back heavily in his chair with a sigh.
"Yes, yes, that Basilisk has left us all with quite the headache. Only reason we're letting Dumbledore open the school back up again is because they killed it, you know." The politician shuddered.
"I'd hate to see what the polls would read if the school had closed for good. I'd be out of office within the month!"
Lucius raised his eyebrows, expression earnest.
"Then you can see, Minister, how the need to raise morale is quite pressing. A show of force, something to give the people a reason to believe that the Ministry can still protect them."
Fudge found himself nodding along in agreement.
"Yes, absolutely, but what could I do?"
Lucius smiled broadly.
"Why, a parade of the Auror forces, of course. Just think, the entire DMLE marching down Diagon Alley, music playing, crowds cheering! Nobody could doubt the strength of your commitment to their safety if they saw such a spectacle!"
The Minister jumped to his feet in excitement.
"But of course! With the right setup and," he coughed, sending a meaningful glance at his good friend and secondary income source, "funding, we could boost confidence in the government by at least twenty percent! Faith would be restored!" He paused a moment, then deflated slightly.
"That is, if our Aurors weren't at their lowest numbers in a decade. We won't be able to muster enough for even three platoons, with how thin we're spread."
In the privacy of his mind, Malfoy smirked victoriously. Outwardly, he simply offered a thoughtful look for a few seconds, followed by a bright smile.
"What if you—just for the day, mind you—pulled Aurors from other, less essential duties?"
Fudge stilled, frowning slightly.
"What did you have in mind?"
"Oh, nothing too drastic. Merely noting that there are some places where Aurors aren't as necessary as have been in years past," Malfoy replied, listing off his fingers. "Hogsmeade barely sees any crime, half the personnel in Ireland could be recalled, the Ministry and Diagon hardly need many Auror guards on the day of a parade, and finally," he met Fudge's gaze, smiling broadly at the agreement he found there, "Why on earth should you waste so many good, able-bodied wizards guarding an inescapable prison?"
The Head Warden of Azkaban raised a bemused eyebrow as the Minister of Magic made his way up the hill towards the main gate. Turning towards the subordinates behind him, he rapidly snapped off orders.
"Look lively boys, the Minister's come for a surprise visit. Smythewick, get a few of those slackers in the barracks and make sure the inmates know what's in for them if this goes anything less than smoothly. Hoskins, go set up a Patronus screen so our visitor doesn't have to deal with any of our chilly friends. Jenkins, Leeroy, you two are coming with me."
The observation post slash break room slash command center quickly emptied as its occupants left to fill out their orders. The last two Aurors fell into line behind the Warden as he strode down the corridor towards Azkaban's only entrance.
"Well, gentlemen, let's go see what has the Minister so eager to visit paradise island, shall we?"
Cornelius Fudge looked like a man who was trying very hard to remind himself who held the highest magical office in the nation, but was having very little luck. The overweight man held his lurid bowler hat tightly in his hands while he tried to keep up with the Warden's brisk pace. To the front and rear of the group an honor guard of Patroni hovered, walked, slithered, and hopped, casting a silvery light over their surroundings. The Warden cast a sidelong glance at his superior as he led the man back towards the main courtyard.
"…And that concludes the review of the low-to-mid-security wings. If I may ask, Minister, what prompted this inspection? Pardon my curiosity, but you've never shown an avid interest in the workings of the criminal justice system before."
The sarcastic barb went unnoticed by the visibly unnerved Minister, who wrung his hat in his hands a few more times before drawing himself up and meeting the man's eyes.
"Well, Warden, there's going to be a bit of a parade happening tomorrow, you see. I want to show the public what a fine job all of our brave witches and wizards in the DMLE are doing. Inspire some confidence, and get some appreciation for all the work that the Ministry puts into keeping them safe. And so I'm going to be borrowing some of your men to help fill out the ranks, and I wanted to see in person the fruits of your labor before speaking to the public, you see." As the rotund man kept speaking, he grew more animated, his own words lighting a fire behind his eyes. He waved with an expansive at the otherwise quiet stronghold of Azkaban, cap still clutched in hand.
"Look at what you've accomplished, Warden! Azkaban is clearly secure, just as impenetrable and inescapable as ever—if not more so, if you don't mind my saying. Nothing could possibly get in or out, and we have you to thank for it!" Breathing heavily, the Minister fell silent again, and stuffed his hat back on his head, smiling broadly.
"Now, if you gentlemen don't mind, I do have planning to get back to—it's a big day tomorrow. Warden, you'll find the exact requisition on your desk, I took the liberty of having one of my men drop it off while you showed me round the place. A good day to all of you." And with that, he turned swiftly to leave. But the man had not made it halfway across the yard before the Warden called out, "Leaving so soon, Minister? The inspection is not yet complete, after all. We have yet to visit the high security wing."
As if he had been Petrified, the Minister froze mid-step before slowly turning back to face the Warden and his guards. He chuckled nervously, the hat having appeared back in his hands as if by magic, his smile distinctly more fragile.
"Surely, Warden, I'm sure that it's every bit as tight as the rest of the place. No need to bother you any further, I must be going, really," he babbled, eyes darting towards the Patroni as they surrounded the group again. The Warden smiled viciously.
"Oh, no, Minister. It's no trouble at all," he assured the now sweating man in front of him. "It's the least I can do."
Minister Fudge was beginning to regret his decisions. Not all of them, goodness no. Most of his decisions were entirely sound and quite personally beneficial to boot. The decision he was currently regretting, the one that placed him on this blasted island, was neither. He pulled a nearly forgotten copy of that morning's Daily Prophet from his pocket and made his best effort to hide behind it as the entourage walked through the darkest depths of Azkaban, both metaphorically and literally. On one side he could see Antonin Dolohov, the Mad Russian, staring intently from his seat on a cot. On the other, he barely glanced to the lank form of Rabastan Lestrange, as the man traced patterns only he could see in the air. The only thing keeping Cornelius Fudge from a nervous breakdown was the personals section and the soothing monotone of the Warden's speech.
"And passing through here is the final hall of the maximum security wing, home to Bellatrix Lestrange, Augustus Rookwood, Caligulus Smith, the Ringer brothers, and Sirius Black. Mostly Death Eaters, but Smith was a rather, ah, prolific serial killer about five years ago, and the Ringers were imprisoned just recently, something to do with Dark ritual ingredient smuggling operations I believe. Up around that corner is the checkpoint, and then we will have seen every cell on the island."
Fudge would be lying to himself if he didn't give a slight sigh of relief, or that his pace didn't speed up ever so slightly. But just before he reached the promised corner and sweet freedom, a voice called out to him.
"Why, hello Minister," Sirius Black said with a smile that once may have been quite charming, but was now somewhat less so when attached to a gaunt, pale man who looked more like a corpse than a wizard. "What's in the paper today?"
It was the clarity that stopped him, more than anything else. All the other prisoners had barely been able to mumble, or stare brokenly. A few looked slightly more lucid, but none held the same spark that seemed to still burn in Black, however dimly. It was for this reason that Fudge found himself glancing down at the Quidditch column.
"Chudley Cannons lost 413-nil to the Harpies," he offered weakly. Black's grin grew wider.
"Splendid!" he returned, looking like he wasn't stuck in the deepest pit in Britain. "Always were my favorite team, those Harpies. Gwenog Jones still captains, right?"
The Warden had ceased pretending to not care about their conversation, and was now walking back from where he had conferred with the checkpoint guards.
"Er, yes. I believe so," Fudge stammered. There was unnerving, and then there was surreal. Black glanced at the approaching Warden before returning the full force of his grin to the man in front of him.
"Say, Minister, would you mind lending me your paper? It gets so boring around here, and I haven't done the crossword in absolute ages." He leaned forwards conspiratorially, beckoning Fudge closer. The bewildered politician obliged.
"Dementors," the murderer of thirteen confided, "are absolutely shit at word games." He burst into uproarious laughter at the look on Fudge's face, rocking back and clutching his sides. Then, all at once, he was standing right up to the cell bars with a hand outstretched.
"But really, though. The paper?"
It was the sudden lack of cold that woke Sirius Black from his fevered dreams. The Daily Prophet was still clutched in one hand, the face of the lying cheating cowardly sonofabitchhowdarehe rat was still peeking from its tenuous perch on the Weasley kid's shoulder, four-toed paw prominently splayed out, grasping for purchase. It was—check the date—the middle of June. Hogwarts wasn't back in session for another three months. He could wait. He knew where Wormtail would be, come September.
A sudden noise. Footsteps, the blue-white glow of a Patronus. Was that Malfoy's voice? Eleven years in prison and he still sounded like the same stuck-up bastard. The Auror was talking now. A soft sound of metal—money changing hands. Footsteps retreating. The heavy door at the end of the hall slammed shut.
"Well, hello there, brother-in-law!" Apparently, Bellatrix was in one of her moods. "What brings you here? Come to gloat in your cowardice you unfaithful LYING TRAITOROUS-"
She was cut off rather suddenly. More whispering, and then a single, loud exclamation from Bella. Sirius perked up, sticking to the gloom of his cell. Most of the other inmates weren't lucid enough to see three feet outside their bars, but he preferred to err on the side of caution.
A sound of steel being violently ripped apart echoed down the corridor, and then three metal bars rolled slowly past where Sirius was crouched in his cell, ends still glowing cherry-red. After a moment's hesitation, the Animagus was in his canine form and a dog's head poked out around the corner, staring down the hallway. Bellatrix Lestrange was casually strolling out of her cell, newly-acquired wand still spitting sparks as she half-stumbled over the smoking remains of enchanted bars. Further down the hall Lucius looked like he was handing out wands like they were party favors at a Death Eater reunion. Come one come all, check your sanity at the door.
Bella was getting closer. She stopped by Smith's cell, an extra wand held in a reverse-grip in her offhand, unhinged grin firmly on her face. Sirius didn't let his guard down—he'd seen that grin work its magic—hah—time and time again, drawing people in until they forgot who they were up against.
They usually didn't live long after that.
"Well, Caligulus, it looks like you've got an employment opportunity." Her voice was even more grating up close. He didn't quite catch Smith's mumbled question, but he heard Bella's response clear enough.
"Serve the reborn Dark Lord in all his glory for the rest of your life, of course."
Smith wouldn't accept, of course. Bastard was weirdly proud of his half-blood status. Sirius had spent enough late nights listening to the psychopath wax poetic about his enchanted shotgun to know where the man stood on issues of blood purity.
The wizard-turned-dog decided now was a good idea to cut and run, before any of his block mates remembered the mass murderer who wasn't. For some reason, they seemed to resent his falsely gained notoriety, showing up all the honest, hard-working legitimate terrorists. Imagine that.
He squeezed through the bars, raced through shadows, below the checkpoint window but around the slowly congealing pool of blood, and was out of the block before anybody could notice he was missing. The sound of Caligulus Smith's body hitting the floor echoed behind him.
So yeah, you people deserve an explanation. Here's a breakdown of what's going on:
I have realized, mostly due to the Chapter 17 plot twist, that I am *terrible* at making a plot on the fly that doesn't branch out in a million directions. So the past seven months have been spent more or less ironing out exactly how Shadows' Shadows is going to end. Every single sudden death, final duel, or horrific banishment has now been written in semi-detail. The in-between stuff has also been more or less hammered out, but still needs some polish. All that's left is to fill in the plot with actual written chapters.
So yes, updates will (hopefully) get more frequent. I'm estimating that we are probably about fifteenish chapters from the end of the story, on the outside. If college doesn't get in my way.
To all of you who have stuck with Shadows through my long periods of silence, I say thank you. The end is near. I hope.
And now I give you an
~OMAKE~
Or, Professor Edward Elric Spills His Mysterious Past To The First Group Of Curious Teenagers
Harry, Hermione, and Ron all crept silently through the strangely unwarded door of their Alchemy Professor's office. Hermione, in a rather uncharacteristic fit of extreme rulebreaking, had insisted that they break into their teacher's living quarters to find out what it was he was hiding.
That he was hiding something was apparently obvious and didn't need further explanation.
"Wow, Professor Elric sure does leave a lot of mysterious clues to his mysterious past just lying around out in the open for anybody to see," Ron commented as he thumbed through a stack of old records. All the papers were conveniently labeled with dates that clearly placed the young-seeming Professor Elric as older than most of the countries in Eastern Europe.
"I sure do, don't I?" Professor Elric asked from where he was leaning on the door frame, blocking their only exit.
Hermione sent a frantic glance to Harry. This particular look was the one that said, "Why weren't you looking at the Marauder's Map for the love of God?"
Harry glanced at the map that he was supposed to be paying attention to. Where he supposed the names of the professor, himself, and his friends were, there was only a swirling vortex of letters, as if somebody had written hundreds of names all on top of one another.
"Alright kids," the Alchemy teacher clapped his hands. "You've all got thirty seconds to explain to me why I shouldn't cart you off to McGonagall for breaking into a Professor's personal quarters."
"How about instead you tell us who you really are and every traumatic detail of your past?" Hermione countered.
Professor Elric regarded her for a moment.
"Okay," he said, pulling up a chair.
"Wait, you're actually going to tell us?" Ron blurted, dropping the stolen photos all over the place.
Edward Elric grinned.
"Ha! No, you guys are totally expelled."
Because if a crossover's going to do one thing dead wrong, it's this. Every time.