CHAPTER 10
Office of Misuse of Muggle Artifacts - 5:09PM
With a long sigh, Arthur Weasley tiredly rubbed his face, still in disbelief at the absolute disaster that had been the previous two hours. Almost on instinct, he scowled in the direction of a partially damaged Nutcracker soldier as it hovered within its protective orb, its expression still disturbingly maniacal despite being inert. Positioned to the right of the orb was a levitating parchment and quill that diligently recorded the results of the diagnostic charm Arthur had specifically created for the Toymaker's creations.
The exhausted wizard could still recall when the madman had first unleashed his demented creations on the magical and muggle world alike - March of 1971, a whole year before the official announcement of the Dark Lord himself. Somehow, Erasmus Wilkes had been able to bypass Florean Fortescue's rather formidable wards and planted three of those ghastly green rubber ducks, imbued with a powerful dark curse that forced its victims to quack like a duck. Loudly. Permanently. Miraculously, one of the customers had been then Auror trainee Jerome Varens (Hufflepuff, Class of 1969), who'd cleverly thought to conjure earmuffs to protect the horrified customers' ears, while using his Patronus - a badger, surprisingly enough - to rally for additional Auror help. His quick-thinking had ensured only two casualties; both of whom were permanent residents of the Janus Thickey Ward at St. Mungo's and pumped full of Draught of Living Death, lest they literally quacked themselves to death.
Unsurprisingly, the Ministry had dismissed the entire debacle as a twisted prank gone awry, and quickly hushed the entire thing up. No more incidents were incurred for months, right until December of 1971, when Wilkes pulled an identical stunt in a muggle toy store in London, this time with five rubber ducks instead of three. That had been a disaster, with the Unspeakables called in to lead 'clean-up'. It'd taken the Unspeakable-sanctioned Obliviation Squads hours to mind-wipe nearly twenty muggle surviving muggle witnesses, and then rewrite the memories of the family members of the five muggle victims. Three had died (asphyxiated while madly quacking), and the remaining two were still in induced comas, infirmed in a specialized Unspeakable access-only ward in St. Mungo's. Thankfully the muggle authorities had been blissfully unaware, though that wouldn't last for long.
Several more incidents had occurred in the wizarding and muggle world alike as the blood war had raged on. More than a dozen or so instances of muggles and magicals (the 'blood traitors') dying under unusual and gruesome circumstances involving murderous ensorcelled toys and ridiculously heavy-handed theatrics staged by a sadistic wizard. Months of painstaking research involving extensive magical analysis of recovered toys, memory reviews, light blackmail, and good ole fashioned surveillance and recon (Rufus Scrimgeour had been a godsend) had finally allowed Arthur to piece together all of the pieces that revealed Erasmus Wilkes as the culprit. Long since suspected of being a Death Eater, the demented psycho had been using the pseudonym 'Caesar Rosemary', posing as a muggle child-advocate philanthropist who ran a charity that provided toys to underprivileged muggle children. It'd served as a clever cover, allowing him to bulk purchase hundreds of Muggle toys that he cursed with Parselmagic (Arthur shuddered unconsciously) and allowed to wreak murderous havoc.
The Siege of Appleby in the winter of 1978 had been the most intense clash yet. Wilkes, in a pique of his usual cleverness (Arthur snorted viciously), had unleashed an army of almost forty rubber ducks and GI Joes on the unsuspecting muggle town. The action figures - bearing orichalchum toys guns that shot oricalchum bullets - had ridden the ducks like horses, breaking and entering into the Muggles homes to commit acts of gruesome murder. It would have been an absolute massacre had some brave muggleborn residents of Upper Appleby not been on hand to provide reinforcement and call for Auror backup. Granted, there had been fifteen casualties, but it could have fifty. "Small miracles," muttered Arthur sardonically.
Ironically, many believed that the attack on Appleby had served as the catalyst for the Ministry finally approving warrant to raid Wilkes Manor. It was not. Rather, it was Wilkes' subsequent attack on Hamleys, a posh muggle toy store on Regent Street, that served as the final nail in the madman's proverbial coffin. He'd unleashed enchanted music boxes, all coupled with subtle Compulsion charms to draw their victims in. The music, of course, was charmed to drive its unfortunate listener insane. Due to Hamleys reputation, it served as the premier location for the wealthy and influential to purchase toys for their children. Needless to say, four children - along with their nannies - of highly influential muggle cabinet members had been afflicted, only being spared death thanks to the quick-thinking plainclothes Aurors that Scrimgeour had discreetly dispatched to help patrol the vulnerable area. The comatose victims were currently in a high-security ward in the Royal Victoria Infirmary, their families' memory-altered to believe they'd been victims of an unfortunate accident involving a rogue double-decker bus running right into the store.
Naturally, it had been an absolute PR disaster. The Muggle aide-de-camp (Top Secret magical-muggle relations liaison held by [REDACTED]) had been absolutely furious, calling it "a willful and flagrant violation of the Statute of Secrecy that would see the wizarding world razed to the ground!" Too many muggle Parliament members, along with the Prime Minister himself, believed the accident to have been an act of covert terrorism meant to target the children of MPs. Minister Callaghan demanded answers to unanswerable questions, and it had taken every bit of diplomatic skill (along with evidence coverup and convincingly lying) between the aide-de-camp, Arthur, and select members of the Ministry to assuage the muggles from pursuing an outright war of retribution. Arthur still felt a touch of guilt at the burgeoning muggle insurrectionists they'd framed for the crimes, but he did sleep a touch better at night knowing that the greater evil that was Erasmus Wilkes lay rotting in his grave.
With a sigh, Arthur quickly triplicated the stack of diagnostic parchments, amending parts of two copies to willingly exclude some information. He then cast a powerful Obscuring charm, shielding its contents until read by the intended audience. Summoning a Ministry elf, he had the being take one stack of notes along with five of the soldiers (still encased in their protective orbs) to the Auror Department, specifically to Amelia Bones. He summoned a second elf to do the same for Albus Dumbledore, who would be able to make some sense of the complex runic schema of the spells Wilkes had used. The last set of notes - along with the remaining soldier - were placed in his personal reinforced mokeskin pouch, charmed specifically to transport dangerous items without disturbance. He'd need it for his ensuing tasks.
"Speak of the devil," muttered Arthur, as a soft vibrating noise sounded in the rather cramped office. It was a small compact mirror made of faded brass, blending in with the various random muggle knick-knacks that adorned his small desk. With a tap of his wand, the mirror expanded with a series of clicks, transforming into an intricately carved vanity mirror bearing a multitude of runes decipherable only to Arthur's eye. Suddenly the mirror's glass rippled like water, before a nondescript face of a nondescript man wearing nondescript robes appeared.
"Status update," said the nondescript wizard.
"Critical," Arthur responded. "Go secure." A beat passed, before the mirror's surface rippled once more, the glass becoming solid and opaque as the wizard's nondescript features blurred and changed into that of Saul Croaker.
"Line secure. Report." With a sigh, Arthur diligently reviewed his memories of the attack, along with the diagnostic notes his charm had recorded, barely resisting the urge to groan in frustration. This felt like the war all over again, and with an increasing dread, he knew the already nebulous peacetime era wouldn't last. At all.
"Well done," said Saul monotonously. "You have all your gathered evidence yes?"
"Yes, all gathered and ready to go. The Auror department has received only what they require."
"Good. And... all familial obligations are in order?"
"Yes, all in order." He'd already Floo-called Molly to check on her and the kids, and to inform her that he'd be working through the night, potentially into the next morning. She hadn't been too pleased (overly worried as always), but she'd assured him that both she and the children were all fine.
"Alright Number 8, time to come in. Control will see you upon arrival." A tap of Arthur's wand blanked the screen and returned the mirror back to its initial state. Checking to ensure his office door was properly locked and thoroughly secure, Arthur swished his wand over his form, conferring an Advanced Glamor Charm and changing his robes to his black uniform, the collar turning gold to signify his seniority within his organization.
Reaching across his desk, he gently knocked over a domino, watching in satisfaction as the proceeding dominos lined strategically near the perimeter of the desk were precisely knocked over. A loud grinding noise sounded throughout the office as his desk split center, each half pulling apart to reveal a dark staircase that ventured deep into the bowels of the Ministry. With a tired sigh, Mr. Arthur Weasley aka Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office aka Number 8 - Director of Muggle Relations and Interactions - ventured downward to begin what would no doubt be a tiresome day at his real job.
Emergency Ward, St. Mungo's - 5:49PM
"There you are!"
Hermione turned at the sound of Harry's voice, his relief evident on his face. Behind him was Lily, expression surprisingly placid in spite of the chaos that had ensued in the previous hours. 'Must be Occlumency then,' thought the Gryffindor witch, wrapping her best Slytherin friend in a tight hug when he finally reached her. He ran a critical eye over her, seemingly pleased at seeing her unharmed and relatively unblemished. Seeing Mia dutifully still seated by Hermione, Harry and Lily thanked the faithful elf, who graciously accepted.
"Yes, I can't thank you enough for staying with me Mia, I really appreciate it!" Before the elf could respond, she found herself wrapped in a fierce Hermione-hug, the witchling's wild curls tickling her face. With an indulgent smile she patted the Gryffindor on her back, still smiling when she was released.
"You're most welcome young miss!"
"See? Told you she was the best!" Harry winked cheekily, causing Mia to blush while she rolled her eyes affectionately. The mood was soon interrupted by a carefully cleared throat behind the group.
"Hello, you're Hermione Granger, correct?" asked a petite, slightly bookish Healer with large and kind round eyes.
"Yes, that's me. And you are?"
"I'm Molly Hooper, attending Lead Healer for Mr. Scrimgeour. I have a status update regarding his condition." Everyone straightened at that. "Mr. Scrimgeour suffered some serious injuries. His subscapularis and bicep tendons were severed, along with significant damage to his deltoid and pectoralis major muscles." Hermione, Lily, and Harry nodded, Healer Hooper unknowingly echoing Hermione's previous assessment. "There was also substantial damage to his thoracoacromial artery, causing significant loss of blood. Luckily," she paused here, reviewing her clipboard chart, "it looks like an elven statis charm prevented him from bleeding out and exacerbating his injuries." She smiled kindly in Mia's direction, who nodded graciously. "A good thing too, any more blood loss and he would have slipped into a coma." Healer Hooper frowned, eyes becoming concerned. "The dark nature of his curse wound prevented a complete healing. Normally we'd regrow the bone, muscles, and skin, but the curse would only re-affect the area and spread to the remainder of his arm, eating through his flesh and bone from the inside out." Harry and Hermione blanched while Mia's eyes widened almost comically. Lily's expression remained placid. "We've had to amputate his arm, and we'll be looking at magiprosthetic options as a replacement. He should be out of the ICU within the week."
"Thank you so much for the concise report Healer Hooper, it's very much appreciated. We'll be by later in the week to visit Mr. Scrimgeour, if that's alright?" Lily smiled gratefully at the doctor's nod of approval, Hooper quickly marched off to the nurse's station. With a sigh, she wrapped a firm around Hermione and Harry's shoulders. "What time are you meant to be home, Hermione dear?"
"Um," the Gryffindor replied, quickly glancing at the massive wall clock in the waiting area. "Within half an hour actually, at six-thirty. My parents are supposed to meet me at the Leaky Cauldron, so we can go back home through Muggle London."
"Alright dear, how about this? Mia can take you back to the Keep so you can take a quick breather, then pop you over to the Leaky Cauldron so you can meet your parents at the appropriate time. Harry and I will be right behind you in a few. Is that alright?" Hermione paused for a few moments, before nodding her consent. "Excellent! Off you two go! Thanks Mia!" With a nod, the dutiful elf gently took Hermione's hand, pleased when the witchling tightened her grip. Hermione quickly waved at the Slytherins before Mia led her to the Floos to get back to the Keep.
At her exit, Harry leveled a curious look at his mum. "Why did you send her off?"
"Because, we need to see how Hestia and Gwenog are doing, and Hermione doesn't know about that yet. Better we see for ourselves before letting her know, yeah?" Harry nodded in understanding. Together, the two made their way over to the nurse's station, where Lily asked to see which part of the ICU Hestia was in. She cited that due to their employer/employee relationship, it was vital that she knew precisely where her solicitor was, staving off Nurse Tennyson's snooty reprimand. With a gimlet eye, the middle-aged nurse tightly let her know that Hestia was in the Critical Injury Division of the ICU, where her sister was being kept. With a snide smirk, Lily wrapped her left arm around an amused Harry's shoulder, leading the two of them away.
The Critical Injury Division was a small sectioned off area near the end of the seemingly endless ICU hallway, a stark white cocoon seemingly made purely of glass. There were six partitioned sections, each separated by impenetrable glass surfaces and chock full of Sterility and Sanitation Charms. A massive glass viewing pane separated the patients from their guests, the latter of whom were only allowed in whilst the patient was in observation.
Seated near the last section was a still shellshocked Hestia, who stared listlessly ahead whilst tightly wrapped in her own arms. She was still wearing her blood-soaked robes from earlier in the day, face streaked with smudges of dirt and tear tracks. Her hair was in complete disarray from its normal impeccable bun, tendrils hanging limply around her pale face. Slowly approaching as one would a wounded animal, Harry and Lily made their way over to the woman, who gave no reaction that she'd heard them approach. Both mother and son turned to view Gwenog. Harry's eyes widened in horror, as Lily's lips thinned significantly.
Gwenog's tall athletic form lay prone on stark white hospital sheets, the slow rise and fall of her chest the only form of life. Several vital orbs surrounded her, beeping intermittently. All in all, she looked perfectly normal, as though she were sleeping. Except for the gleaming orichalcum sword plunged directly into head, entry point through the left side and emerging on the right.
"Healer Lydgate attended to her, says there's nothing that can be done to remove it," said Hestia, voice flat and wooden. "H-he says that t-the sword…directly p-p-plunged through parts of her frontal, parietal, and temporal lobes, damaging them significantly." Hestia shuddered and tapped her arms tighter around her form. "Normally they would be able to remove it, perform some intensive healing, and regrow the damaged tissue. Use some advanced potions to… reignite normal brain activity. B-b-but because of the dark nature of whatever curse is on that damnable sword, t-t-they can't! If they remove it, the curse spreads instantaneously, and s-s-she'll die!" Great wracking sobs overtook the woman's body, not reacting even as Lily placed a firm arm of comfort around her shoulder and muttered cooingly in an attempt to sooth her.
"I-I-I don't know what I'm going to do now." Hestia sniffled. "It's always been me and Gwenog, always. Ever…ever since our parents died, it's been just the two of us living with our grandparents. I…" she shuddered once more as Lily rubbed her shoulder in concern. "I'm…I'm all alone…all alone."
Harry closed his eyes at the poignancy of her statement, feeling the weight of her grief settle uncomfortably over his person. It was his fault that her sister was in this terrible position, him and his damnable fate. The price of his destiny was paid for with Gwenog's blood, and from Contessa Zabini's reading, others in his life and orbit could very well suffer the same consequence. His own guilt churned uncomfortably within him, coupled with the great empathy he felt for poor Hestia. He could feel tears starting to gather in his eyes.
In each individual's life, there are innumerable crossroads where he or she must choose a way forward. Invisible crossroads - critical decision points that, in spite of their seeming insignificance, yielded life-altering results. Decades later, ensconced in the sanctuary of his thoughts, Harry Potter would look back at this precise moment and realize that it represented one of the most important decisions of his life. The very one about which Lady Serena had warned him.
By now, through months of hard work, Harry was on the cusp of becoming a Level Two Occlumens. Now, it would be very easy for Harry to suppress the unpleasant feelings he was experiencing, locking them deep away in his psyche. It would be very easy to push back his tears, psychically preventing himself from shedding a single drop. After all, Hestia was just an employee, a solicitor for the Evans family. They weren't friends and certainly not family. He could have easily patted her on the back, in a manner similar to what his mother was currently doing, an approximation of compassion before quickly leaving. Had Harry done so, it was quite possible that he might never permit himself to feel a single genuine emotion again for the rest of his life.
But Harry looked at Hestia, studied her. Saw the terrible amount of pain she was in, pain she would endure for the rest of her life because she'd chosen to support him and his family. Unbidden, the tears fell down Harry's face as he rushed forward and embraced Hestia, giving in to heaving sobs of raw emotion. "You're not alone Hestia. You have me. Always."
Startled at first, the older witch took little time to return the embrace tightly, closing her eyes as she sobbed in kind. They held each other for a long time, embracing their shared grief (as Lily quietly cried alongside them). Finally, Hestia spoke:
"Thank you Harry. From the bottom of my heart - sniff - thank you. I will continue to represent you and your interests as long as you desire me as your co-solicitor. And -sniff- I shall continue to be your friend for a damn time longer than that." With a tearful laugh, Harry hugged her even tighter, laying his head across her stomach while she ran a gentle hand through his locks.
From her place beside the pair, Lily smiled tearfully as her eyes shimmered with pride for her incredible son. 'Well done my precious boy. Well done.'
Master Bedroom, Castle Basilicus - 9:19PM
Tom turned to Libra's direction, smiling as he watched his wife mutter in her sleep. He'd been met with her ire upon his arrival to their home, absolutely furious that he'd "spirited her away as if she were some helpless, weak, incapable maiden!" It'd taken a lot of clever maneuvering to ensure her he did not think of her as weak, helpless, or incapable; rather, his focus had been on making sure she could properly safeguard her nieces from danger. Mollified, Libra had begun fussing over him, calling on Mab to assist her in her efforts. Truth be told, Tom would never cease in his efforts to protect and shield her from any harm, regardless of her personal feelings on the matter. He was not in the business of allowing harm to fall to the woman he loved.
After a long shower, a deliciously hearty dinner of clam chowder, garlic rolls, and buttery whitefish, with a bananas foster cream pie Mrs. Weasley had sent over as part of her monthly appreciation gift to Tom. It was a rather decadent meal, one he would only normally consume during the winter holidays. But Mab, as keen as ever, sensed he needed some comfort food after the harrowing afternoon he'd had. And as always, his ever perceptive elf was absolutely right.
Tiredly rubbing his face, Tom mentally reviewed his memories of the nutcracker attack. It was classic Erasmus, tongue-in-cheek humor coupled with a childishly sadistic desire to cause pain. Normally Tom would never associate with the likes of such a wizard. But, Erasmus' status as the second and only Parselmouth had made his inclusion in Tom's Prince Administration an unfortunate necessity. 'Enemies closer and all that.' He snorted quietly at his thoughts, pausing to take a sip of his chamomile and oat-flower tea. Erasmus was a brilliant intellectual, possessing a natural propensity for Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and Transfiguration, made all the more powerful by his mastery of Parselmagic. House Wilkes possessed their own arcane texts regarding the various applications of Parselmagic across multiple fields of magic.
On their better days, he and Tom had often engaged in vigorous academic discussions, both learning from and challenging each other. Tom credited a considerable amount of his mastery of Parselmagic to his exchanges with his fellow Slytherin. Not one to be outdone, Ka had practically gushed over Erasmus' scholarly prowess, the two often engaging in hours' long conversations that delved into the deepest depths of the philosophical.
Tom took another sip of his tea. Under his… supervision, Tom had been able to somewhat control Erasmus' homicidal tendencies, limiting Erasmus' victim count to one…or three a month, spread across all the Hogwarts Houses. That Tom would eventually come around to secretly healing Erasmus' victims went without saying. Wilkes had considered it all a great game between two masters. Tom snorted and took another sip of his tea.
Granted, he couldn't lay all the blame at Erasmus' feet. His father Rasmus Wilkes was a cold, unfeeling shell of a man, a tyrannical taskmaster more so than a true father, and a blood purist to boot. His wife Evelyn (née Gamp) had died during childbirth, and both Tom and Erasmus were well aware that the man deeply resented and hated his own son for the loss. Rasmus had lost himself to his hatred, his resentment feeding his sadism. In the tradition of all the Ancient and Noble Lords before him, Rasmus raised his son to be just like him.
Lord Gaunt sighed once more, the weight of memories falling across his shoulders like a thick and itchy blanket. There had been a time in their Sixth and Seventh years - however brief it'd been - when Tom had believed that Erasmus could change, actually wanted to change. To rid himself of his father's expectations, the sadistic desires, the bloodlust. But the window had been too small and Rasmus' influence too great. Upon graduation, Tom could only helplessly watch as Erasmus slipped further and further from his grasp, losing him forever when he took on the mantle of Lord Wilkes in 1949. The next time the two Slytherins would cross paths, there would only be bad blood between them.
Pushing away thoughts of his failures as leader and friend, Tom quickly went through his meditative decompression exercises, methodically reviewing, cataloging, and storing all of the day's memories. The basilisk symbol on his cuff glowed an ethereal blue, maximizing his psychic processes. He double-checked the integrity of each of his trifurcated thoughtstreams, pleased to see all were soundly intact. Banishing his teacup to the kitchens, he tucked himself into the bed, pleased when Libra immediately snuggled into him. A few beats later, he was sound asleep.
Obediah Prewett's Flat - 10:13PM
An exhausted Obediah stepped out of the fireplace in his sprawling Diagon Alley townhouse, shaking the ashes from his cloak before hanging it on a nearby hook. He took a moment to stretch his limbs, grunting in satisfaction at the various pops and clicks of his overly stiff joints. He made his way over to the expansive bar situated near his kitchen, pouring himself a hearty snifter of Glenlivet Gordon, thankful that he kept the bulk of his stash at home and not at his office. Bloody Narcissa had drunk her way through almost all of it, the snooty little witch dismissing the quality liquor as "cheap muggle swill". Snorting, Obediah downed the glass and poured himself another, making his way over to his study.
Once he reached the stately office, he activated the multiple security measures he'd set in place and lit a warm fire, before languidly reclining back in his throne-like chair of crushed golden velvet. Closing his eyes, he took a hearty sip of scotch. A minute later, he unsheathed his wand and cast a specific spell, causing several of the polished oak-paneled walls behind Obediah's chair to slide back, revealing their various contents as the wizard turned to face them.
To his left were a series of charmed bottomless lock boxes and crates chock full of galleons and priceless jewels, as well as almost two million in muggle currency. In the center were five bookshelves holding multiple tomes of rather… exotic texts, plenty of which were far too dark to be allowed even in the restricted section of the Hogwarts Library. One that stood out in particular was the original draft of Occlumency: A Beginner's Guide, Mr. Nemo's prevailing magnum opus. The copy he planned on giving his godson before he started Hogwarts would be an edited version, painstakingly altered to remove some of the more ... controversial sections that would no doubt turn the child into a budgeoning murderous psychopath. "Besides, there's plenty of time for that later." With a decidedly evil smirk, Obediah took another well-earned sip of his scotch.
To the right of the bookshelf were several cabinets packed with scores of cursed objects, all courtesy of the late Erasmus Wilkes' genius. Around thirty neatly arranged nutcracker soldiers, dozens of GI Joes, quite a few Dr. Barbie dolls (armed with disturbingly sharp scalpels), garrote yo-yos, killer teddy bears, trick playing cards, cursed puppets, enchanted ventriloquist dummies (thankfully inert), funhouse hand mirrors, and three rather beautifully detailed models of the Hogwarts Express, their orichalchum-enforced cattle catchers gleaming in the warm light of the room. "Oh those will be lovely come Christmas." Obediah snickered, before taking another sip of his drink.
While eliminating Harry Potter had been the primary goal of unleashing the delightful nutcracker beasties, Obediah was quite content to settle for crippling that damnable Rufus Scrimgeour. As shrewd a Slytherin as ever, his relentless in crushing "Death Eater swine" had posed quite the obstacle during the last war, made all the more dangerous by his keen intellect and rather uncanny perceptiveness. The irascible's man disdain for James was obvious (to those clever enough to look for it) and he'd posed quite the professional obstacle for Lord Potter's advancement. Especially after the latter's sheer idiocy with Howler-gate. Obediah barely resisted the urge to sneer. Luckily for them all, with Scrimgeour now officially out of the way (Obediah so hoped he died from his injuries), getting James into the Chief Auror position would be a breeze. The Hufflepuff alumnus resisted the urge to titter at all the delightful possibilities that posed.
At the topmost of the three sections of the wall was a beautifully engraved white stone chest, positioned just below a weathered depiction of House Prewett's crest. Despite the many years that had passed, Obediah still felt the bile of embittered disappointment and rage rise in his chest, threatening to spill over. The denial of what could have, should have been his birthright still burned fiercely within the bowels of long dead heart. A few practiced breaths later, he beat back the hidden beast. With a delicate flick of his larch wand, Obediah watched in satisfaction as the chest floated down into his lap. Setting aside his glass of scotch, he quickly pricked his right thumb with his wand, smearing a few drops on the chest's lock. It glowed gold, before clicking open.
Inside the chest were a number of glass vials and jars. Some were empty but several of the smaller vials contained hairs kept in magical stasis, each vial carefully labeled with the name of each person from whom the hair had been stolen. Obediah hadn't used Polyjuice Potion for anything in years, but one never knew what the future might require. There were also two beautifully hewn wands in the chest, laying almost side by side. One was a 13 and ½ inch vine with a phoenix feather core. The vine leaves carved into the wood were wrapped almost sensually around the wood's length, tapering off when it got to the tip. With a lightly trembling hand, Obediah reached down and stroked it gently as a shudder ran down his back.
With even more reverence, Obediah reached in and stroked the other wand, his glass-like blue eyes practically burning in their sharp and almost feverish intensity. The wand - 11 and ¼ inch hornbeam with dragon heartstring - thrummed just the same as when he'd first acquired it from Gregorovitch as his spare wand. Mr. Arachne's wand. Almost immediately, he felt his original larch and unicorn hair wand immediately gave off a distinct feeling of…disapproval. Shaking off the conflicting sensations, Prewett removed one of the larger empty jars from the chest and unscrewed the lid. From his coat pocket, he withdrew a once-white silk handkerchief, now red and still soaking wet with the blood of Jim Potter. He'd had to endure the little twerp's mewling for "Uncle Obi" to finally get it, but by Merlin had he got it! A discreet stasis charm had ensured that the blood would stay fresh until he got home, and after he put the handkerchief in the enchanted jar and sealed it, the blood would continue to stay fresh until the day he had need of it.
Finally, he pulled a small velvet box from inside the chest and opened it. Inside was a gold ring inset with a ruby gemstone embossed with the Potter crest – the long-lost Potter Heir's ring. Obediah smiled maliciously as he held the ring up to the light.
"One ring to rule them all." With a downright maniacal cackle Obediah took another sip of his scotch, leaning his body back in complete satisfaction.
AN 1: I'd suggested in our PoS Discord Chat that it would be hilarious if Arthur Weasley, so-called doddering 'muggle-lover' was the driving force in keeping muggles from destroying the wizarding world (in England anyway). I'm excited to see where this goes
AN 2: Some scenes from Tom & Erasmus' 6th & 7th year interactions will be featured later on.