SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT!
My first original novel, Strangers In Boston, is now available on Amazon under my pen name, T.S. Mann (get it?). It's free to Kindle Prime members and $4.99 to people who want to download the Ebook. Paperback copies are available for $12.99. Check it out, and if you like it, please leave a review. Basically, it's American Harry Potter. Except there's no school, no wands, and no thinly disguised allegories about tolerance. Oh, and if you use magic improperly, it can drive you insane and possibly destroy the world. No pressure or anything.
We now return you to your regularly scheduled fanfic!
Harry Potter
and the Death Eater Menace
Harry Potter and all associated characters and situations are the property of J.K. Rowling I make no claim to ownership.
Chapter 34: The Month of January
1 January 1994
Nott Manor
Barty Crouch, Jr. ("Mr. January," to the other members of his somewhat notorious social club) rose from his comfortable bed in his guest room at Nott Manor. After a quick bath and other ablutions, he threw his meager belongings into a bag. He did not toss in his Death Eater robes and mask, as there was a non-negligible chance his bag would be examined by a foreign customs agent in the near future. It was bad enough he looked like a dead man walking (literally), though he was confident of not being recognized where he was going. Once dressed, the Death Eater made his way down to the dining hall where Nott's decrepit elf already had breakfast ready.
When he'd first arrived, the old windbag had tried to subtly bully him into eating a half a grapefruit every morning, but Barty put a stop to that quickly. Even among the Death Eaters, Mr. January had a reputation, and a hearty appetite was the least unpleasant thing about it. Mr. Nimrod, on the other hand, brought nothing to the group save wealth and basic competency as a dark wizard. Which was enough to get him in the door, but Mr. January knew who was a real Death Eater and who was a poseur with a tattoo. Nott was definitely in the latter category.
That didn't stop Narcissa from flirting shamelessly with the old bore since, after all, they did need lots of money at the moment if they were to proceed with the Master's plans. On some level, Mr. January knew he should be jealous, as he remembered (empirically, at least) the pleasure of sharing a bed with Miss Direction and all the veela-stolen allure she could bring to bear. He didn't think Mr. Nimrod had enjoyed such pleasures yet, but it was still a possibility. If it happened, January thought it would be the end of Mr. Nimrod – some men weren't built to handle such stress. As for jealousy, he'd lost such a capacity years before along with any interest in (or indeed, belief in) love.
"I do wish you didn't have to go, Narcissa," said the besotted old wizard to the object of his increasingly obsessive desire. "It's like you've only just gotten here!"
"I know, my precious, I know," she purred. "But our Lord has tasks for us all that must be fulfilled. Tasks for all of us. Dear Barty and I have business abroad that will take us away for some time. You, my sweet, have business closer to home."
She reached out to stroke his cheek, and his entire body shuddered.
"What … what does our Lord command?" he stammered.
She stepped back. "Despite the best efforts of our valiant Auror corps, no one has thus far found out whatever happened to the brave members of our circle who were removed from Azkaban prison. Among them are my beloved sister and in-laws, as well as our dear friend, Mr. Nemo."
Her face assumed a contemptuous glare. "And last … and also least … is my cousin Sirius, who was never one of us. After all this time, he still stands between me and control of the House of Black." She snorted. "And after all the trouble I went to putting him in Azkaban in the first place! Such temerity!"
She moved closer again and gripped his arms like a vice so that his eyes didn't roll back up into his head again just from her proximity.
"While we're gone, my sweet. I should be so very grateful if you would do for me what the Aurors apparently cannot. Find the Azkaban escapees for our Lord. If you do, he will reward you handsomely."
She leaned in closer and whispered in his ear. "And if you would also do me the courtesy of killing Sirius Black, then I will reward you in ways that our Lord never could."
Then, she stepped back once more and turned to Barty, hoping against hope that Tiberius Nott (a) would remember her instructions and (b) wouldn't faint again from the strength of her allure.
"Barty, my poppet. Finish your toast. Our portkey to Albania awaits."
2 January 1994
The Hogwarts Express
As Harry Potter made his way down the corridor of the train, he nodded politely to Michael Proudfoot as he passed by. He almost called the young uniformed Auror by name, but he was pretty sure he'd never actually met the real Auror Proudfoot as opposed to other people posing as the man through various means. Regardless, after the incident from the previous September when he and Jim were both nearly kissed by a Dementor, the Ministry had decided to be more sensible about protecting the train, and so Proudfoot and three other Aurors would be riding along the whole way to Scotland. He hadn't recognized any of the other three, but he assumed they would be able to cast a Patronus if needed, and thus soul-sucking would be off the agenda.
Which meant that Harry's only concern at the moment was figuring out why his twin brother was suddenly so standoffish.
Harry and Neville had met up with Jim and the Weasley clan on Platform 9 ¾ as usual, and on this occasion, they all passed through without incident. But while Harry's relations with the Weasleys were all cordial (even Ron!), Jim seemed oddly ill at ease around him. Not hostile, exactly, but … cautious. Harry honestly had no idea what he could have possibly done to Jim in the space of a day to render his brother so visibly suspicious of him, so the young Slytherin just added it to his ever-expanding list of things to look into when an opportunity presented itself. He also asked Hermione to keep an eye on Jim, and the witch agreed.
About an hour after leaving London, Harry excused himself to visit the loo. On his way back, however, the boy noticed something in the corridor that was decidedly unexpected.
A fish.
Specifically, a rather brilliantly-scaled salmon, and while that would be an odd thing to come across on a train in any circumstances, it was particularly so when the fish in question was floating in mid-air and swimming around in a tight figure-eight. Despite himself, Harry moved closer to study the strange sight. When he was within a few feet, he suddenly came to his senses, shook his head vigorously, and popped out his wand as he looked around for the source of the supernaturally-distracting conjuration. Instantly, a door to his right slid open, and a gruff voice called out.
"I stop your lessons for three weeks, and you get so weak-willed that a simple Fascination Fish befuddles you for a whole eight seconds?" snarled Mad-Eye Moody from inside the compartment. "A Charm Aurors use to befuddle Muggles while they clean up Statute of Secrecy breaches? Pathetic! If I were a dark wizard, I could have killed you five times over! CONSTANT VIGILANCE!"
Harry's eyes widened in surprise before they immediately narrowed. "HOMENUM REVELIO." There was a flash of light, but no one other than the ex-auror was present in the compartment, and (absent Polyjuice or Metamorphmagic) the man was who he appeared to be. Then, Harry lifted his chin as he regarded the man.
"How many steps are there in the stairs leading down to your trunk?" he asked.
"Fifteen, the last time you went down it. I reconfigure my trunk regularly. Why did I kick you out of your last lesson?"
Harry winced in embarrassment and looked away. "Because I was an insensitive git," he finally muttered. Moody snorted softly at that and gestured for Harry to enter the compartment.
"I feel like I should give a long, heartfelt, and overly-effusive apology," Harry said as he closed the door and took a seat. "But I also feel like you'll just interrupt me three seconds in with a sarcastic comment about how you don't care for touchy-feeling stuff."
"Good," the man answered. "I'm relieved to know we can just skip that part. Sentiment makes me queasy. So let's cut to the chase. You betrayed my trust. You did something you knew I didn't want you to do and without asking. You violated my privacy and saw things that I've never allowed anyone to see outside of a DMLE-mandated mind healer who took an oath of patient confidentiality."
"Sir, I would be happy to swear any oaths…."
"Potter, shut up and let me finish," Moody interrupted irritably. "Now, despite all that, I also have to acknowledge that I was the one who brought the memory vial in question and left it unattended while I went to the crapper. The truth, Potter, is that I must have gone back and forth a dozen times over whether or not to let you see that memory before you took the decision out of my hand. And while I freely admit I was pissed at what you did, after I calmed down a bit, I had to face facts. By that point, I had spent months prepping you to face Voldemort. The whole point of showing you those other memories was to give you the knowledge and insight to survive an encounter with the Dark Tosser or, failing that, at least make a decent showing. And part of my lessons involved teaching you to think outside the box, to look for the third option, to seize whatever advantage you possibly could. I might have been angry about you looking at those memories without my permission. But if you hadn't looked, it's just possible I would have been disappointed instead that you let something as stupid as 'respect for my privacy' stop you from claiming information that might one day save your life."
Harry stared almost slack-jawed at his mentor's words, as Moody leaned back in his seat.
"So, now that I've provisionally forgiven you, what did you learn from those memories?"
The boy blinked at the sudden question. "That Voldemort is a monster who needs killing?"
Moody barked out a guttural laugh. "Hell's bells, boy. I'd have assumed you'd know that much without needing to see anyone's memories. What did you learn?"
Harry closed his eyes and reviewed the memory of Moody's horrific encounter with Lord Voldemort. Then, for just a second, in place of Moody's lover, partner, and surviving family, Harry envisioned Neville, Hermione, Theo, Jim, Regulus, and all the other people he'd improbably come to care about stuck to those walls instead of the ones that Moody had loved.
"I learned that there are things Voldemort can do to you that are worse than killing you," he said quietly.
Moody nodded. "Good. That's the proper lesson." He reached into a pocket and pulled out a small book.
"This is the current Auror training manual. Don't get caught with it. It's not illegal for a civilian to have it, but it would raise questions I don't want to answer. In particular, if you look on page 74, you'll find a collection of Charms and techniques that culminate in mastering the Disillusionment Charm. As I recall, you'd expressed an interest in that. Please don't do stupid things with it like sneak out after curfew or go wandering into the girls' shower."
Harry laughed. "I won't. So, does this mean we can start lessons again?" he asked hopefully.
"No," Moody answered. "But not because I'm still mad at you. Rather, it's because I'll be leaving Hogsmeade in a few days. Actually, I'll be leaving Britain. Albus … well, he's got some stuff he needs looking into. I can't give you any details, but broadly, it's in line with that matter you told me about last summer regarding our snaky little friend. Hopefully, when I'm back, I can fill you in, but right now, you're on your own."
The boy nodded and accepted that cryptic explanation. The two wizards talked for another half-hour before Harry finally rose to return to his friends' compartment. They shook hands firmly before wishing each other good luck. It would be quite some time before the two met up again.
The Caretaker's Office
Later that night…
"Aaaaaaaah!" said Jim Potter as he opened his mouth wide as if a Healer were looking down his throat. Remus Lupin rolled his eyes but said nothing as he carefully stuck his wand inside the boy's mouth and touched the Mandrake leaf that had been affixed to the roof of it. With a whisper, he dispelled the Sticking Charm before gently levitating the leaf out of the boy's mouth. Carefully, he placed it into a jar which he'd already spelled with a Stasis Charm.
"Right, the leaf looks okay," the caretaker said after a moment's examination. "I'll start gathering the other ingredients for the potion. Well, the traditional potion ingredients, anyway. The brewing process must begin under the new moon which is two weeks away. At that time, you will have to provide the rest of the ingredients. Mainly biological material."
"Like what?" Jim asked.
"A lock of hair. A fingernail clipping." Remus paused and grimaced as if mildly embarrassed. "Certain … bodily fluids."
"What, like spit or something?"
"… or something. We'll talk more when we get to that point in the process." The man turned to place the jar in a desk drawer which he then locked magically. "After that point, the potion must brew for a full month at least before it can be drunk … and to be effective, it must also be consumed during a thunderstorm, so we'll have to wait for the appropriate weather conditions."
"And then I'll be an Animagus?" Jim said excitedly.
Remus chuckled. "Oh no, Jim, I'm afraid it won't quite be that easy. After you consume the potion, it will be weeks, perhaps months, before you develop your form. On the bright side, the development process will happen in your dreams which will be plagued by disturbing imagery of your animal self. You should stock up on Pepper-Up Potions because you will probably lose a lot of sleep until you find your form."
"… and that's the bright side?" the boy asked dubiously.
Remus shrugged. "Better than the alternative of doing all that while you're awake and around other people. Your father once spontaneously sprouted a small but noticeable set of antlers that he couldn't get rid of for two whole days. We managed to persuade everyone that it was a potions accident."
He paused and smiled at the memory. "In retrospect, it's honestly amazing how many things we passed off as 'potions accidents' when we were at school. I'm sure everyone thought the Marauders were the worst potioneers in Hogwarts history. But I digress. The technique we're using will eliminate the chance of uncontrolled physical changes to your body, though there may be some mental side effects."
"Like what?" Jim said with some concern. "We haven't really talked about side effects before."
"Oh, it shouldn't be anything major. If your animal form is a carnivore, you might develop a strong preference for meat over other foods. If it's a reptile, you might be more uncomfortable in cold environments. Though if I had to guess, I'd say a bird of some kind. I've seen you fly a broom, and I'll be very surprised if your animal form doesn't take to the skies."
"But what if I don't have an animal form," Jim answered pensively. "Not everyone does, do they?"
"That's an interesting and unanswered question. The consensus view of British wizards is that the potential to become an Animagus is hereditary. Only a few people have the potential for the gift which is passed down from one's ancestors. Now, I do believe that the ease with which one can become an Animagus is influenced by heredity. Since your father is one, it should be easier for you to learn the knack than it was for him. Indeed, if there were enough people in your family tree who became Animagi, you might have already spontaneously achieved an animal form without even using this potion upon reaching puberty. Of course, in such a case, you would be more likely to adopt one of your ancestors' forms rather than one more unique to your own personality. If not a stag specifically than some other form of ungulate."
"Ungu-what?"
"A hoofed animal. But anyway, the Animagery instructors at Uagadou insist that everyone has the potential to become an Animagus. Unfortunately, most people who try will fail the process because they unconsciously reject their forms. In the end, they simply don't like what they think their form reveals about their own inner character and so refuse to acknowledge it."
"What do you mean?"
"For example, many people recoil from the realization that their spirit animal is some small woodland creature instead of the mighty predator they were imagining. Or worse, an insect or a slug or something. And it's not uncommon for people who live great distances from the ocean to find that their spirit animals are saltwater fish, which makes the power largely useless." Remus assumed a fond expression. "As I recall, Peter was quite disappointed to learn that his form was that of a rat, though he eventually came to enjoy the advantages of his form. For one thing, he was small enough to fit through cracks in the walls, which meant he could use his form in relative freedom within the castle in ways that a large stag or an enormous black dog could not."
Jim nodded at that while shrugging off the sudden fear that he'd been doing all this work for the chance to gain the power to transform at will into a slug. "By the way, I hope it's not a problem, but Uncle Pete knows what I'm doing. He, um, smelled the Mandrake leaf at Christmas. But he says he won't tell Dad, though … well, he kinda wants to meet my instructor and make sure you're on the up-and-up."
Remus laughed at that. "So long as he can maintain his discretion, I'm sure Malachi Sturgeon won't mind meeting your godfather. And depending on how the meeting goes, perhaps Remus Lupin won't mind getting reacquainted as well. And speaking of getting reacquainted, I don't know if he's told you, but Harry's decided to rejoin our Wu Xi Do sessions!"
"… great!" Jim replied with as much enthusiasm as he was capable of faking.
5 January 1994
The Gryffindor Common Room
Hermione Granger entered her dorm in high spirits. Earlier that day, the Ancient Runes class had met for the first time this term. But today, it had met in the Great Hall rather than its normal classroom. The weather outside was inclement (as was typical for Scotland in January) and the Great Hall was the only room in the castle large enough to accommodate flying brooms. Since the school year began back during the previous September, almost half the starting AR class had dropped, and it seemed likely that a few more might do so as well soon, most likely the two students who crashed to the stone floor due to faulty runecrafting. One of them was Daphne Greengrass, and to her own embarrassment, Hermione took a certain pleasure in the Slytherin girl's bloody nose (which was quickly healed by Professor Babbling).
It might have been petty for Hermione to hold a grudge against the Pureblood princess over a slight from so long ago, but the Gryffindor never claimed to be perfect.
On the other hand, Hermione could afford to be magnanimous since Professor Babbling judged her broom to be the best of the lot, thereby winning Hermione twenty points for Gryffindor. Any guilt she might have had over her unfair advantage on the assignment was quickly assuaged by furious glares from Greengrass, Padma Patil, and several other Pureblood students annoyed by the quality of her work.
"To be fair," she thought, "none of them have called me a Mudblood recently. Or at least, not to my face."
For their part, Harry and Blaise did not seem upset by Hermione's recognition. They were more astonished that she'd finally learned to fly a broom properly.
"Well, naturally, I would put some effort into flying a broom in this instance," she said breezily. "There were House points at stake!"
Blaise had laughed at that. Harry just crooked an eyebrow and quietly muttered the word "weirdness" before dropping the matter.
But Hermione Granger was never one to rest on her laurels, and once back in the Gryffindor Common, she immediately made her way to the person she was looking for.
"Fred?" she asked. "Do you have a moment? I'd like to ask your help for something."
The elder of the Weasley Twins looked up from what looked like Potions homework. He was sitting alone at a table with three different reference books open and looked more studious than anyone had ever seen him. A few of his peers were worried that he'd finally snapped and was looking into recipes for explosives.
"What kinda help, 'mione? I'm a bit busy at the mo'."
She glanced down at the books on the table. "Hmm. Actually, I think we might be able to help one another." She sat down across from him and cast a Muffliato Charm. "I can't help noticing that you've taken a stronger interest in Potions than in the past. Something to do with a bet against your brother, I gather?"
He frowned. "Something like that. It's my best subject, but I reckon I've got room to improve. Why?"
Instead of answering, the witch reached into her bag and pulled out several books which she placed on the table. There looked to be about four or five bookmarks in each one. "These are bound copies of Potioneers Monthly. And the ones I've put marks next to are all articles published under the title H.B. Prince."
"Should I know that name?" Fred asked somewhat intrigued.
"You probably shouldn't actually, but I have it on the best of authority that H.B. Prince was the pseudonym of a certain professor here at Hogwarts. The one who teaches your best subject, in fact. And all of these articles contain tips and tricks for improving the quality of potion brews."
He perked up in surprise. "And you think that'll help me in his class? But it's the OWL I'm worried about. It's not like he writes the exam questions."
"No, but Professor Snape did receive an Outstanding on his Potions OWL, followed by an Outstanding on his NEWT, followed by a Potions Mastery before the age of twenty. Obviously, the man knew what he was doing."
Fred nodded. "And what do you want in exchange for this bit of insider information?"
She took a deep breath. "Something for my Ancient Runes group. We have a project that's due at the end of the year, and Anthony Goldstein and Su Li have come up with a wonderful idea, but we need people willing to test it for us. And after that business with Colin sprouting feathers, I know you have a ready supply of guinea pigs. I want you to recruit some of them for our project."
"What sort of project is it? I don't want to get anyone hurt."
"Really?!" she asked in genuine surprise. Hermione had not believed that the Twins were ever concerned with product safety in the past. She shook her head. "Not to worry. No one's going to be hurt by our project. Just," she coughed delicately, "knocked unconscious. A lot. On a regular basis."
Fred's eyes widened at that, but then he smirked and reached for one of the Potions books. It wasn't like he and George hadn't done worse to any of their test subjects.
14 January 1994
The Potions Lab
Severus Snape made his way around the classroom with extreme caution, as all of his natural paranoia was in overdrive. It was the Fifth Years today, Double Potions with Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs. That would be bad enough, but when he entered the class, he noticed something that sent out deafening alarm bells - the Weasley Terrors were now on opposite sides of the room. Terror One was now partnered with Lee Jordan, while Terror Two (the one who Minerva had outrageously elevated to prefect) was partnered with one of the female Gryffindor Chasers. Johnson, he thought, though Snape hadn't ever bothered to learn how to tell them apart.
Certain that the Terrors were up to something, Snape paced the room constantly trying unsuccessfully to keep them both in his field of view. The Fifth Years were brewing Draught of Peace today, and at the rate things were going, he might need to imbibe one himself. Then, near the end of class, the professor heard the sounds of urgent whispering from the first pair and descended on them like a vulture.
"Is there a problem, Mr. Jordan? Mr. … Weasley?" Snape's voice trailed off at the sight of their potion which was the most exquisite shade of orange he'd seen in a student's potion in years.
"No, sir," Jordan stammered. "We, um, just had a disagreement about the instructions for the next step."
"Indeed, Mr. Jordan," Snape replied without taking his eyes off the cauldron. Idly, he noticed that Terror One, without looking away from him, reached over and turned the burner down one quarter-turn to exactly the right temperature. "And what is the next step?"
"Er, once it turns orange, we put in some powdered porcupine quills, I think?" Jordan stammered.
"And do you concur, Mr. Weasley?"
Terror One swallowed nervously before summoning up his Gryffindor courage and giving a firm answer.
"The instructions do say to add more powdered porcupine quills … sir. Then, when it turns white, put the heat on low and add 7 drops of hellebore. But …" he faltered slightly.
"Go on, Mr. Weasley."
"I think it would be better to mix two drops of hellebore into the powdered quills to make a paste and then dissolve that into the potion before adding the remaining five drops of liquid hellebore."
"You think, Mr. Weasley? And what do you think that would achieve?"
"Well, it would thicken the potion while also distributing the hellebore evenly through the whole mixture. That'll let you reduce it to a simmer faster before bottling."
Snape crooked an eyebrow. "And where did you come up with such an idea?"
Fred coughed into his hand. "From an article you wrote about Draught of Peace while you were working on your Mastery, Professor. I found it in a backissue of Potioneers Monthly."
Snape stared at the boy silently for nearly six seconds as a bead of sweat slowly crawled down the boy's forehead. "Proceed," he finally said.
Five minutes later, the students had bottled their potions for grading. As Fred placed his and Lee's vial on the desk, Snape picked it up, examined its color, and finally unstoppered it and sniffed it. Then, he looked up towards Fred. The man's mouth opened, closed, and opened again before he could force himself to speak.
"… five points to Gryffindor," he said barely above a whisper.
Fred grinned in delight and thanked Snape profusely before turning away. George, who was close enough to hear the point award, glared at his twin, who sneered victoriously in response.
Soon, Snape was alone in the classroom. He picked up the perfectly brewed potion once more and stared at it in obvious confusion, wondering if the world had gone mad.
20 January 1994
Moaning Myrtle's Bathroom
9:00 a.m.
"Okay, we're here," said an annoyed Ginny Weasley with an equally annoyed Amy Wilkes and a dreamy Luna Lovegood standing next to her. "We're here wondering what in Merlin's name we're doing back in this miserable haunted loo. Because I am here to tell you that I'm not going back to the Chamber of Secrets."
Ginny and Amy were both grouchy on account of the early hour. It was a Sunday, and there had been a big party the night before to celebrate Slytherin's win over Ravenclaw the day before: 260-30, with Ginny catching the Snitch after causing "that Pureblood cow Cho Chang" to crash after a perfectly executed Wronski Feint.
Harry laughed. "No, no. No Chamber of Secrets today. We just needed a secure location for, well, for an experiment."
"An experiment?" Amy asked dubiously. "In a bathroom?"
"Well, it has the benefit of privacy," Theo Nott explained helpfully. "No one ever uses this bathroom for anything precisely because it's haunted. Add a Notice Me Not and a good locking Charm, and we can do whatever we need in here without anyone knowing."
"Except for the ghost," added Blaise. "But she doesn't count."
"OH SURE!" shrieked Moaning Myrtle from inside one of the stalls. "TALK ABOUT ME LIKE I DON'T EVEN MATTER!"
"You don't!" Blaise yelled back. "That's what 'she doesn't count' means!"
His insult was followed by a piteous wail from the ghostly girl. "BWAAA! YOU'RE JUST AS BAD AS THAT OTHER ONE! INTRUDING IN MY TOILET! NO RESPECT FOR MY RIGHTS AS A FREE GHOST!" Then, Myrtle's head passed through the stall door as she glared hatefully at Blaise. "YOU'RE A … A… A LIVINGIST!"
And with that, there was a loud splash as Moaning Myrtle fled into the sewers of Hogwarts.
"What the hell is a 'livingist'?" Theo asked in confusion.
"It's someone who's bigoted against the dead," Luna answered casually. The others looked at her in confusion. "Well, honestly, a ghost accused Blaise of being one after he was rude to her. What else could it mean?"
"Okay, enough of all that," Harry finally said. "Let's get back to our experiment. I asked you three to be involved because the matter involves a certain Tom Marvolo Riddle." Ginny and Amy stiffened at that. "Yes, it ties back into the cursed diary from last year. And since you two already know a little about it and are people I trust, I thought you'd be ideal for this inquiry."
"I don't know anything about Tom Marvolo Riddle," Luna interjected. "Well, other than the fact that his plaque for Special Services to the School got taken down suddenly last year. Though I am pleased to know that I am someone you trust. Also, does anyone else smell Tabasco?"
Harry ignored that last question. "Well, I do trust you, Luna … by Slytherin standards, at least. But more importantly, you three go everywhere together, and I assumed that if we left you out, you'd just investigate why two of your closest friends keep disappearing into a toilet together with some regularity."
"So why isn't Astoria with us?" Ginny asked.
"Please," Amy scoffed. "The SlytherPuff? She's a sweetheart, but you know she can't keep a secret!"
"And secrets are what this experiment is about," said Harry in an authoritative voice that reminded Luna surprisingly of Gilderoy Lockhart in front of his research groups. "You see, the Diary, among its other properties, served as an artificial Secret Keeper for a modified Fidelius Charm. Jim and I know the Secret. In fact, after the Diary was destroyed, we both became the new Secret Keepers. But the Headmaster has asked me to spend some time probing the limits of this modified Fidelius, and I thought this might be a good approach."
He gestured towards Theo and Blaise. "Now, I, as Secret Keeper, have told the Secret to these two knuckleheads." Both boys waved cheerfully. "If I told either of you the Secret, you'd know it. Like, really know it. But if either of them told you the Secret, you would be incapable of retaining the information in your heads. So what we're going to do is this: Blaise and Theo are going to tell each of you facts that are related to the Secret but which are not an actual part of it. And then, we'll see what you remember that way."
"Facts?" Ginny said dubiously. "What sort of facts?"
"Well, for a start," Blaise began with a smirk. "Tom Marvolo Riddle was the son of a Muggle and a squib who was raised in the Muggle world. When he went to school here, he was considered a Muggleborn."
"And believe it or not," Theo continued. "The same is true for You-Know-Who!"
The three girls gasped.
"You-Know-Who was a Muggleborn?!" Amy exclaimed.
"You-Know-Who went to Hogwarts?!" Ginny exclaimed.
"You-Know-Who's middle name was Marvolo?!" Luna exclaimed. The other two girls looked at her funny, while Harry was shocked.
"That's what you take from that revelation?" Amy asked dubiously. Luna shrugged.
"Marvolo is an unusual name. So much so that it's odd for You-Know-Who to share it with anyone, let alone Tom Riddle who created the same Diary that Voldemort later turned into a Dark Object. I bet they had a common ancestor or something like that."
"Yeah, something like that," Theo muttered.
"I have to admit," said Harry, "it's kind of amazing that you can remember You-Know-Who's middle name, Luna."
"You-Know-Who has a middle name?" she responded excitedly. The other two girls looked equally surprised by the news.
"Oh that is so weird," Blaise said with a laugh.
"Yeah, that's the sort of the point of this experiment," said Harry. "Finding out what you can learn about the subject of a Fidelius without breaking it. Apparently, there's some wiggle room for names, but not for very long. What else do you three remember about connections between Tom Riddle Jr. and You-Know-Who?"
"You can call him Voldemort, you know," Ginny snapped. "None of us are going to squeal and faint over it. And I remember that he's the Half-blood or maybe Muggleborn, he was son of a squib and a Muggle, and he went to Hogwarts at some point. The same was true for Riddle." Amy and Luna nodded in agreement.
"So names are out, but blood status is okay?" Blaise asked in confusion.
Harry shrugged. "The intent of the Fidelius was to obscure Voldemort's true identity. I guess magic doesn't consider his blood status to be that big of an identifier."
"Speaking of which," Amy interrupted. "I would think it a big deal if The Dark … if Voldemort was a Muggleborn who was leading Purebloods to kill other Muggleborns. Why hasn't this been released to the public? I bet my Uncle Gregory would turn on Voldemort in a heartbeat if he knew the truth."
"Too risky for the other Muggleborns," Theo answered. "If the truth became common knowledge at a time when most of the free Death Eaters were Purebloods who claimed that Voldemort had them Imperiused, it would drive anti-Muggleborn bigotry even higher."
"Which is why we need to keep these experiments hush-hush. The last thing … we … want …." Harry's voice trailed off as he started sniffing loudly.
"What is it?" Theo asked.
"My brain just caught up with my nose," Harry answered while scanning the room with his eyes, willing his Legilimency to increase his perception. "I smell Tabasco sauce too."
"Maybe someone had tacos for lunch," Blaise said with a smirk.
"It's Hogwarts. We don't have tacos for lunch here," Ginny said.
"Yeah, it's a pity," Harry muttered while looking around the room. "They were one of my favorites back in Muggle primary school."
"What's a taco?" asked Amy.
"Hard to explain without a discussion of New World indigenous cuisine," Blaise said cheerfully. "Think of them as beef pasties that have gone horribly wrong. Or horribly right, depending on your point of view."
"Harry," Luna asked while ignoring the culinary discussion. "Do you think the smell might have something to do with whatever's under the Notice Me Not Charm?"
Harry shook his head. "I haven't put one up yet."
"No, the one that was already up when you came in?"
Everyone turned to stare at the young Gryffindor.
"There's … a Notice Me Not active in this room," Harry said slowly. "And you can see through it?"
"Of course not, silly," the girl answered with a laugh. "But I can see the way all your nargles spin counter-clockwise when any of you get near it, and I know what that means. Anyway, it's somewhere over there."
She pointed towards the toilet stalls on the back-left side of the room. The boys stepped between the girls and that area (causing Amy and Ginny both to roll their eyes at their "chivalry") before simultaneously casting Finites in that direction. Instantly, there was a soft shimmer over one door. And just as instantly, everyone in the group could now hear a soft bubbling sound, and they could each now scent what had first smelled of Tabasco sauce but was now plainly a potion that they'd all encountered before. Harry stepped over to the door and cautiously opened it. Inside, someone had set up a small cauldron and burner on the floor. A thin reddish liquid filled the cauldron, and a Fifth Year Potions book lay on the floor nearby open to the page containing the recipe for Pepper-Up Potion.
"Who could be making contraband Pepper-Up Potions in the girls' toilet," Blaise asked in confusion.
It was at that moment that a flustered and frazzled-looking Hermione Granger burst into the room, only to stop and freeze in surprise at the tableau of six of her closest friends standing around one of her "side projects."
"Wow," she said nervously. "I guess you three were really desperate to use the toilet, huh!"
None of the others laughed.
27 January 1994
Hogwarts
4:00 p.m.
"Shaved Caterpillars!" barked Rufus Scrimgeour with as much dignity as he could muster given the absurdity of the password he was forced to utter.
In response to the candy-themed password, the gargoyle in front of the entrance to the Headmaster's office moved aside, and the DADA professor ascended the staircase with Harry Potter following close behind. The boy had spent weeks in preparation for this meeting, including many hours of private sessions with both Snape and Scrimgeour. The focus of said study was to accelerate his Occlumency development to the point of establishing a true secondary personality that could withstand basic Legilimency scrutiny. It was a simple alteration, basically a perfect copy of Harry's own true self except that this version knew nothing about the Azkaban breakout, nothing about horcruxes (beyond what Rufus and Albus had revealed previously), and above all, nothing about Sirius Black's innocence.
But while it was a simple persona, such Occlumency was still considered a fifth-tier skill, and Harry was barely considered a 4th-level Occlumens. Still, it only needed to hold up for half-an-hour at most and stand against mere passive Legilimency. Unfortunately, Albus Dumbledore's passive Legilimency was very good.
In response to the Headmaster's voice, Rufus opened the door and entered Albus's office. Harry followed behind somewhat meekly while carrying a thick bundle of papers – the Sirius Black trial transcript.
"Rufus, Harry, good afternoon," said the Headmaster amiably. "I must admit to surprise at your request for a meeting, Rufus. Particularly a meeting called on behalf of a student who wished to interview me for a school project. You have not demonstrated such patronage of any other students so far this year. And I can't remember the last time any of the Hogwarts faculty asked for a private meeting such as this one."
He smiled. "On the other hand, it is a diversion from endless paperwork, so I am happy to acquiesce." He turned to the boy who had taken a seat next to Scrimgeour in front of the man's desk. "So, Harry, what can I do for you?"
"Well, sir," Harry began somewhat nervously. "Professor Scrimgeour has assigned my class to do written and oral reports on various aspects of the last Wizarding War, and especially on topic of the Death Eaters. I chose to write about the trial of Sirius Black."
Dumbledore's eyebrows rose, and Harry suddenly looked bashful. "He was supposed to be my father's best friend, and his betrayal hurt my family terribly and … well…."
"That betrayal also initiated the sequence of events that led to your placement with the Dursleys," Dumbledore finished gently. "I quite understand how this matter would be important to you. How can I help?"
"Well, Professor Scrimgeour helped me to obtain a copy of the transcript, but I noticed that at no point did any of the judges even bother to ask him why he turned. Were you involved in the case at the time?
"No. I was on the Blind Panel – our name for the men and women trusted enough to oversee secret trials – but I did not serve on Black's trial nor play any role in it. Indeed, James and Lily privately advised me that he had been their Secret Keeper and had betrayed them, but I had no idea of the true depths of his perfidy until the newspapers ran a summary of the trial."
Harry blinked. "But you were Chief Warlock! Surely you'd have been kept in the loop on high-level trials like that."
"Well, Harry, first of all, I was not Chief Warlock in 1981. Edith MacMillan held that position at the time of Black's trial. I did not succeed her until a few years later. Second … tell me, Harry, do you know what the Chief Warlock actually does?"
"Um, oversee Wizengamot sessions?"
"Only in the broadest sense. The position is similar to the Speaker in the Muggle House of Commons. Mainly, I recognize those who wish to speak, I rule motions and comments in or out of order, and I bang the gavel at the start and finish of each session. That's about it. Even the few substantive powers I do have are subject to immediate review upon objection by any seat holder, and my parliamentary rulings can be overturned by a simple majority. I don't even have a vote of my own except to break a tie. Also, upon accepting the position, I swore an oath to execute the office of Chief Warlock faithfully and fairly. While acting in my official capacity, I am literally incapable of demonstrating bias towards any faction even when I strenuously object to a proposed course of action that has majority support. And worse, even when ruling on a motion from some Lord who was most likely a former Death Eater. It is, at times, intensely frustrating."
Rufus snorted. "And also a waste of potential. If you would only step down as Chief Warlock and take the seat you are entitled to as an Order of Merlin holder, you would instantly become the nucleus of probably the most powerful faction in the government. And we both know you've turned down the Minister's job three times, and each time the job went to an increasingly less competent person."
Dumbledore frowned with distaste. "No, Rufus. I will not pursue influence in such a way. Full-time politics would require me to step down as Headmaster, and I love my role here at Hogwarts too much to sacrifice it for higher ambitions. More importantly, I have learned the hard way that I am not meant to hold the reins of political power."
"Not even for the Greater Good?" Rufus asked slyly.
The Headmaster's eyes twinkled. "Especially not for the Greater Good."
Harry looked back and forth between the two older men in confusion as he wondered at the subtext he was missing. "Um, so anyway, if you don't really know anything about the trial itself, I wondered if you might be able to put me in touch with the three judges who did oversee it, assuming they're still alive."
Dumbledore shook his head. "The identities of the Blind Panel are magically sealed as part of the Death Eater Laws, Harry, a piece of legislation backed by powerful magic. I cannot simply reveal them to a student for a school project, even if I wanted to."
"No, sir, but as Chief Warlock, I believe you can unlock the identity sigils on the transcript that identify those judges for your own benefit. Then, if you're willing to do so, you could owl them all letters to see if they might consent to revealing themselves as you did. Or failing that, to communicate with me though anonymous owl letters with you as a go-between."
Dumbledore thought about the request for a moment and then reached out his hand. The transcript floated from Harry's lap over to him. Then, he adjusted his spectacles, pulled out his wand, and tapped the sigils at the top of the first page. Harry already knew that three sigils represented the judges while the fourth represented the clerk assigned to the trial who affirmed the accuracy of the transcript. Although Harry did not actually remember Scrimgeour's agenda at the moment due to his self-altered memories, the older Slytherin's plan was to obtain the names of the three judges and then investigate to see if any of them could have been coopted by Death Eaters. At Dumbledore's command, the sigils shimmered and melted to reform into four names. He studied the names for a moment and then his eyebrows rose in surprise.
"All three of the judges of the Black trial are known to me. All of them served with distinction and were all known for conducting themselves as judges with the highest, most impeccable standards. And all three were implacably opposed to Voldemort and the Death Eaters."
Harry nodded at that while Rufus narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
"And," Dumbledore continued, "all three of them were dead at the time Sirius Black's trial was supposedly held."
"WHAT?!" Rufus bellowed.
"What I said," he continued. "All three died within the six-month period before the trial date. Two were killed by Death Eaters in separate incidents, and a third died naturally from a heart attack. Yet all three somehow affixed their judicial sigils to this transcript which was subsequently entered as the official court proceedings."
Harry was shocked. "How could that have happened, Professor?"
The older man closed his eyes and thought about the procedures that had been in place at the time. Then, his eyes opened excitedly.
"The fourth name on this paper is the clerk supposedly assigned to the trial. His name, which I can reveal, was Herbert Cattermole, and he was also the Chief Clerk. Which means that in addition to his duties with regard to the actual trials, he also held and maintained the judicial seals of all judges who died in office. As I recall, the idea was that after the War was over, all of the judges who died during their time of service would have their seals affixed to a memorial wall. Until then, the seals would be locked up in Cattermole's safe."
The fire in Rufus Scrimgeour's eyes was murderous. "Do you seriously mean to tell me, Albus Dumbledore, that all it would take to fake a Death Eater trial and conviction would be for a single Ministry functionary put in charge of seals that once belonged to deceased judges to simply affix them to a forged transcript!?"
The Headmaster leaned back in his chair in surprise. "That is a serious accusation. Not to mention a remarkable leap to make based solely on the irregularities that have just been revealed." His eyes narrowed. "Of course, you've ferreted out the truth with fewer clues, I suppose. Can I assume that you have some independent basis for doubting this transcript's validity even before you learned of its possible forgery."
"Nothing … actionable, Albus," he grumbled. "And nothing I can share at this time."
"Then, all I can say to answer your question is … yes, I imagine a corrupt Chief Clerk who had been suborned could, theoretically, have used the seals of deceased judges to forge a trial record well enough to put an innocent person in Azkaban."
Dumbledore's face darkened in anger. "I'm sure you recall, Rufus, that I was strongly opposed to the passage of the Death Eater Laws as the time of their introduction precisely because they were pushed through too quickly and without sufficient deliberation to prevent abuse. This is not the first such abuse of those laws I have encountered. Though, if it truly resulted in the wrongful conviction of Sirius Black, it may well be the most egregious."
The former Auror gave a sour expression. "Yes, well, you know the First Rule of Political Cowardice, Albus: The People are demanding that we do something, and this is something. Therefore, we should do this, whatever it is. What happened to Herbert Cattermole?"
Dumbledore thought for a moment. "As I recall, he decided to retire not long after Voldemort's fall. Retire and emigrate to the Caribbean, I think. His son Reginald presently works in the Magical Maintenance Department at the Ministry in London. He might have more details."
"Emigrated to the Caribbean?!" Scrimgeour spat. "How ... convenient."
"Hang on," Harry interrupted. "What about my parents? I mean, even if the trial transcript is a fake, both my parents still say that he was their Secret Keeper and that he betrayed our whole family to You-Know-Who. What, were they both Memory Charmed or something?"
Scrimgeour shook his head. "No. They submitted magical affidavits. As part of that process, they would have been required to handle Remembralls to ensure that their memories had not been tampered with. And there is no form of Memory Alteration spell that can hold up to a Remembrall, not even a memory-altering Imperius."
Harry frowned at that as a brief silence fell on the room. Then, with visible reluctance, Dumbledore spoke.
"That's … not entirely accurate," he said. Scrimgeour's head snapped up as he fixed the Headmaster with a furious gaze. Harry just looked back and forth in confusion.
"Um … which part?"
Dumbledore sighed loudly and then produced his wand with which he carved a complex pattern in the air. In response, all of the paintings in the office instantly froze.
"You told me once that you collect secrets, Rufus. Here's a corker to add to your collection. I am … reliably informed that the Department of Mysteries has access to a potion which, if fed to someone immediately before they are subjected to memory alteration, will render such alterations undetectable by a Remembrall or any other similar means."
"Reliably … informed," Rufus said slowly. "How reliably?"
Albus coughed in what might have been embarrassment. "I have personally witnessed its use."
Scrimgeour's mouth opened and closed as he grappled with this development. "We have used Remembralls to confirm the validity of testimony since 1783! Do you mean to tell me that there is a cloud over every single criminal conviction for over two centuries?!"
Dumbledore held up his hands placatingly. "No, no. Saul Croaker, the Voice of the Unspeakables, assured me that the potion's manufacture and use was regulated with the highest possible clearance. They use it to erase evidence of forbidden magic deemed Unspeakable, not for anything like witness tampering."
"Such naivete in a man of your age, Albus," Scrimgeour said while clucking his tongue. "Tell me – did Rookwood have access to the formula?"
"No," Dumbledore said firmly. "I asked Saul about that when Rookwood was revealed as a Death Eater. He assured me that Rookwood was never assigned to brew the potion. In fact, despite his brilliance in other areas of magic, Rookwood was not a Potions Master and lacked the skills needed to brew it even if he had access to the formula. Furthermore, any specific knowledge or memories he might have had of the potion's nature would have been locked away from his conscious mind by operation of his Unspeakable Oath upon his expulsion from the DOM."
"Uh-huh," Rufus said with a dubious expression. "Did he also assure you that Rookwood never had the opportunity to filch some vials and stockpile them for You-Know-Who's use?"
The Headmaster's grimace answered that question even before he spoke. "Saul was … evasive on that point, though he did reassure me that all … non-traditional potions used by Unspeakables were designed with special enchantments that would make them impossible to reverse engineer."
"Is there a way to break Memory Charms cast in conjunction with this potion?" Harry asked. "As incredible as it seems, my father may well have sent his best friend to Azkaban for a crime he didn't commit! I would hope he'd want to do something about that."
Dumbledore nodded. "Let me consult with Saul Croaker. Undoubtedly, getting solid answers from him will be like pulling dragons' teeth, but I can be quite persistent. In the meantime, I ask you to keep this information to yourselves."
"Oh dear!" Rufus exclaimed with mock outrage. "And I was so looking forward to seeing a big blaring Daily Prophet headline announcing that 'Undetectable Memory Charms Destroy Basis of British Wizarding Justice.' Come along, Potter. Let us adjourn to my office for a debriefing while the Headmaster grapples with a secretive cabal of professionally paranoid mad wizards."
On the way to the DADA classroom, Scrimgeour rebuffed every attempt by the boy to talk about what they'd learned. Once inside the classroom, the former Auror set up a truly spectacular number of privacy Charms before finally giving Harry permission to speak.
"Wow," Harry finally said almost breathlessly. "I still can't believe it! This whole time, Sirius Black, You-Know-Who's right hand man, has actually been …."
"Salazar's scintillating synecdoche," Scrimgeour interrupted. Harry blinked repeatedly and shook his head in response.
"… innocent," he concluded. "You know, that may be the creepiest Occlumency experience I've had yet. Knowing something, and then choosing not to know it. And if you hadn't given me the pass phrase, I'd have never remembered the truth again until I relearned it naturally, would I?"
"Indeed. I suppose it would have been inconvenient for you if I'd keeled over dead of a heart attack or something on the way back to my classroom without terminating your secondary persona." He bent over and peered into the boy's eyes. "No obvious signs of any Occlumency mishaps. How does your brain feel? No sensations of an intruder sharing your mind? No lingering impulses to believe things you know are untrue?"
"None that I'm aware of," Harry answered. "I'll meditate back in the dorm and make sure I'm not thinking anything I don't mean to."
Then, he looked at Scrimgeour quizzically. "Professor Snape learned to do that trick so he could be a spy. But what made you learn to create alternate personalities?"
Scrimgeour barked out a laugh. "Potter, I am literally embarrassed on your behalf that you would ask such a blunt and provocative question and genuinely expect an answer."
Harry thought about it and nodded. "Fair enough. Now that I think about it, I'm embarrassed I asked it like that as well. So what happens next?"
"Next? We spend some time contemplating what we have learned before we plot our next course of action. Albus will make his own investigations, but the Unspeakables are involved now which vastly complicates matters, at least as far as clearing Sirius Black's name goes."
The boy nodded. "Any thoughts about Herbert Cattermole? It would be convenient if we had a fugitive Death Eater we could hang everything on."
"Impractical," Rufus said as he sat down and propped his feet up on his desk. "Even if we could pin the blame on Cattermole, it doesn't solve the larger problem. If Cattermole simply faked the entire transcript, how do we prove it in a way that doesn't implicate roughly a third of the Wizengamot and possibly trigger a revival of the Wizarding War?"
Harry chuckled. "Maybe we could say some other Death Eater did everything Sirius was convicted of and this Cattermole bloke just whited out the name and put Sirius's down."
Rufus did not respond, and when Harry looked over, he realized that the ex-Auror was staring at him with a feverish expression.
"What?" Harry asked.
"Of course!" Rufus exclaimed as he jumped up out of his chair. "The transcript isn't faked! Cattermole simply switched out Black's name for the real traitor! But who … ah, yes! Obviously, the real traitor was Marcellus Frump!"
Harry stared at Rufus in amazement and confusion. "Who the hell is Marcellus Frump?"
The older Slytherin turned to look at the boy with a sly grin. "I have no idea, Potter. I haven't finished inventing him yet."
31 January 1994
Tirana, Albania
A posh Muggle hotel room
Yetta Garshi sat uncomfortably in the overstuffed chair with one hand resting on her belly. To be fair, the witch did most things uncomfortably. It was the standard condition for any female who was four months pregnant. As Yetta waited for the meeting to begin, she thought about the circumstances that had brought her here and tried not to weep. She'd met Oleg Kryzenko at Durmstrang, and he'd proposed the previous Spring. They'd both sat their NEWTs together and made plans to get married at Christmas. Then, Oleg had gone on holiday with some of his drinking buddies. After too much firewhiskey, they decided they might enjoy a good time at the Veela preserve in Bulgaria, letting their carnal urges overpower their knowledge about what exactly wild Veela really were.
"At least he died with a smile on his face," she thought to herself bitterly. It was a week after the funeral that she'd found out he'd also apparently miscast the Contraceptive Charm the last time they'd had sex. "That's what I get for trusting my boyfriend. Even if he was better at Charms, I still should have cast it myself."
The loss of Yetta's fiancé was a tragedy as far as her family was concerned. The fact that she'd gotten pregnant out of wedlock, on the other hand, was a scandal. While at Durmstrang, Yetta had been a bit of a prude, which was common for the comparatively insular wizards and witches of the Balkan peninsula, and she'd often looked down her nose at the girls who came to the Institute from the more cosmopolitan regions of Europe. The way they dressed! And acted! It was a shock to see such narrowmindedness turned back on her by her own family due to an unplanned pregnancy, and it was made abundantly clear to her that if she ever wanted the support and affection of her parents again, she would not keep this child.
Nor was terminating the pregnancy an option. After all, given her blood and that of Olaf, her child was likely to be magical. Albanian governmental policy and Balkan cultural mores both militated heavily against abortion for witches. If the child was born a squib, of course, such squeamishness fell by the wayside. In this somewhat backward part of the Wizarding World, it was still perfectly legal to kill children who had not shown magic by the age of eleven. And so Yetta decided that if she was going to have this baby and give it away, it would be to Western parents, whether British, German, or French, who would promise to love it even if it had no magic. Then, Yetta would go move on without looking back or feeling any guilt.
Happily, after she'd reached out to some of her father's less-than-reputable contacts, she made contact with the Greys, a British couple who were young and wealthy but unable to have children of their own. She'd first gotten the news from the lawyer handling the adoption, some British solicitor who'd sent an owl all the way from London weeks earlier. And today, in this hotel suite, she would be meeting the future parents of her child (her son, she'd recently learned from a diagnostic spell) for the first time. Yetta was already bracing herself to give her baby boy away, but still, she at least wanted to be sure that his future mummy and daddy were kind and loving people.
The door opened and the Greys entered. The man was quite handsome and the woman a stunning blonde though she looked noticeably older than her husband (not that Yetta was in a position to criticize such couplings). Yetta struggled to rise from the chair, but Madam Grey rushed forward to stop her.
"Oh, don't get up my dear! You must conserve your strength! We want your baby to be as strong and healthy as possible, Miss Garshi."
The pregnant witch leaned back in the chair as Mr. Grey poured her a cup of tea from a service that had been provided for this meeting.
"Please," she said in halting English. "Please to call me … Yetta."
"Of course, dear," said the blonde woman. "And you must call me Cissy. And my husband, Barty."
"Quite so, quite so," said the man who called himself Barty Grey with a brilliant smile that he'd spent an hour practicing in the mirror before this meeting. Over the years of his submersion, he'd completely forgotten how to smile in a way that was inviting rather than terrifying.
"I know you've been through some terrible stresses," he said gently, "but Cissy and I will look after you. Until it's time for the birth, you will want for nothing and be treated like a queen. And afterwards, well … we will see to it that you are suitably rewarded for giving us this blessing."
Yetta smiled but then looked pensive. "And you promise? Whether baby is magical or squib, you will love?"
"Of course, my poppet," said the woman who called herself Cissy Grey. "So long as he's born healthy, we truly don't care if the baby is born with magic or not."
She reached over and patted the young pregnant witch on the knee. "I promise you. To Barty and myself, the child you carry will be the most important child in the world."
Barty nodded. "Oh yes. And I know that child will grow up to be forever grateful for, well, the sacrifice you will be making for him."
Yetta relaxed and smiled in relief. It pleased her to know that the couple was so kind and loving and would provide a good home for her son. Narcissa and Barty "Grey" smiled back at her beatifically, the perfect picture of connubial bliss.
After that day, none of Yetta Garshi's family or friends would ever see or hear from her again.
NEXT: Someone stages an intervention for Hermione. And then another one for Jim. Lucius makes a horrifying discovery. And Rita gets a big scoop.
AN 1: Special thanks to the POS-Editorial crew from the Sinister Man's Discord server: akitcougar, astolfo, crafty_kat, darkphoenix31, HeidiWolf, IPoke, Miss Andrist, Mr. Gift, Pokeflute, slytherin's daughter, Stelle, vaibhavi, and Vin5.
AN 2: What the Sinister Man is reading: "Circumstance" by WinchesterNimrod (in which an increasingly distraught Cedric Diggory suffers a Groundhog Day effect on the day of the Third Challenge) and "Retired Prometheus" by Vipavo (which features an intriguing and compelling Voldemort who responded to the events of Halloween 1981 by saying "screw this, I'm done." A warning for those who feel they need it - the latter fic contains several prominent gay relationships. No slash (so far), but some people apparently feel they need to know that going into a story for reasons that elude me.)
AN 3: Casting changes - While I have nothing but respect for Bill Nighy, he's totally wrong for POS-Rufus. Not nearly irascible enough. And so, the part of Rufus Scrimgeour will henceforth be played by Richard Wilson (Victor Meldrew from "One Foot In The Grave") wearing Bill Nighy's wig from Deathly Hallows. The part Barty Crouch Jr. will still be played by young David Tennant, but the part of Narcissa Black will henceforth be played Charlize Theron. Because it's fanfic, and so I can cast anyone I want.
AN 3: Check out the Sinister Man's web presence on the POS wiki, the POS TV Tropes page, and my Discord server (through which you can see advance previews of this story). Also, the Sinister Man would be profoundly grateful if you checked out my P*****n page and supported my original fiction. Patronage is not necessary to get the free POS previews via Discord.
AN 4: You might not believe it from the distressingly slow pace of updates, but I think I can see the end of Death Eater Menace, probably within approximately 10 more chapters.