At the moment Ragnar Lestrange saw the name of Caligula Carrow stamped over the newspapers headlines, he knew his father had gone too far. His father had travelled to France some weeks before, and he hadn't settled a date of return. France – where Grindelwald's troops had practically taken over. But his father had returned, in the same day some manors in Durham had been conquered back. The day after, the one who had led the reconquest was found murdered by the Dark Lord – and Carrow, the same person who Ragnar had seen inviting his father to France, was promoted.
Carrow wasn't supposed to be de successor of Urquarth. He was the Head of the Investigation Department – usually, the Wizengamot would appoint the Head of the Auror Office, in this case, Theseus Scamander. But that hadn't happened. Carrow worked for Grindelwald, Ragnar already knew that. But his promotion raised several interpretations:
The Wizengamot was too deeply infiltrated. He didn't think that was the case, several members of it were advocates of muggle-interaction after all.
The Wizengamot was too easily blackmailed. It was possible, but he doubted it was the sole reason – you didn't found that amount of blackmail material anywhere in the market.
The Wizengamot was too swiftly bought. It was also possible, but there were to many honourable Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs in it for such simplicity.
However, the recent report the Lestrange account manager Furkras had sent showed several investments in dubious business. An almost bankrupt apothecary owned by the Edgecombes, a store Ragnar had never heard about named Wheeler's Wheel that was most probably fake, as the owner of it was named Nicholas Hopkins, and many others – all business owners of had one family member in the Wizengamot. This was usually the politics his father had never had enough patience to deal with – but he had apparently found his patience, and was wasting the family money in disastrous investments in order to support a Dark Lord.
Sometimes, his aunt Leta hadn't killed all elders in his family – then, he would be able to convoke a meeting and demand his father's deposition as the family head. He thought himself would make a fitting Lord Lestrange.
But all the elders were dead so he had to settle for a letter for Reimond inquiring about his dealings with Carrow, and other for Furkras advising the goblin to difficult his father's access to the vault.
His father obviously didn't respond back. Ragnar had owled Honeydukes and ordered a box of exploding bonbons – although they weren't Slughorn's favourites, they still worked quite as bribe to access the teacher's fireplace, which was connected to the Floo Network.
That was how he could be found at the moment in the Lestrange Manor, shoving a bottle of truth serum, down his father's throat – it had costed a bit more than the chocolate to Slughorn but he wasn't exactly good with compulsions.
"Is your current lover named Alicia Gay-Strauss?"
"Yes."
"Is she a mudblood?"
"Yes."
"I will have to commend Tom for this potion, works perfectely. Did you go to France to meet Grindelwald's followers and/or Grindelwald?"
"Yes."
"Did you go to Marat's house?" He remembered the name from the conversation he had overheard in the Summer Break.
"Yes."
"Did you join the Palladines?" He questioned, almost fearing the answer.
"No." Ragnar breathed in relief, but his father had hesitated, there was more to there.
"Are you a supporter of Grindelwald?"
"Yes."
"Did you bought Wizengamot members' votes in order to elect Caligula Carrow as the Head of DMLE?"
"Yes."
"Did you kill Callender Urquarth?"
"No." Ok, his father wasn't the assassin of one of the most prominent figures in Britain. That was good news, no?
"Did you know Callender Urquarth would be killed before his death?"
"Yes." Oh, but he was an accomplice. He wouldn't try to find who was the murder though. He had no use for such knowledge, and it was too dangerous.
"Did Carrow threatened you, my mother or I in any manner?"
"Yes."
"Did Carrow ask for information for the Dark Lord?"
"Yes."
"About the Lestranges?"
"No."
"About my acquaintances?" Tom had ordered him to ask this question. Domink Meier, according the Slytherin, had been a spy of Grindelwald, and he had also been much interested in them.
"Yes."
"About Tom Riddle and Anastasia Donbyre?"
"Yes."
"What did he ask?" No answer.
"Do you know the name Dominik Meier and/or Dominik Liothleben?"
"Yes."
"Does he work for Grindelwald?"
"Yes."
"Have you ever meet Grindelwald?"
"Yes." He had to hurry, the potion wouldn't last forever, and his father couldn't remain conscious after it.
"Have you ever killed somebody?" This was merely curiosity, a morbid curiosity he doubted would find any reason to be there.
"Yes." He had. Ragnar couldn't believe it. It was so morally wrong. And so unlike his father.
"Who?" He didn't answer. The truth serum couldn't force subjective answers. "Did you kill more than one person?"
"No."
"Was it a man?"
"No."
"Was it a witch?"
"Yes."
"Was she a mudblood?"
"No."
"Was she a half-blood?"
"No."
"Was she a pure-blood?"
"Yes."
"Was she a Gryffindor or a Hufflepuff?"
"No."
"Was she a Ravenclaw or a Slytherin?"
"No."
"Was she foreign?"
"No."
"Was she home-schooled?"
"No."
"Was she young?"
"Yes."
"Did you kill her recently?"
"Yes."
"Was she Petronia Urquarth?"
"Yes."
A child. An eight years old little girl. He had seen the sorrow in the siblings' faces of the same girl. Ragnar shoved a Forgetfulness Potion brewed by Tom down his father's throat, and ´packed a punch in his face. The man fell in the ground and with one last kick in his ribs, Ragnar left, returning to Hogwarts.
[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][]
Tom Riddle was reading a book on rituals in the middle of the Library. It was an old copy of a title that was no longer published, and part of the Pyrites family growing collection. Argo had no problem in lending it to him after he expressed his interest in such practices. The book had circa eighty years, yet it was well-kept. Probably the Pyrites weren't too interested in rituals.
He had been searching for necromancy and blood rituals, but it was a fairly tame literature – in which such practices couldn't be found. Many appearance-enhancing rituals, some marriage and adoption rituals, nine feud-declaring rituals, five blood-cursing rituals, three fidelity rituals, two vow-making rituals, one chastity ritual, one spirit-contacting ritual.
The wizard contained the urge of ripping the pages of the damned book. Useless. He went in search for a ritual book in the Restricted Section – thanks Merlin Slughorn had renewed his pass.
The Library was quite difficult to navigate through. It was divided in the Reference Section (in which all Hogwarts subjects could find their own section), the Creatures Section, the Legal Section, the Restricted Section, the Fiction Section, the Bibliography Section and the News Section. The Restricted Section was accessible only for N.E.W.T.s students, otherwise you needed a great deal of patience and arse-kissing abilities in order to get a permission from a teacher. He always went for Slughorn, as the Potions teacher was a great believer of no-questions philosophy.
"Tom, I'm here." Lestrange voice called downstairs. "I visited him."
"Well, what are you waiting for? Come here."
"Slughorn isn't so enthralled by me as he is by you. Lithruth will kill me if I enter without a pass."
Tom sighed in frustration, but he picked a ritual book that looked promising and went for the librarian. He gave her a charming smile, fading any suspicious she could feel like feeding because of the book's title. Ragnar followed him closely from behind as he left in the direction of the dungeons. He took the secret passage between the library and the dungeon hall, away from the prying eyes.
"You were right. Grindelwald is greatly interested by your doings – you and Nastya. Meier is his spy. Carrow has been asking around question about you."
"What questions?" Tom inquired, harshly.
"Excuse me?"
"I asked: what questions is the Dark Lord making about both of us?" Seeing Lestrange's stricken expression, he didn't have the answer. Tom groaned. "You had your father at your mercy. Any question you asked him he would be obliged to answer – and you did not care to ask about the Dark Lord's interests?"
"Well, I am sorry if you did not disclose enough information for me to make a sound guess." Lestrange spat venomously. "And I am sorry if you didn't have enough skill to brew me a Veritaserum or another similar truth serum that would have allowed me true answers. I did not enjoy playing charade with my father neither."
"I have already brewed the Veritaserum Potion successfully, Ragnar. I simply hadn't access to its ingredients over short-notice. And do not speak with me in that tone – such information is mine to share on my own will, and you have no ground to demand it."
Lestrange looked down, and if he was anyone else, the auburn-haired wizard would have blushed. "I apologize, Tom."
Tom ignored him, and walking into the Slytherin dungeon, he opened the book he had borrowed. It had the ritual he had looked for, after all.
Sanguis Vivit was the name of it. It only showed the living magical-relatives of the performer. It was relatively simple, although it required a great amount of blood – his blood. But the book said nothing about the freshness of the blood, a week should be enough time to collect the necessary quantity without over exhausting himself. It would leave a scar though – well, the air of November was cold enough for wearing gloves, he supposed.
Tom feared a bit what the ritual would reveal – if he had a large family, that would mean they had purposely neglected and denied him; and if the ritual did not show any names, he was the last of his line or a mudblood. But there was no use in his hesitation, and the most probable answer would be some descendent of Slytherin. And there weren't many people gloating around to be one of those – but there were some.
Maybe he was a Gaunt. Poor, but of the purest blood.
But money was still well-received.
[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][]
They all wore white robes, their hands were pointed to small children. Girls, shivering in the snow and crying. But standing still with some defiance as well. Gryffindors, her mind supplied. The men would take them. Would they kill? She didn't know.
The snow was so dirty. Was that mud or was that blood?
Her sight changed. She was at the Great Hall – she could see the familiar faces. "Tom!" One voice called. "Thanks Merlin!"
"Nastya." A voice whispered over her ear. Anya opened her eyes, and the green of her orbs met with the blue of her Ravenclaw friend's. Laws fingers were brushing against her forehead, removing a strand of hair from her face.
They were in an abandoned classroom near the Ravenclaw tower, which Laws had transformed in some kind of studio. The chamber had large windows that allowed the sight of the autumn scenery. Anya lay sprawled over a settee.
"Did I move?"
"No, you were perfect." Laws assured her. "But we are finished for today. The sun is almost down, there is no more natural light. Thank you for your cooperation, you have no idea how helpful you are."
"No worries, I quite enjoy the payment. Do you have it?"
Laws laughed, and brought upon the plate with several assortments of chocolate to her. Eos, her mother, had opened a chocolatier recently in Diagon Alley – it had been love at first taste for Anya. "How to you weight so little with such huge sweet-tooth I will never know." The brunette witch commented.
She put one piece of the chocolate with hazel on her moan. "Hum...Where is Dora?"
"Charlus came here, muttering about childhood friends and vows. They left together." She explained, sitting again on her stool in front of the canvas, brushing colours over the scenery. The painting was an oil on canvas, so she had time to finish. There were charms that made the process even calmer.
"I will never know if they are rivals or best mates." Anya said, the other hummed in agreement. "Can I take a look?"
"Please, do so."
Anya loved her friend's paintings – even though they were very different from her sketches. The red was always present, and usually the green as well. In this one she had opted for the autumn theme, with many reds, oranges and yellows, and some greyish green. She had painted her legs and face, but the body was still much undefined.
"Are my clothes not suited?" Laws didn't answer. "Not much I take. You should have, I can transfigure it, you know."
"It's not that."
"What's the problem?"
"Nothing." Laws answered too quickly. Anya raised her eyebrow. "It's too much…" She hesitated again. "Would have a problem wearing a shawl? Just it."
"Posing nude, you mean?"
"You can cover yourself, of course. I don't want to make you uncomfortable."
Anya paused, thoughtful. In the orphanage she hadn't been raised to be that uncomfortable with nudity, but it was expected from witches in this society. "It's really important for you, isn't it? Very well, we will start tomorrow then." She snorted. "This time I won't think too much about my figurine."
Laws laughed, and suddenly she was embraced by her friend in a tight hug. "Thank you!"
Anya snickered. "But this time, no Charlus trespassing please."
[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][]
Tom watched his final work in amazement. He wasn't the best artist out there, but the rune circle was a perfect copy of that in the pages of his book. It wasn't the most complex design he had seen – in his classes with Professor Sankara, they had covered the theory behind far more elaborated circles and rituals.
The runes were drawn in blood – his own blood – and the language was Gothic. You had the letters bercna, laaz, utal and thyth forming the word blōþ meaning blood. Sugil, aza, iiz uuaer, aza, noicz created the word saiƕan, which meant see. Manna, eyz, iiz, noicz and sugil were the letters to meins, aka my. The circle literally meant: See my blood. And that's what he wanted to – reveal his magical blood-relatives alive.
It was peculiar how three words could only be lead to magically alive people. As blood-runes were activated by magic, the blood could only search for magic, so muggles and squibs were excluded. And the word saiƕan or see, was the keyword to alive factor – the runes could only see the living, as the dead rarely stayed in this plane of existence. Dying meant the end of one's existence, hence, this blood-relation couldn't be identified.
He started chanting.
The words were in Proto-Germanic, basically an activation of the runes. The blood around his feet was given life by his words, moving to gather in front of him. His name was first formed, Tom Marvolo Riddle. Well, the orphanage hadn't lied – although one could argue one's name could only be the name one's used (for example, there were some parents that took days to name their child after birth, and in the period, the child would be called love or whatever, it was its first name, but it wasn't the name of the person the child would grow up to be).
Of his name, a thread grew up, being divided in two other threads. One of the threads stopped swiftly, while the other followed a bit more – before dying. Of the second thread however, another grew – and this third thread began transforming itself in a name. He wasn't a mud-blood.
M – was the first letter of it. But the name wasn't Marvolo. It was Morphin. Morphin Valerius Gaunt.
He was a Gaunt.
Who was Morphin Gaunt? And where was he?