Magical Me
By Publicola

Published: 9-24-12

The Social Life of Slugs

I waved the young curse-breaker over once he had finished securing my belongings. "Bill, I think you should have a look at this."

"Sure, Gilderoy, what'd you find?"

"Read." I thrust the diary at him, turning to the first page.

It only took a minute before he lost all color in his face. "Merlin's bloody bollocks, he made more than one? How'd he — well shit."

He finally turned his gaze on me. "Riddle must have been a genius to figure all this out while he was still a student. 'Course, he must be certifiable after making multiples, but still!" He paused, "You know what this means, don't you? We haven't a clue where the others are or where they might be. This is… nightmarish.'

I nodded solemnly, "He intended to use Founders' artifacts, but that's no help. Most of those are lost, and even if he used them we'd still have to find them all over again ourselves. Oh, keep reading."

He looked at me oddly for a moment, before returning his attention to the diary. Another minute passed before he started swearing like a longshoreman. "Bloody buggering shit! A basilisk! A thousand-year-old basilisk inside the school... that thing must be huge!"

I chuckled nervously. "Tell me something I don't know. I was sorely tempted to tender my resignation on the spot – no way do I want to be anywhere near that thing! On the other hand, it hasn't been active for almost fifty years, and hopefully we can get neutralize it now that the diary won't be around to awaken it. Also, keep reading."

His wide eyes narrowed.

"No, you're past the worst parts. There's a sentence… here" I pointed, "where he says he had to bind the Basilisk to his will. Perhaps we can reverse the process. It seems unlikely that Slytherin would have been so cavalier about the safety of the school he founded – perhaps the basilisk was meant to defend the school?"

He gawked at me. "Sure, and perhaps Salazar was actually a Gryffindor at heart. Are you mad? We're talking about a beast that can kill with a glance and whose venom is the most deadly known to man. Even if you're right about Slytherin's intentions, which I very much doubt, who's to say the snake hasn't gone stir-crazy from a thousand years of isolation? And don't forget, even if we break the binding, You-Know-Who could do it again if given half a chance. Merlin, it's like defending yourself with a mucular bomb—"

"Nuclear?" Ironic he used that example, considering the Cold War policy of Mutually Assured Destruction.

"That's the word – nuclear bomb. You die, everyone else dies with you. Problem is, that won't dissuade Voldemort if he has horcruxes. Safest choice is to just get rid of the thing."

Or maybe he had heard of MAD – he just realized it doesn't work when dealing with an unkillable psychopath.

"All right, all right, you made your point. I just thought – it mean, if it's a thousand years old, it must have known the Founders. Think of all the history, if we could find someone to talk to it!"

That stopped him. "You know… that's a really good point. I still say it's safest to kill it, but you're right that it'd be an incredible boon for historians. The trick would be capturing it first so you could have the conversation safely. Oh, and finding a parselmouth."

"Right." I made a note on my question sheet, to see how Riddle had dealt with the basilisk before binding it. "Are parselmouths as rare as I think they are?"

He grimaced, "Yes and no. I've seen a few snake-charmers in Egypt, and I heard they're fairly thick on the ground in India. Problem is, I don't how useful they'd be, since they belong to the Order of Aesculapius."

"What does that mean?"

"Means they weren't born that way. The Order was founded by a Greek parselmouth, who found a way to teach snake-speech to his followers. By the time he died, they knew enough to teach others. They couldn't replicate his parselmagic – he was a healer – but snake-speech was passed from generation to generation. I hear they renew the syllabus anytime they find a born-parselmouth, but that's every other century or so. For the most part, none of them are native speakers."

I was still stuck on the idea that snake-speech could be taught. "Wait, why is that a problem again?"

"Because only a born parselmouth speaks it instinctively, and we can't be sure if two-thousand-year-old lessons from a Greek snake-speaker would apply to interpreting for a thousand-year-old English basilisk."

"Ah." That's when it hit me. Of course parseltongue could be taught, otherwise Ron could have never opened the Chamber. 'He talks in his sleep,' my arse.

"What's that?" Bill looked at me curiously. "You looked like you thought of something."

Well, this is just great. What am I supposed to say? 'Yes, I was just thinking of how much of a creeper your youngest brother would be in some future alternate universe'? Right.

"Nothing… I just…." Ooh, an idea. I tried again. "I was just thinking: have you ever heard of Language Lozenges?"

He nodded pensively. "I've used those before – Gringotts provided the ones for Ancient Egyptian before my first dig. I hear they're pretty rare, though, not to mention expensive. Where'd you hear of them?"

"Oh, mine are supplied by the Dark Forces Defense League. One of the perks of membership, I guess. I was just thinking, if snake-speech can be taught, why couldn't there be a parseltongue variety?"

We thought on that for a few seconds, before I shook myself. "Anyway, there's still more in the diary."

"Read on?" He said wryly.

"Of course."

He continued to scan the pages, as I idled nearby. Each question served as a title of sorts for each of Riddle's answers, so it was easy to follow along despite the Q & A format.

'What do you know of the Great Basilisk?'

'What else did you find in the Chamber?'

'What are your memories of speaking with snakes before entering Hogwarts?'

'What did you learn about parseltongue once you entered Hogwarts?'

'Who else knew that you could talk with snakes?'

'Did anyone of them help you research? Who were your allies?'

'When did you discover you were a descendant of Slytherin's line?'

'What do you know of the Gaunt family?'

'What was it you did to them?"

"Gilderoy, look!" Bill waved me over in excitement. "Here he's talking about the Gaunt family, and their connection to the Slytherin line… he set up Morfin to go to Azkaban… took the family ring. I wonder—if he made the diary into a horcrux because it proved he was worthy to enter the Chamber, you don't think he might've used the Gaunt ring as proof of his lineage?"

Damn he's good! "Might be something there, I'll make a note of it."

He continued perusing the other answers, occasionally discussing some of the responses with me. I wasn't a great conversationalist, however, as my attention was already elsewhere. That evening I would be attending Slughorn's dinner party. I had a few ideas for how to proceed, but mostly I was just going to wing it.

"Just a sec." I pulled out the original diary, and cast a quick compulsion. "I'm going to a dinner party hosted by Horace Slughorn in an hour or so, and remembered that his name came up early on." I placed the tip of my wand on the horcrux, twisted left, and pulled. A thin silvery strand came up with it. "This is Riddle's memory of their encounter." I motioned at the pensieve nearby. "Care to join me?"

He did, rather eagerly. The memory was pretty much identical to the one Slughorn provided Harry in the books, with one glaring exception.

The whole misadventure in Harry's Sixth Year left me stymied, in more ways than one. Why was Slughorn so reticent about sharing that memory? I mean, it was just a conversation, and not much of one at that. Riddle did most of the talking—so uncharacteristic for a true Slytherin—and Slughorn hardly provided any new information at all. Right?

Ah. Turns out Slughorn still managed to withhold a few moments from the final memory: namely the part where he told Riddle that he could find out how to make horcruxes from the book Secrets of the Darkest Art, and then told him where to find it in the Restricted Section. That's what was missing: Slughorn practically gave him the instruction manual!

When we emerged from the pensieve, Bill stood unnaturally still, except for his hands which he was cycling between extended and clenched. He settled for the latter. "The bastard! He knew! You could see it in his eyes by the end of it—he knew it wasn't just academic, he knew Riddle was serious. And he did nothing!" He banged a fist impotently against the wall.

His eyes pierced mine. "Gilderoy, I don't know what you have planned, but whatever you do… bury him."

Two hours later, I stood beside an immaculately kept lawn somewhere in the West County. I only knew the apparition coordinates from Slughorn's invitation. I'd sent Bill back to Gringotts an hour before, with a promise to stay in touch to coordinate the horcrux search. The diary was busy transcribing a response to my query 'Describe your life before entering Hogwarts,' which should occupy it for the rest of the night.

I walked up to the house. On my second knock the door swung open. "Gilderoy!" A portly man welcomed me, looking like an experimental cross-breed of the actor Jim Broadbent and a walrus. "So glad you could make it! Come in, come in." He waved me inside.

The dinner party had barely begun by the time I arrived, the loitering guests conversing in twos and threes around the house. I had barely taken off my outer robes before Slughorn waylaid me into a conversation with Barnabus Cuffe, editor-in-chief of The Daily Prophet. Considering he ran the magical equivalent of Pravda, he turned out to a surprisingly pleasant and engaging conversationalist – so much so that by the end of our discussion I found myself somehow agreeing to be interviewed the following week. Coming to my senses, I couldn't do much about the interview, but I was able to confirm (rather hastily) that Rita Skeeter wouldn't be assigned the job.

Thank heaven for small blessings.

Cuffe had an urgent appointment with the punch bowl, and Slughorn had long since disappeared, so we parted ways. I meandered for a time, before I overheard a snippet of conversation that caught my ear.

"…but even you must see how absurd it is to allow our economy to be held hostage by the goblins!"

I listened from the edge of the conversation, though I was careful not to interrupt. A young lady on the cusp of middle age seemed to be haranguing a feebly protesting older man.

"Ah but—"

She continued, "You know as well as I that goblins cannot be trusted. They are a cruel and vicious race who should have never been allowed to set foot above-ground, let alone granted sovereign territory in the heart of London. A nation of bloodthirsty bankers: Morgana spare us. I cannot believe our official policy is to appease the bastards!"

"Ah but—"

"But why do I even bother, really? Nothing I say will change your mind, and certainly you couldn't affect the Ministry's stance."

"Ah but—"

"It sickens me, it really does. Oh where's the punch?"

She looked ready to turn away from the conversation, so I piped up. "Don't lose hope. You know you're right, and even if others don't see it, you can still set the stage for future reforms by changing hearts and minds now, in the present."

She gazed at me with an appraising eye. "Well said. I can't say we've met, but you are Mr. Lockhart, are you not?"

"At your service, ma'am. And call me Gilderoy." I gave my award-winning smile.

"Wendy Slinkhard." The name seemed familiar. "And this gentleman…" she waved.

The man in question shook himself, as if coming out of a cocoon. "Cuthbert Mockridge, Goblin Liaison Office."

"Indeed! A pleasure to meet you, sir."

The elderly man gave a wan smile, "Same to you, Mr. Lockhart." He wobbled a bit on his cane as we shook hands.

"Well! I was saying," Ms. Slinkhard cut in impatiently, "I do try my hardest, but so few in the Ministry are willing to speak against the goblins. I mean, really!" She huffed.

"Oh? You work for the Ministry?"

"Yes. Officially I'm in Disposal of Dangerous Creatures, though most of my work is coordinating Beast Division policy with the rest of the Ministry."

"Madame Slinkhard… is of the opinion…" Mockridge talked like an Ent. "…that my office… ought to be… taken over… by the Beast Division."

He shot me a knowing glance. Perhaps Cuthbert wasn't as senile as people made him out to be.

Slinkhard started right where he left off. "That's right. But every time I put it on the agenda, it gets pushed to the side by Dumbledore's men. The 'pro-sentient' party, call themselves. Fools, I say."

Mockridge shrugged and turned away, probably going to find a seat in the dining room. She called after him in a different tone. "For your information, it's not 'Madame.' It's 'Madamoiselle.'" She turned to beam at me, her meaning clear.

Oh good Lord. I've heard that politics makes for strange bedfellows, but that was a bridge too far.

I thought quickly. "Suppose we could do something about the goblins… what would replace them? Where would people do their banking, or store their gold?" That's the trick: keep the conversation impersonal.

She looked at me as though I were an idiot. "Why, with the Ministry, of course!" Heaven help me, she was serious. "Everyone I talk to has a different idea who should step in, but I can't understand the fuss. Of course the Ministry should take over – who else is there? No wizard would take such a degrading profession, and of course we can't trust the muggles." She spat. "Who else can we rely on? Dwarves? Don't be absurd."

"Wait, dwarves? What do they have to do with anything?"

She huffed in annoyance. "Don't you know anything? Before the goblins, wizards banked with the dwarves. They built most of the tunnels and vaults in Gringotts. Lost it all in the last go-round, though. Why trust them again, when they failed us the last time?" Fair point. "Trade one species of vermin for another – the idea!" She muttered, half to herself.

Okay, dwarves are back on my list. I'll be the first to admit that I'm prejudiced against goblins. After seeing 'Lord of the Rings,' who wouldn't be? But now she's insulting Gimli.

Keep it together. "But… I know dwarves and goblins were long-time enemies. If the dwarves only recently lost control of the vaults, doesn't that tell us they were successful until then?"

She stammered, "Well, yes, certainly, but…" She breathed and regained her composure. "That hardly means anything in this day and age. After the last series of rebellions, their goose was cooked. They lost ground – rights and territory – in each of the major treaties: 1763, '83, '99, and especially 1815. Now they can't even live below-ground any more – the last of their mountain halls were sealed off after 1919."

Good grief, that sounds horrible. I should have figured as much. Why else would such a proud and noble race as dwarves be willing to deliver Valentines for schoolchildren. What desperate straits drove them to dress in diapers and play Cupid?

Wait a sec.

That was Lockhart. I was the one that would arrange it. But… how? I have no memory of working with dwarves. Well, there was that pub in Sweden, but that hardly counts.

I was 'researching' Travel with Trolls when I came across the town of Nordmaling: population 2000 muggles, 40 wizards, and nearly 12,000 dwarves. Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, I'd apparently walked into the Rick's Café of dwarven Casablanca. There congregated the refugees of Western Europe, seeking entry to the ancient mountain halls of The Keel. Alas, few halls would open their doors to such rabble, especially those dispossessed and dishonored by defeat at the hands of stinking goblins. And so the refugees waited (and waited and waited) for passage to the Russian Urals, the East Greenland Orogen, or the Arctic Cordillera of Canada.

Of course, being who I was, I made my presence known by loudly asking the barkeep why there were so many little people about.

That little episode didn't make it into the book.

Then again, that hardly answered my question. Where had I found the clan of dwarves to do Valentine's Day duty? More to the point, where could I find them again, if only to put them to better use?

I nodded idly as Ms. Slinkhard continued to rant, and made the requisite guttural responses when appropriate. "Huh." "Uh-huh." "Oh?" "Hmm." As she was winding down I asked, "Pardon the unrelated question, but your name struck me as familiar. I know we haven't met, but…"

"Oh, perhaps you've seen my book, Beings and Beasts? Oh it has chapters on dwarves and goblins, and others of course, centaurs and merpeople, and how the Ministry deals with all such creatures. Of course I talk about why Ministry policy has failed and how it should be, but with Dumbledore's party in charge, my publishers were cowed into editing much of that out."

"Of course." No doubt her editors were thinking her rants would drive away any interested buyers, but no need to say that out loud. "Alas, I haven't heard of that book before. I'll add it to my list to read, but I don't think that's why I recognized you."

She deflated. "Oh." Then her eyes widened. "Oh! You must be thinking of my brother, then. Wilbert, Wilbert Slinkhard. He works for the Committee on Experimental Charms, and wrote the book on defensive magical theory. You must have seen it while preparing your course for Hogwarts."

"Wait, Defensive Magical Theory, that's the title?" You've got to be kidding. "Of course! That must be how I knew the name. I decided to use a different book, but kept that one as a reference." It wasn't really a lie, seeing as I would keep it as a reference for what not to do. Defensive Magical Theory was the textbook that Umbridge would assign in Harry's fifth year.

I was saved from enduring any more conversation with this woman by Slughorn's call to dinner.

I entered and grabbed a seat, only to find myself flanked by two others. To my right was an elderly man with a sizeable bald patch and a pince-nez; to my left was a tall woman who somehow looked both austere and frumpy.

We caught each others' eyes for a brief moment before she abruptly broke the silence. "Vector. Septima Vector. That's my name. You are?"

"Gilderoy Lockhart, at your service. Vector…" I thought, "Don't you teach arithmancy at Hogwarts?"

"Yes. And I hear you are to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, if the Prophet is to be believed."

"Indeed. So, we are to be colleagues then. Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"And yours," she replied curtly.

I turned to the other man, who had been listening in. "And what's your name, sir?"

His pince-nez bobbed as he looked me over. "I am Tofty." His voice was thin and wavery. The woman beside me seemed to prompt him further, so he tried again. "All right. Eigentlich Tofty, that's the name."

"Professor…" The woman began with a resigned air.

"Septima, I've told you before. I may be Professor Tofty to my students, but to everyone else I'd like to keep my given name. Please. I've left my Hogwarts days behind me."

"Except every year when you return for NEWTs and OWLs," she countered easily.

I interjected, "You once taught at Hogwarts? May I ask your department?"

"Why, Arithmancy, of course. Before your time, I expect. Retired in '61, to take apprentices of my own. Septima here still keeps me company, though it's been years since she got the job at Hogwarts. What's it been, four years now?"

"This will be my seventh," she answered promptly.

"Seven years, then. Oh, how the years seem to fly."

"You should take another apprentice, if you wish to keep your hands from idleness."

My brain was just catching up to me. "Wait… Professor Eigentlich…" I raised my voice, "Your middle name wouldn't happen to be Sachlich, would it?"

His eyebrows shot up. "Yes, how'd you figure? My childhood nickname was Sascha, actually. But my Danish days are long behind me as well. Call me Tofty, or Eigen, please."

"Certainly, Prof— Mister Tofty." My mind was by now gibbering incoherently, but I kept it together long enough to prompt him. "I'm afraid I'm unfamiliar with Arithmancy – I took other electives – but now that I'm older I find myself more interested. Tell me, what is it that you do?"

Despite being pretty much out of it for most of the conversation, I still tried to follow along with their explanation. Arithmancy was, as the name suggested, the study of magical math, and much of their work focused on its application to runes, rituals, and spell creation. From what I could tell, the Golden Age of arithmancy was during the Founders' Era – Ravenclaw was by all accounts especially gifted – but much of that knowledge was lost during the Renaissance and Enlightenment. Modern arithmancers were divided between two schools: those who sought to make original contributions to the field, and those who emphasized the rediscovery of lost knowledge from the past.

About ten or fifteen minutes in, I spoke during an opportune pause. "Thank you. This has been phenomenally helpful. I did have a question, though. I've heard it said that certain numbers have magical significance – three, four, seven, twelve, that sort of thing. How…" I paused. "How does that even work?"

Tofty chuckled, "Ah. I've had to answer that question for nearly every student through my door. In fact, my student and successor, Miss Wakefield, practically wrote the book on the subject. She taught the course during your years at Hogwarts, isn't that right?"

"Yeah, what happened to her?"

"Retired in '87." Septima answered with a sigh. "Decided to switch professions and become an artist. Real pity – she was my inspiration for becoming an arithmancer myself."

"One of the finest I taught." Tofty concluded sadly. "But back to your question. Septima, care to handle it?"

She nodded demurely. "Certainly. The magical significance of numbers has long been known, but only recently are we finding out the 'how's and 'why's. What is clear is that certain numbers seem to resonant strongly with certain abstract qualities like power, perfection, imperfection, fortune, and harmony. The current understanding is that the magic in numbers originates from notable magical events, propagates through ley lines, and is in some way tied to demographics and culture. For instance, you, like most people, probably know that thirteen is considered an unlucky number, right?" I nodded to confirm. "It may surprise you, then, to hear that is no longer the case in America."

That got a response from me. "Really? How can that be?"

"Indeed. Some say that it is because America is still relatively young in magical terms, and therefore the ambient magicks are still fairly weak. However, I and many others disagree. We believe that thirteen will probably never hold the same significance to them as it does for us."

All that was very interesting, but… "I'm sorry, but you still didn't answer why."

She quirked her lip. "Caught that, did you? Good. Impatience is often the mark of an eager student. However, you should know I gave you just enough information to answer the question yourself. Care to give it a try?"

Damn, she teaches with the Socratic method.

"Fine." I said with a resigned air. "Okay, let's see… events, ley lines, demographics and traditions. I don't know of any ley lines running between mainland Europe and North America, so the connection is probably quite weak. Erm, I imagine that any Native American magic would have been entirely unrelated to our European system, so that's something, but now America's been populated mostly by immigrants from Europe, so there shouldn't be that much of a difference… except… you said culture had an impact as well. Most immigrants were assimilated into a distinctive American culture, severing their ties to Old World magic. The magical resonance would fade without that sustaining influence, unless some new magical event came to reinforce it."

Tofty was practically on the edge of his seat. "Very good!" He loudly enthused, receiving more than a few odd glances from others seated around the expansive table.

Septima offered milder compliments. "Well done indeed. You missed a few details, but nothing too major. For instance, it's not chance but design that America has avoided events to reinforce the potency of 'unlucky thirteen.' American mages used compulsions to ensure most early skyscrapers didn't even have a thirteenth floor, or at least not one that would appear on the elevators."

Huh.

"Also, you forgot that there is a ley line between Old and New Worlds, running from the Canaries to the Bahamas, but you're still correct because the magical flow that ties it to the two continents is significantly weaker."

"Wait… Canaries to Bahamas… you don't mean to say…?"

"Well, surely you don't think it was coincidence? Binns may not mention anything, but every European wizard knows quite well that Columbus was a squib who followed the magic. Marco Polo recorded in his Travels that there was a ley line running east from Yangtze River Delta, and Columbus knew there was a ley line running west from the Canary Islands along the same latitude. He didn't realize there was a continent in the middle, but that's where he got the idea of a western route to the Indies."

Well. How about that.

I shook myself. Focus. "That is fascinating. Are there any good books on this subject? I don't recall any of our history textbooks being this interesting."

Tofty smirked, "Yes, Binns was a bore even when I was a student. As for books, I think Wakefield's text on Numerology would be a good start. I'll send you a list of others once I return home – better to have it in writing, I think."

"I can't thank you enough, you've been so helpful." I knew I was being effusive with my praise, but meant every word.

Our conversation continued until the end of the meal, when we traded promises to correspond or converse in the future. Tofty was a true gentleman, kind and reassuring, and while Septima's mannerisms weren't the most pleasant, especially at first, she had such a passion for her subject it hardly mattered in the end.

They were already preparing to leave, so I bid them farewell and moved away to find Slughorn for our conversation. I wanted to confront him after everyone else had left, but it would take careful timing.

I finally spotted him in the midst of a rather raucous conversation. Before I could join in, a hand grasped my arm and abruptly turned me in a different direction.

I looked down.

It was a short but tightly built woman, with a dark tan and an impressively painful grip. She looked familiar somehow. "Gilderoy Lockhart!" She had the voice of a female James Earl Jones, low and rumbling. "How good to see you here! So few people come to these things who can hold an intelligent conversation about Quidditch."

At my blank look she slapped me on the arm. It hurt. "Don't tell me you don't recognize me. Everyone knows me: I'm Gwenog Jones!"

"Ah, that's right. Beater for the Hollyhead Harpies, as I recall?"

"Star beater for the Harpies, and odds-on favorite to make the English Team for the World Cup! And you're Mr. Lockhart, dark forces fighter and author extraordinaire. How wonderful to meet you!"

Well. This is awkward. I knew there were other celebrities, but Lockhart tended to stay away from them. Didn't like the competition, see. "Ah. Thank you. Good to meet you as well. I see my… reputation precedes me." I relied on Occlumency to avoid blushing. How to hold a conversation with someone so caught up in their own mystique?

"Oh of course, everyone knows all about you. Well, everyone who's anyone. I think my sister still hasn't read your books. Calls 'em hokum, she does. Can you believe her?"

Point: sister. "Ah… your sister is Hestia, isn't that right?"

"You know her?" She looked somehow offended.

"Just by reputation." I backtracked. "She's in the Auror Office, you see, and I've worked with them a few times."

"Yes, well, never mind her." She rallied. "What brings you here? Staking your claims on an adoring… public?" She continued to speak in silky tones, as I withdrew into my mind.

Were all of Lockhart's fans so obvious? Oh. Right. Yes they were. Of course, Lockhart was nearly as bad. By this point he'd have probably taken her up on the offer already. Though he might have hesitated for a brief time wondering how it might affect his book sales to shack up with another celebrity.

But I wasn't Lockhart, so… though it was distracting to watch her throw herself at me… but no, not happening, I had a job to… is it hot in here? But no, I needed to move, I had to talk to… and why would I try to distract myself with our corpulent host when I could be enjoying such sexy hors d'oeuvres, and oh my gosh that doesn't sound anything like me something is wrong here.

I schooled my features and took a few moments to clear my frazzled mind. "Excuse me." I bowed my head and tried to move away.

She kept her grip on my arm. "What's wrong, Gilderoy?"

This time it was even harder to clear my thoughts. I tried again. "I need to thank… the host. Please, excuse me." I ground out.

"But…" she protested, as if in disbelief, "It was so good to meet someone like you, like me, someone who could understand me and the life I chose to live, I… I thought we had a connection, how can you just walk away?"

By now my head was full of static. I was saved by a single thought. I was lost. Where was the real me?

That was enough to prompt me, not to immerse myself in Occlumency but in my very magical core. It was short work to follow the tendrils to my other pre-Lockhart memories, and to act from there, while my main persona was shredded by whatever magic she was working. Some sort of a scent-based love potion, perhaps?

This is why I needed Occlumency, or rather, why I needed to be known as an Occlumencer. I had crafted my second persona, with sensitive memories tucked away, but I hadn't developed external barriers yet, because I didn't want to arouse Dumbledore's suspicion. Developing such an advanced magical skill without prior notice would certainly arouse suspicion. But Occlumency was meant for defense, not for something like this, not for emergency repair and salvage. Too late for that now.

"Let. Me. Go." I ground out, releasing a bit of magic alongside each word. (I'd heard of the Bene Gesserit and wanted to give it a try). She did, looking shocked. "Whatever you're doing, it won't work. I know my mind, and I know you're doing something to it. You don't stop, the next thing you'll see is an Auror guard. I'll gift-wrap you for your sister. I'm sure she'd appreciate it. Think your fans would enjoy reading about that? Now get out!"

Now, the problem with relying on my original memories is that I didn't have the same mental control over my magic as someone who had grown up with it. Lockhart's body had, but my mind hadn't. That meant my limbic brain was primed for a release of accidental magic, while my body could only direct that through previously used channels. In short, by the end of my speech there was a visible aura around my head and hands, something that only manifested for wizards considerably stronger than I was.

I smirked as she stumbled over herself to back away. We had gathered a slight audience, several looking at Gwenog with disdain but most looking at me, with expressions ranging from the intrigued, to the entertained, to the plainly lustful - though the last was mostly Wendy Slinkhard. Kill me now.

My aura died down as Gwenog left through the front door, the loud 'crack' of apparition following a few seconds later. Conversation resumed, though somewhat hushed in the aftermath of my little display. Slughorn left an opening in his circle of friends for me to join in, which I did.

The conversation that followed was uninteresting, though I tried to follow along, if only to keep my attention off the odd looks I was receiving. The gentle-wizards were discussing the latest reports from Bohemia regarding knock-off firewhiskey imports. At one point I was called to contribute because I had recently visited Moldova, though I don't know why they thought that was relevant. The two countries were over 400 miles apart.

One by one the others left, as the conversation turned and turned, flitting between such weighty topics as the recent giant legislation passed by the Duchy of Lithuania, to the ongoing diplomatic talks between the Magyar Empire and the Transylvanian Ministry (especially as it touched on the perennial 'Vampire Question'), before returning to more prosaic subjects, such as the new issue of Wandwork Quarterly. The conversation finally wound down with a discussion of the latest haute-culture fashions displayed at Cavalyn Studios (and imitated, poorly, by the more popular clothier, Madame Malkin's) before the last guest finally departed.

At last I was alone with Slughorn. "Gilderoy! I'm so glad you were able to make it. Please have a seat." He waved me to a chair near the fireplace. "I trust you enjoyed your first evening among our little clique?"

I grimaced, "But for that conversation with Miss Jones…"

He frowned, "Yes. That was… unfortunate. If she can't behave herself, I may not invite her back. Reflects poorly on the rest of us, you know. I'll have to think on this. Besides that?"

"Of course," I nodded affably, "I had several excellent discussions. Most of my exploits have tended to be solo endeavors, but now that I'm back in England, it's a pleasure to be around such an accomplished group of individuals as you've surrounded yourself with. In fact, that reminds me. Glitzy!" My elf popped in. "Please bring the item I set aside earlier?"

"Of course, Master." A few seconds later he popped back with the crystallized pineapple.

"A little bird told me this was your favorite. Please, accept this with my compliments."

Horace looked torn between confusion at my words, gratitude for the gift, and…

"Sir, I wanted to ask you something."

… and a dawning discomfort at the old memory this conversation was recalling.

"Ask away, then," he prompted, with an odd expression on his face.

"Sir, I wondered what you know about… about Horcruxes?"

Slughorn stared at me thunderstruck.

"I came across the term while reading, and I didn't fully understand it. I figured a wizard like you, with contacts like yours, would surely…"

"Did Dumbledore send you?" He cut me off roughly.

There we go. "Pardon? What do you mean by that?"

"He's come sniffing around before, and this wouldn't be the first time he sent one of his lackeys. Didn't figure you for one of his. What's he playing at?" Anger marred his face.

I smirked. "Nothing. This conversation will never make it back to him."

Now the discomfort was back. "Then… what's the meaning of this? How do you know that word, those words, this whole…?" He waved at the room, as though to clarify his meaning.

"Exactly what you think. I merely mean that none of this will be reported to the Headmaster."

"Then you…" his expression turned fearful, and his voice lowered, "you serve You-Know-Who, then?"

"Why does everyone assume that?" I burst. "No! The fact I don't worship at Dumbledore's feet hardly makes me a servant of a murdering psychopath!"

"Then you're not—"

"Oh, that's just it, I am." I had no idea what I was saying I was, but it sounded good regardless. "I've come across certain information – a device, and a memory within, showing in stark relief how you were an early supporter of Tom Riddle's rise."

The name more than anything seemed to terrify him. "No! I never…! How can you say…?" He trailed off at my murderous expression.

"How can I say? How can I say?" I ranted. "You told a sixteen-year-old boy how to make a horcrux! The sole surviving remnant of Egyptian black magic, and you practically gift-wrapped the instruction manual! And then you hid away, telling no one your little secret: that the Dark Lord you instructed is effectively immortal!"

"But he died! Potter killed him! The Boy-Who-Lived—!"

"Is a myth coined by the Headmaster. The Dark Lord was not killed but disembodied. Even now he seeks to return."

He stared at me in horror. "You're… you're lying. You can't be…"

"Remember the Gringotts break-in last year? That was Voldemort," he shuddered, "attempting to steal the Philosopher's Stone. Dumbledore knows, since he was the one responsible for the Stone's protection." No need to tell him it wasn't the real Stone.

He slumped in stupefied silence.

"Catching on, are you? Now you realize just how low your fortunes have sunk. So now that we understand each other, let's talk. You obviously want to keep this a secret. Amelia Bones or any of the honest Aurors would send you to Azkaban in a heartbeat. And that's to say nothing of what the servants of Voldemort" now he was practically trembling "would do to you if they heard you betrayed their Lord's greatest secret. So this is what we're going to do. You're going to give your oath, that you will not speak of this conversation to anyone without permission, that you will not seek to harm me, and that you will answer my questions honestly. In return, I will swear to try and keep this information from becoming public knowledge."

Now he blustered. "That's hardly a fair exchange. Really, I mean…"

"Be silent. Don't test my patience, you won't like the results. How long do you think you'd last if others knew what I know? Even if you could stay out of Azkaban, everyone would have you in their cross-hairs. All it takes is one word from me, and you're ruined. Think on that."

As I spoke, his eyes widened and his shoulders fell. He sat in silence for almost a minute, before slouching further. "I'll do it."

"Excellent."

A/N: Lots of references in here, everything from Dune to Berenstain Bears (good luck finding that one!), not to mention quite a few asides to historical events from Europe's past. See if you can catch them all.

A big thank you once again to all my reviewers. You can read my responses to selected reviews on my forum. You can find the link on my profile, or type in:

fanfiction . net / forum / Stories-by-Publicola / 150993