Just wanted to thank all my reviewers! I appreciate all the kind reviews so much. :)
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When his shara had revealed that he was the most powerful wizard in the world, Revelin hadn't doubted him. His shara was so awfully clever and he could do such fantastic spells!—Revelin couldn't wait to learn some of the things his shara knew!—But still, Revelin hadn't really understood. Now he did. His shara could toss scary wizards around like Quidditch balls. It was amazing! Revelin stuck close to the window, watching him greedily. The witch with red hair tried to pry him away, but Revelin refused to budge.
A wizard in a black cloak swooped down in front of his shara, and his shara whipped around, wand raised. His shara hit the dark wizard with a green spell so powerful that it shot him backwards across the street and through a window. As his shara performed the spell, Revelin caught a glimpse of his face, and it made him cringed back a little. His shara looked awfully angry, angrier than Revelin had ever seen him, certainly angrier than his shara had ever been at him. Revelin knew the men in black had been bad by attacking without his shara's permission. It was kind of like when Revelin had requested the house elves to buy candy without his shara's permission: Shara had been very angry, but he hadn't thrown Revelin through a window. Revelin didn't understand how what these men in black had done was so much worse, but it obviously was. Revelin tried to imagine what he would have to do to make his shara angry enough to throw him through a window. He couldn't think of anything.
A witch in black appeared before his shara, and Revelin cringed a little bit. He had noticed the witch earlier. She had a laugh that made Revelin think she was quite mad. He also thought she was quite scary. But his shara handled even her, no problem. In fact, he hit her with a spell that made her scream. Revelin didn't know how to feel about watching someone else scream, except that he was quite glad it wasn't him screaming.
The dark wizards started fleeing before his shara. Revelin thought they were stupid: They should have run much earlier. It crossed his mind, as the dark wizards ran away in terror, that if his shara was powerful enough to toss wizards around like play-balls, then his shara would probably notice if he tried sneaking into the forbidden section of their library, which Revelin had been considering doing. A glum expression crossed Revelin's face. He was proud of his shara for being so awfully powerful and scary—Take that you stupid Neville boy with the silly surname, who had kept on reassuring the other children that his oh-so-powerful Auror father would take care of You-Know-Who and his evil minions! Like his father stood a chance against Revelin's shara!—but that also meant Revelin couldn't do anything without his shara noticing it!
The last of the dark wizards finally left, and Revelin peered out the window anxiously. His shara appeared a little tired, but no worse for wear. Their eyes met briefly. A funny expression crossed his shara's face, and then his shara started gazing around. Revelin started gazing around, too. Most the wizards—including that Longbottom man—were staring at Revelin's shara in awe. Revelin swelled with pride. Then his gaze fell on the funny wizard, and he frowned.
He had noticed the funny wizard a little earlier, entering the fray near the end of it. He had seemed powerful, this wizard, but not the way his shara was. His appearance reminded Revelin of the gypsies that occasionally came to Marrakech: colorful and flamboyant and with robes that dazzled with little stars. The gypsies would rob a person blind the second they glanced away.
Revelin looked to his shara, to see how his shara reacted to this strange wizard. First his shara appeared surprised, then a little wary. This frightened Revelin. It was rare for his shara to be nervous or wary of anything. They gypsy wizard must be bad. Suddenly Revelin didn't want to be alone in the little store with the funny gypsy wizard outside. The gypsy wizard might be able to hurt him before his shara could help him. Revelin wanted to be close to his shara.
Revelin ran out of the store—the redheaded witch shouted "HEY!" at him as he slipped out the door—and Revelin paused outside, suddenly concerned, as he realized he would have to go past the scary gypsy man to get to his shara. Revelin bit his lip, his eyes darting about the street. No one had said anything yet, which Revelin thought was weird, and his shara was staring at the gypsy man now with a completely blank expression on his face, till, as if sensing Revelin's presence, his eyes flicked over to the side, exactly to where Revelin stood anxiously.
A relieved expression crossed his shara's face, and without saying anything to the gypsy man he brushed past him, heading straight to Revelin. The only loudest sound that could be heard on the entire street was his shara's feet crunching on the ash. Revelin teetered back and forth for a second, anxious as to whether or not his shara would get angry at him for expressing too much emotion, and then remembered he was supposed to be playacting here anyway, and launched himself into his shara's arms, wrapping his arms and legs around him tightly.
His shara was rigid and wooden. Revelin could feel the tension in his chest and arm muscles, and it made him that much more anxious. He didn't like it when he shara was upset about anything. Revelin could tell his shara didn't like this gypsy man.
His shara's head tucked down, close to Revelin's. Revelin could feel his shara's lips near his ear.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes, Shara," Revelin whispered, feeling frightened. "Are you all right?"
Revelin didn't have to look at his shara to know that his lips were curving into a smile. "I am fine, child. But I need you to do something for me." His voice lowered to a whisper so quiet that Revelin was sure only he could hear him. "Do not say anything to anyone, and do not look the old man in the eyes, no matter what."
It was a bit of an unusual instruction, since his shara was always saying to stand stall, keep your back straight, and to not break your gaze with anybody, but Revelin didn't question it. He was much too anxious to disobey his shara. He nodded against his shara's chest—"Yes, Shara"—and tightened his grip around his shara, burying his face in the crook of his shara's neck.
He wouldn't look in the gypsy man's eyes. He wouldn't look at him at all.
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Voldemort felt himself relax ever so slightly when he felt the child acquiesce to his order. One of the last things he wanted to worry about was Dumbledore plucking his identity out of Revelin's mind. That would be disastrous.
Of course, the whole damn evening had been disastrous from the start. He had decided to bring Revelin here because it was the millennial celebration of the technical Founding of Hogwarts. It was as much Revelin's celebration as anyone else's, if not more so. He and Revelin were the only remaining descendants of any Hogwarts Founder. The Gryffindor and Ravenclaw lines had long been extinct, the Hufflepuff one—his mind flicked to Hepzibah Smith—slightly more recently. The Celebration had been for him, for Revelin. It had been a celebration of their ancestor's greatness.
Then of course he had come to see the occasion marked by a god-awful ordinariness that made him want to cringe. The 1000th anniversary of Hogwarts' School had been celebrated by a country carnival! That had been bad enough, and it would have guaranteed him a bad mood anyway, and then the candy store had happened, then Arthur Griffiths, then his Death Eaters, and now Albus bloody Dumbledore! It was like everything Voldemort had imagined going wrong with the evening, and then some things he hadn't imagined, happening all at once! The only saving grace was that Revelin was still alive, and thus far, out of Dumbledore's disgusting, muggle-loving hands.
Voldemort would have to be very careful to keep it that way. While he could fight off a slew of Death Eaters and a slew of Order members and Aurors, he couldn't fight off a slew of Order members and Aurors and Albus Dumbledore, which is what would happen if Dumbledore got any inkling of who he or Revelin was. Dumbledore would want Revelin, and Voldemort sure as hell wasn't giving the child up without a fight. Dumbledore would hide the boy so cleverly, brainwash him so thoroughly, that Voldemort would never see him again.
The thought made him what to vomit.
Instead, his muscles tense, his heart racing inside of him at the thought of what, exactly, was at stake, Voldemort slowly turned to Dumbledore. The damn man was still staring at him with that look of supreme interest and curiosity, as was half the street.
Keenly aware of how many eyes were on him and Revelin, as well as how undeniably awkward the situation was becoming—really, mudbloods and blood traitors were so rude—Voldemort lifted his chin slightly and stared straight into Dumbledore's eyes.
He felt it the instant the man attempted Legilimency on him and encountered walls as tough as steel. Sneering inwardly at how incredibly obvious the attempt was and a little irritated that the old man, after seeing Voldemort's blatant display of power, didn't think to even try to enter his mind stealthily, Voldemort grasped Dumbledore's mental presence and expunged it forcefully. Dumbledore's eyes widened a bit in surprise, and he regarded Voldemort, if possible, all the more curiously, like a strange new species he had never encountered before.
The two regarded each other for a moment more in the silent street before Voldemort said, attempting to appear at the same time both polite and wary, "I would appreciate it if you did not attempt that again, Mr. Dumbledore."
His statement carried across the street, and he heard a few people muttering in confusion, no doubt having no idea what had just happened. Dumbledore didn't appear the least bit nonplussed that Voldemort had indicated he had just done something rude, and instead turned his attention to the mutterers.
"Carry along now!" he said clearly, in a rather irritating jolly voice. "There are injured to take care of, children to get home, and a village to rebuild!"
It was as if everyone remembered themselves all at once, as wizards and witches leapt into action all around them, conversations striking up and coming to a roar, spells and people flying about. Lily Potter started guiding the children out of the store she had hidden them in—"There you go, Ginny dear, there's your mummy…"—and Aurors and hit wizards and all sorts of Ministry personnel began rushing about through the rubble. "You there, take Gladrags Wizardwear and the Post Office—begin searching for survivors. You there, the Hog's Head and Spintwinches…Start cataloguing the bodies and notify the families of the deceased…That right there looks like it could be Richard Green…"
Meanwhile, Voldemort and Dumbledore continued to consider each other, Voldemort warily, Dumbledore thoughtfully. On Voldemort's part, he was still anxious about the whole affair, but he felt marginally better knowing that Dumbledore had sent the others off to work. It meant Dumbledore didn't consider him an immediate threat, which meant that Dumbledore didn't have any idea of who he was.
"You seem to know me," Dumbledore said at last. Revelin's arms tightened around Voldemort nervously. "But I don't recall ever meeting you."
It was a subtle invitation to introduce himself. Voldemort ignored it. "All the world knows who you are, Mr. Dumbledore," he said at last, shifting Revelin slightly in his arms. He wanted to appear more relaxed, even if he was still fully alert. A good wizard with nothing to hide would feel relaxed in front of Dumbledore.
"Please call me Albus," Dumbledore invited.
It was another invitation to introduce himself, one Voldemort couldn't ignore without appearing odd. Well, odder. But Dumbledore had given him an out in this one.
"Please call me Cad," Voldemort said, outwardly polite, but inwardly sneering. It would be harder for Dumbledore to trace down a 'Cad' than a 'Cadmus,' and the nickname was muggle and Gryffindorish enough to throw Dumbledore off a bit.
"It's nice to meet you, Cad," said Dumbledore, his eyes suddenly twinkling. They drifted to Revelin, probably to ask his name also, but something about the way Voldemort's hands tightened around the child protectively must have indicated that that might be a bad idea. Instead he looked up, beamed at Voldemort and suggested, "Perhaps you and I can go to up to the castle and have a chat?"
Voldemort tensed. "Perhaps another time, Mr. Dumbledore," he said, as politely as possible, though he couldn't entirely keep the tight undertone out of his voice. He tilted his head slightly down to Revelin. "I would prefer to get my son home as safely and as quickly as possible."
Dumbledore suddenly looked grave. "Indeed." His eyes flicked down to Revelin, and his face tightened with anger. "Attacking a place with so many children. Voldemort has sunk to a new low." As if to explain himself, he added on, "I didn't expect it. Attacking a Hogwarts celebration. It's not like him."
Voldemort played ignorant. "I don't know about that, Mr. Dumbledore. But I must get going."
"Of course," said Dumbledore. His blue eyes flicked curiously over Voldemort's form once more. "But I do think we should have a chat together, you and I. Perhaps you can meet me up at the castle for tea? Next Wednesday at two o'clock?"
Not bloody likely. "Of course," said Voldemort instead, smiling kindly. "I'll be there. Now, if you'll excuse me…"
"Of course."
Voldemort turned on his heel and strode down the street. His heart was racing inside of him, his arms clutching Revelin tightly. He stepped over the body of the security guard who had checked his and Revelin's papers, barely believing that he was walking away from Albus Dumbledore, that Albus Dumbledore hadn't even suspected for a second who he was, that the Ministry dogs were allowing him to leave the village without so much as asking his name…He strode a little faster to the Apparition Points, his grip on Revelin tightening. It was because they were still in shock, they still didn't understand what had happened, even Dumbledore. Dumbledore hadn't been prepared for someone like Cadmus Ellwood, hadn't seen him coming. That was why he was getting away with this…That was why he was walking away, no one stopping him…Voldemort had to leave now, had to get out of there before Dumbledore changed his mind, before one of the Ministry dogs decided to stop and question the man who had singlehandedly decimated the Death Eaters' forces, before someone in that stupid, idiotic, imbecilic group realized that they didn't even know his full name! Elation rose in him, his nostrils flared with suppressed excitement—he had done it, he had survived, he had escaped, at least momentarily, that great muggle-loving fool Albus Dumbledore—Voldemort entered the Apparition zone and, with his arms tight around Revelin, disapparated with a crack.
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Ironically, when they returned to Marrakech, it was precisely Revelin's bedtime. Voldemort glanced at the clock on the wall, then at the child, still clinging tightly to him, and surmised that getting the child into bed at this hour might be nigh on impossible, even for him. Instead, he settled for prying the boy off of him, which was easier said than done.
"Revelin," he said, after a few minutes of effort, "Don't make me spell you off."
"You can't." Revelin's voice was muffled. His face was still buried in the crook of his shara's neck. "My leg is trapping your wand."
Voldemort paused and glanced down. Sure enough, the child's leg was wrapped tightly around his waist precisely where Voldemort needed to plunge his hand to get his wand. He felt a twinge of annoyance followed by amusement. Clever little imp.
But not clever enough. "I can do wandless magic," he threatened, tugging once more at the child's arm.
"You can't." Revelin sounded shocked. He loosened his arms and leaned back to stare his shara in the face. "That's impossible!"
Voldemort's arms snapped out and he took advantage of the boy's loosened grip, plucking him off his body just as the child's face screwed up in distress. "No!" he protested, as soon as Voldemort had set him on the floor. The boy immediately latched onto Voldemort's leg.
Voldemort exhaled in exasperation. What was wrong with the child? He had never acted so…childlike before. Was this what parents normally had to deal with?
"Revelin," he said, starting to lose his patience. Though he was momentarily pleased with his success with Dumbledore, this was not the night for the child to start grating on his nerves. Not by a long-shot. "We are in our house. No one can hurt you here."
The child's grip didn't loosen, and Voldemort closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and clenched his fists. His good mood from fooling Dumbledore completely disappeared. Frustration welled up in him—all he wanted to do was see the child settled safely and then go and torture his Death Eaters into oblivion—but he couldn't do that with Revelin acting so damn strange! What was wrong with the child? His frustration soared up to a new level, and a vase on a nearby table exploded into a million pieces.
Revelin cried out in alarm and cowered down, his hands clutching the pant leg above Voldemort's knee. Voldemort forced down his ire. The effort it took was almost choking. When he felt like he might not murder Revelin accidentally, he glared down at the child.
"Revelin!" he hissed. "What is wrong?"
Revelin cowered down so low he was practically sitting on Voldemort's shoe. "I'm scared!" he choked out, tears glistening in his eyes. His shifted his arms to wrap them tightly around Voldemort's calves.
"What of, child?" he asked in exasperation. Surely the child knew better than to be afraid of him, or his Death Eaters? He was fairly sure Revelin had seen him put them squarely in their place.
"Of the gypsy man!" Revelin cried out, his arms tightening to the point where they were almost cutting of circulation.
Voldemort opened his mouth to demand who, exactly, the gypsy man was, when it occurred to him. There was only one wizard who Revelin might accurately describe as a gypsy man. Dumbledore.
It was typical that Dumbledore was causing him trouble even here at home. The man's very existence was troublesome.
Voldemort frowned. "The 'gypsy man,'" he said distastefully, "is a wizard named Albus Dumbledore. And though he is a very bad man, and my enemy, you are safe from him here."
Revelin considered his shara fearfully for a moment.
"Do you trust me to take care of you?" Voldemort asked, a bit impatiently.
After a moment of thought, in which the child's mind was no doubt flicking to the battle he had witnessed earlier that day, the boy nodded. Slowly he unwrapped himself from Voldemort's leg, though he stood very close to the man still.
"It's your bedtime," Voldemort informed him, staring down at him, gauging his reaction.
The child seemed to sink a little at his words. "I don't want to go to bed," he said in a small voice.
Voldemort had been afraid of that. He glanced at the clock. His hand curled. It would be strange if he didn't summon his Death Eaters by midnight. It was nine now. "What will it take to get you to bed?" he asked.
The child's chin set stubbornly. "I don't want to go to bed."
Voldemort glared down at him, and the child shrunk back immediately. He apparently changed his mind about acting defiant. "Can you stay with me?" he asked instead, in a small voice.
Voldemort paused. Stay with the child? As in, until he went to sleep? His first though was, absolutely not, but then Voldemort glanced back at the clock. His hand curled and uncurled at his side. It would take the child a while to go to sleep… Maybe he could give him a Dreamless Sleep Potion!…No, those were dangerous for children. He glanced at the clock again. Three hours till midnight.
He hoped the child could fall asleep by then. "Very well," he bit out.
Revelin looked relieved.
Voldemort followed the boy as he want to his room, to his bathroom, as he got ready for bed. His eyes flicked critically over the child's bedroom—it was neat as a pin except for his desk, which was filled with a messy pile of books—then over the child himself as he pattered to his bed, dressed in his stock grey pajamas. The child plopped himself down on the bed and curled beneath the covers. He stared at Voldemort.
"Good night, Shara."
Voldemort inclined his head. "Good night, Revelin." He waved his hand, and the lights in the room muted.
Voldemort leaned against the wall next to the door, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes on the child, waiting, impatiently, for the boy to fall asleep. It took a while. The boy tossed and turned, and once or twice Voldemort saw his eyes peek open and fly to his shara, as if to reassure himself the man was there.
Eventually, though, the child's breathing deepened, steadied. Voldemort swept up close to him, to make sure he was asleep. He placed a hand on his forehead, wiped away a strand of hair. Then, uncomfortable with the strange, protective feeling sweeping through him, he left the room.
As he descended the stairs, the face of Cadmus Ellwood twisted and morphed, turning flat and snakelike. And as Cadmus Ellwood disappeared, so too did the feelings of protectiveness. Instead, anger thrummed through him. His eyes narrowed. His nostrils flared. His hand clutched his wand like a claw. He twisted his snake pendant, and with a jolt he was catapulted to Malfoy Manor.
His Death Eaters were about to pay for what they did today.