To my readers:
I am so sorry for taking so long to update. As I mentioned in one of my earlier posts, I have started school again, and the work has really started to catch up with me. I know I said earlier I would try to update every two to three days, but I was hopelessly naïve when I said that. I'm taking a lot harder classes this semester, and I literally have over a thousand pages of nonfiction reading every week, so there's no way I'm going to be able to update as often as I'd like. On light weeks I'll probably be able to update about once a week, but on average it will probably be more like every 1-2 weeks. My impression is that will put me somewhere around average as far as normal updating times go. Sorry for slowing down, but I must graduate if I wish to be able to feed myself in the future. :)
Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter. It was probably the most difficult to write, even worse than the Voldemort on morality one. I would really appreciate it if you reviewed this chapter especially, since it marks a bit of a turning point.
And thank you so much for the reviews I've gotten already!
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The first time Tom Riddle had seen Hogwarts, he had been overwhelmed with a strange, soaring feeling, the likes of which he had only felt once before in his life—when Dumbledore had come to tell him he was a wizard. Since then, Voldemort had only felt that feeling very occasionally: upon finding out he was a descendant of Salazar Slytherin, upon making himself immortal, and upon gazing down at Revelin for the first time.
The recollection of all these incidents still sent a rush of pleasure through Voldemort. Every time he recalled that he was a descendant of Slytherin, something delightful swelled in him that wasn't as strong as the first time it happened but pleasurable nevertheless. Every time he looked at muggles and thought, I am a wizard, every time he remembered his immortality, and every time he looked down at Revelin, an echo of that strange soaring feeling swept through him.
Except with Hogwarts. Hogwarts was the only place that was different. Yes, Voldemort still treasured Hogwarts, and his memories of his time there were some of the few pleasant ones he had, but upon gazing at the castle's visage now, he was met with that same soaring feeling but mixed with revulsion, for now Voldemort could not think of Hogwarts without thinking of the man presiding over it. It was another reason he hated Dumbledore. The man was tainting one of the few things in the world Voldemort treasured.
Voldemort's lip curled as he stared up at the castle. Even now, as his eyes flicked over the soaring towers, the impressive battlements, and the students flying haphazardly around the Quidditch Pitch, he saw also in his mind's eyes the ghost of Dumbledore gazing over it all. It was disgusting.
His gaze fell upon the lawn and then on a small figure in dark maroon striding briskly towards him. Though the figure was too far away to make out distinct features, that stride could only belong to one person: Minerva McGonagall. Immediately Voldemort morphed his expression into a cautious yet polite mask, one typical of someone with the background he had constructed. He waited in silence near the gates, his body tense. The first shoots of adrenaline were rushing through him, as he began to realize just what he was about to do, what was at stake if he failed. He forced himself to control his reactions. It wouldn't do for Dumbledore, or even McGonagall, to suspect something was amiss.
Voldemort had never actually met Minerva McGonagall. She had entered Hogwarts a few years after he had graduated, and he had never faced her in battle. That did not mean he did not know her. Voldemort kept extensive tabs on all people associated with Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix, and his file on Minerva McGonagall was impressively large. He knew everything about the Deputy Headmistress and her family, from what her Animagus transformation looked like to what type of tea her husband, Elphinstone Urquart, preferred (Infusion of Reminquere). He also knew her personality backwards and forwards: She was blindly devoted to Dumbledore and would follow through with his wishes even to her own death, but rather incapable of operating or leading without some sort of guide as to what Dumbledore would have wanted. The woman trusted Dumbledore to do her thinking for her.
Voldemort loathed her for it. It was difficult to keep that loathing under control as she neared him, so hot and vicious was it inside him, clawing for a way out. It took all his concentration to keep his breathing pleasantly even, to keep his muscles from tensing inappropriately, and to keep the blithely polite expression on his face. The part of his brain that wasn't utterly focused on how much he hated her and her stupid, pointy hat worried, distantly, that if this was his reaction to McGonagall, whom he had never met, what would his reaction be like to Dumbledore, whom he had met and loathed beyond imagining?
He didn't get time to ponder it. McGonagall neared him surprisingly quickly, and when she was only a few feet away, stuck out her hand. "You are 'Cad,' I presume?" she asked briskly.
He shook her hand, trying not to cringe, crush her fingers, and draw his wand all at the same time. He could kill her right now, one of Dumbledore's most valued followers, and be out of England before anyone knew any better. For a brief second he was tempted to do it, as suspicion suddenly filled him—what if they suspected who he was, what if this was a trap, what if the school was filled with Aurors and Order members, waiting to overpower him, better to strike now, take out one of Dumbledore's lieutenants, before they could bring him down—but no, he was being rash. He must not do things rashly.
Instead he replied. "Yes, I am. And you are Minerva McGonagall, I presume? Head of Gryffindor House?"
She raised an eyebrow. "You have done your research, Mr…?"
"Just call me Cad, for now," he requested politely, falling into step beside her as they strode up to the castle. It was easier to be polite to her when he didn't have to look at her face. But he didn't have to look at her to know she was looking at him suspiciously. It was what he expected. Suspicion was fine—for the right reasons. "I am afraid, professor," he explained somewhat apologetically, "that I am wary around strangers. Such is life in war."
She seemed to concede that point with a slight nod of her head. Still, he could see it ruffled her to not be immediately trusted. Gryffindors. "Still," she said rather pointedly, giving him a sharp look, "We seem not to be strangers, as you know who I am."
Voldemort favored her with a rather wolfish grin. "A point well taken, professor. However, I would argue that knowing who someone is and knowing someone are two different things, hence the reason for my reluctance." As she opened her mouth to say something else, he said quickly, rather smoothly, allowing an amused glint to appear in his eye, "And yes, I do make it a habit to know a lot about the people I might encounter. I am a rather paranoid fellow." She had no idea just how paranoid.
She stopped near the entrance of the castle and regarded him rather curiously for a minute. After a moment he saw her relax, a genuine smile flitting across her face. It took all Voldemort had not to smirk, and inwardly he crowed. He had at least temporarily allayed the suspicions of Minerva McGonagall.
It was a delicate game, this play he was playing, this character he was portraying. Cadmus Ellwood would be neither too hostile nor too friendly. Not too hostile, for obvious reasons. Not too friendly, for two rather more complex reasons. For one, as wonderful as an actor as he was, Voldemort was not quite sure he could accurately fake the utter stupidity and Gryffindorishness of the like of James Potter and Frank Longbottom, at least without killing everyone in sight, which would be rather counterproductive. For another, to be so Gryffindorish and Dumbledore to have never heard of him before? Highly suspicious.
But to be flawed, to be human, to be reluctant to get into any fight at all, to put them into a position of earning his trust, rather than him earning theirs—that was the way to gain their trust the most quickly.
Still, that didn't mean they wouldn't be curious about him.
"I don't recall ever seeing you at Hogwarts, Mr. Cad," said McGonagall conversationally, as they strode through the Entrance Hall. Voldemort had to squash the pleasant feeling welling up in him upon entering the school once again. It had been over twenty years since he had been there, but the castle was much the same. Even all the pictures were in the same place, and they whispered and stared at him avidly as he strode by.
"That's because I didn't attend Hogwarts," said Voldemort pleasantly, making an effort to look around curiously, like a newcomer ought to. He eyed a portrait of a drunk ballerina, who giggled, winked, and made a rather crude gesture. He resisted the urge to curl his lip. That had always been such a trashy, lascivious picture. He would burn it once he took over the school. "It's quite nice," he added blandly, his eyes still on girl.
McGonagall followed his gaze and flushed a slight pink. "Oh, don't mind her," she said quickly, taking Voldemort's arm and steering him down the hallway. Voldemort's skin crawled where she touched him. He would kill her one day for taking such liberties. "Really, Clotilde!" McGonagall hissed over her shoulder. "Behave yourself!" She rushed Voldemort up a staircase, to a hall where Voldemort knew some of the more boring pictures were housed. "I'm sorry about her," McGonagall apologized to him, a scowl on her face. "I don't know why Albus insists on keeping her!—something about tradition—but we have a great number of pleasant pictures suitable for children in storage!"
"Every place has its quirks," Voldemort allowed politely. Hogwarts had plenty of them. Most were pleasant, but a few—like Gryffindor House—would have to go once he took over.
McGonagall let out a frustrated sigh. "Isn't that true," she muttered under her breath, as they reached the stone gargoyles Voldemort knew led up to the Headmaster's office. Adrenaline rushed through his stomach, filling him with anxiety and loathing, as he realized he was about to face Dumbledore. He had been in so much shock the last time he had faced him, so unprepared to be under Dumbledore's regard, that the reality of it hadn't set in much. But he had had plenty of time to contemplate this meeting, and to Voldemort's self-disgust, he realized he was somewhat, a bit, anxious about it.
He wondered if there was an ambush waiting for him inside.
There wasn't. But there were a lot more people than he would have liked.
He stepped into the room, trying not to wince as the resonance of Light magic from all Dumbledore's tinkling instruments washed over him. Standing not a few feet from the door was the Headmaster, wearing periwinkle robes with glittering gold stripes and stars and a matching jaunty hat, in deep conversation with Kingsley Shacklebolt, a young Auror. Both looked relaxed. In the corner of the room, a huddle of Order members, among them Frank Longbottom, James Potter, and Sirius Black, spoke quietly. A few feet away, Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister for Magic, was chatting quietly with Barty Crouch Sr.. Next to them was a young woman in obscene green robes that Voldemort recognized as a particularly obnoxious new reporter, Rita Skeeter. Just looking at her and her little cameraman lackey made his skin crawl.
It also made his breath hitch. He did not want reporters here. That was totally unexpected. It was also totally inappropriate. He was surprised Dumbledore had allowed it.
Cadmus Ellwood would not tolerate it.
He leveled a sharp gaze on McGonagall. None of the others seemed to have realized he was here yet. "If a reporter is going to be here," he told her flatly, in a voice loud enough to halt the other conversations. About ten pairs of eyes flicked to him, "I," he continued, "will not be." And to prove his point, before anyone else had a chance to react, he turned swiftly on his heel, shut the door smartly behind him, and strode down the staircase and down the hall.
Anger bloomed in his chest, making his hands clench at his sides and his eyes flash. This was really most inconvenient, he thought furiously, as he turned down a corridor. It meant Dumbledore was going to put effort into tracking him down now. But he couldn't stay there, not with a reporter there, for so, so many reasons. Anger made his hands shake as he strode down a staircase, almost making him lose his reasoning, and he was almost halfway to the exit of the castle when he remembered he shouldn't know his way out of the castle.
"You!" he barked at a small redhead who had just tumbled out of a hidden passageway, the first student he had seen. "How do you get out of this damn place?" He glowered at him.
The little brat looked quite terrified. A glance at his robes explained why: a Hufflepuff. But the child managed to stammer out surprisingly accurate directions and Voldemort turned on his heel and stalked away.
As he reached the Entrance Hall, Dumbledore, McGonagall, Scrimgeour, Crouch, and Skeeter were all waiting for him, Skeeter with a gleeful expression on her face, like she had just stumbled on a good story. Voldemort didn't have to fake the glare he sent their way.
"Mr. Cad—" said Dumbledore immediately, taking a step forward, holding his hands up placatingly.
"I am not talking to a reporter," he said shortly. "That is now what I came here for!" He swept past them and out the front doors of the castle, striding down the steps. He heard them rushing after him.
"Mr. Cad—" That was Scrimgeour. He sounded flabbergasted. "The public is incredibly curious about you! You're a hero—"
Voldemort stopped abruptly and whirled around, glaring daggers at the man. "I will be a dead hero," he hissed, "with a dead son if anything about me makes it into the papers!"
Deathly silence fell. The only sound to be heard was Voldemort's heaving chest, his angry breathing. Furious eyes flicked over each face, all of which were stricken, except for Skeeter's, which, if possible, just looked more excited. Seeing their faces, Voldemort felt a sudden sense of satisfaction replacing his anger, and it took some effort to maintain his furious façade. Really, he thought internally, as his cold, reptilian mind flicked over what he had just said, he could use this situation to his advantage. He proceeded to do so.
"I was under the impression," he said quietly, furiously, staring accusingly at Dumbledore, "that I would only be speaking to the headmaster today."
An aggrieved expression crossed Dumbledore's face, and Voldemort inwardly smirked. Dumbledore had messed up—whether by inviting the Minister or allowing him to invite himself—and Dumbledore's failure in this regard put Voldemort in control of this conversation.
"I apologize for the unexpected reception, Mr. Cad," said Dumbledore, looking genuinely contrite. "I am sure you understand, though, that the Ministry is quite concerned about the man who killed 34 Death Eaters."
Voldemort bristled appropriately. "I would think the Ministry would simply be grateful I did so," he growled. "In any case," his eyes flicked to Skeeter, "I fail to see how a reporter is necessary."
"The Ministry is extremely grateful for what you did," Scrimgeour started placatingly. "But—"
"Then why are you trying to kill my son and me," demanded Voldemort flatly, "by bringing a reporter?"
Again silence fell. Scrimgeour looked suddenly uncertain, a rare expression to cross that man's face. Voldemort took advantage of it. "If any newspaper reports about me," he said quietly, his voice reverberating with emotion, "He will take an interest in me, and he will hunt me down. Do you understand? He will hunt me down! He will kill me. He will kill my son." He turned to face Dumbledore, who looked greatly distressed. "I cannot take that risk," Voldemort continued, his voice trembling, "My son is the only good thing in my life, the only thing I have to live for." He inclined his head shakily. "Good day, Mr. Dumbledore."
He turned on his heel and continued to stride down the steps. It took an effort to maintain his distressed expression, when all he really wanted to do was smirk. Wait for it…
"Mr. Cad!"
Bingo. Voldemort stopped and turned around slowly. He stared at them expectantly, warily. His eyes wandered over the group. Skeeter was looking like she had just swallowed a sour lemon. He suppressed his smirk. He must have won this round.
"Yes?"
Dumbledore approached him, the expression on his face peculiar, like a mixture between guilt and that jovial, twinkling expression he was known for. Voldemort tried not to laugh. It was so delightful to throw the man off so badly.
"The Minister has…agreed to put a blackout on your story, Mr. Cad, if you feel its publication will put you or your son in danger." His expression turned both apologetic and earnest. "That is the last thing any of us want, I assure you."
The irony of Dumbledore assuring him the last thing he wanted was to put him in danger was not lost on Voldemort. Still, there was a game to be played. Voldemort suppressed his laughter and did his part: he glanced distrustfully back at the others. "I didn't expect the Minister to be here at all," he pointed out.
"Ah." Dumbledore folded his hands into a steeple before him. He suddenly looked awkward. "I am afraid the Minister is quite insistent on being here, Mr. Cad. The Ministry never got your statement after the attack, and you'll find that if you don't speak to then now, they'll be dogging—"
Voldemort had expected that outcome. "Very well," he said shortly, before Dumbledore could explain more. "The Minister and you, then?"
Crouch Sr. and McGonagall opened their mouths to protest, but Scrimgeour, with a rather regarding expression on his face, said quickly, "That sounds acceptable."
It was perhaps the only time Voldemort found himself glad that Scrimgeour was a much more decisive and independent person than the previous Minister. Fudge would have wanted a bunch of advisors in with him before meeting with such a mysterious individual—heck, before meeting with Dumbledore—and nothing would have stayed secret for long. Scrimgeour had a lot more backbone, and the man could (sometimes unfortunately) keep his mouth shut.
"That sounds amenable," said Dumbledore pleasantly. "To my office, then, Mr. Cad?"
Voldemort nodded shortly, and he followed Dumbledore and Scrimgeour back inside the castle. As they went, the three of them silent, 'Cad' outwardly brooding, Voldemort considered the turn of events. This meeting hadn't gone anything like he had expected it to, and yet somehow it had gone as he had hoped, if not better. In fact, his interaction with Dumbledore, though unorthodox, had been ideal. Before 'Cad' even had to start explaining himself, he already had Dumbledore off his game and in the wrong. Voldemort was glad he had decided to construct Cadmus Ellwood's character the way he had; it made everything much more interesting.
They entered the Headmaster's office a short time later, and Dumbledore banished his minions with a few quick words. They weren't entirely happy about it—indeed there was some grumbling—but Dumbledore's rule was absolute. When the last of them had gone, Voldemort gazed rather warily—and pointedly—at the portraits of all the previous headmasters and headmistresses. He flicked out his wand, and though Dumbledore tensed upon seeing it, he did nothing to prevent Voldemort from freezing all the portraits.
"Really now?" Scrimgeour snorted incredulously, settling into a chair. "Afraid of portraits now?"
What an asinine man. Voldemort resisted the urge to curl his lip. "Portraits are an often-overlooked security risk," said Voldemort sharply, settling down into a chair across from Dumbledore. "They are too easily manipulated. There are none in my house."
"Not even of your kid?" asked Scrimgeour in surprise.
"I would rather have my son alive and without a portrait than dead and with one," said Voldemort flatly. Although that wasn't the primary reason there were no pictures. In reality, Voldemort had just never thought of getting Revelin's picture taken.
Scrimgeour snorted again. "Merlin, Dumbledore," he said, flicking his eyes to the headmaster, "He's a bloody Mad-Eye Moody."
Voldemort's lips tightened. Scrimgeour was annoying. He would have to move up on the list of people to be targeted. Determined to ignore the man, he turned to Dumbledore. "What is it that you wanted, Mr. Dumbledore, when you invited me here?"
Dumbledore shifted in his chair. It was the only indication that the man was uncomfortable, that the perhaps the meeting wasn't going quite how he had anticipated. Despite his annoyance with Scrimgeour, Voldemort felt a twinge of glee at the sight.
"I must admit, Mr. …Cad," said Dumbledore hesitantly, his blue eyes meeting Voldemort's. Wisely, he didn't attempt Legilimency. "I thought I had met every Englishman of your…caliber."
"I have made it a point to stay under the radar," said Voldemort stiffly. He paused. "Until now," he amended. Scrimgeour snorted.
Dumbledore steepled his hands. "Yes…" he mused. "And I wonder why that is."
"You are curious about me?" Voldemort's voice hardened. "Mr. Dumbledore, I have tried to avoid people being curious about me all my life. It can get me killed."
"All your life?" Dumbledore echoed, his eyes falling on him sharply.
Voldemort grimaced. He tried it to look like he hadn't meant to make that slip. "I am afraid, Mr. Dumbledore, that you have given me no reason to trust you with my life story."
Silence fell. Dumbledore shifted ever so slightly, the only indication of his uneasiness. Voldemort could well imagine the thoughts and feelings flicking through that muggle-lover's brain. No doubt first, surprise, that someone didn't immediately trust him. He was so unbearably Gryffindorish in that way. Insult would follow. Then, resignation, upon realizing that his interaction with 'Cad' hadn't given 'Cad' any reason to trust him. Finally, uncertainty, because this wasn't how Dumbledore usually interacted with people.
Fate had indeed favored Lord Voldemort. This meeting really couldn't have fallen together more perfectly.
"What can I do, Cad, to earn your trust?"
"Why do you even want it?" Voldemort demanded sharply.
Dumbledore actually floundered. Voldemort could very well imagine that no one had ever asked him that question before. Non-Slytherins. It was Scrimgeour who answered.
"Mr.-….Cad, we need to determine that you are not a security threat."
What an utterly moronic thing to say. Voldemort arched an eyebrow. "Obviously I am," he said flatly, "since I single-handedly killed—what was the number? 34?—Death Eaters. What perhaps you mean," he said cuttingly, before Scrimgeour spoke again, "is that you need to determine whether or not I am going to unleash myself on the general populace. I assure you I am not."
Which was perhaps the most bald-faced lie he had ever uttered, but they didn't know that.
"All I want to do," Voldemort continued, "is fade into obscurity and raise my son as safely as possible."
"Voldemort will be after you now," said Dumbledore seriously. Voldemort almost laughed at the irony. "Hiding will be…difficult to do. You will need our help."
"I neither want nor need your help," Voldemort snapped defensively. "I have made appropriate arrangements."
"And we will need more than your word," Scrimgeour added indignantly, "to determine that you are not a threat!"
Merlin, even though this was all a game, a play to be performed, the man still annoyed Voldemort. "And what exactly are you planning to do if you don't get more than that?" Voldemort snapped scathingly. "Arrest me? You can't—I haven't done anything illegal. Under English law, I am allowed to defend myself and my family against Death Eaters, up to the point of death." He sneered. "Are you going to have me followed? I assure you I can lose any tail. The only reason I'm under suspicion is because I'm much more competent than your Aurors—which, incidentally, is another reason I don't want to be under your protection!"
He glared at Scrimgeour. Scrimgeour looked both stunned and angry. "W-well, I-I," he stuttered. "It's just that—you're acting awfully suspicious—and I-"
"What the Minister means to say," Dumbledore interrupted. He had watched the exchange rather carefully and was now eyeing Voldemort curiously, "is that it looks like you have something to hide."
Hook, line, and sinker. Internally Voldemort crowed. Externally, he tensed, his eyes darting anxiously between the Minister and Dumbledore. At last he said, tensely, "If I tell you—what I'm hiding—will you leave me alone?"
Dumbledore inclined his head magnanimously. "If it's nothing illegal, of course."
"It's not," said Voldemort tightly. His eyes flicked to the Minister, then back to Dumbledore. "I will also—" he appeared to debate with himself—"I will require an Unbreakable Vow, that what I am about to say does not leave this room, that you will not tell anyone unless I give you express permission." He thought about it a moment, and then added, "And since I don't trust either of you a whit, I will also require that you swear to not try to hunt down me or my son, nor allow anyone else to do so, upon giving you this inf—"
"Now wait a second!" Scrimgeour interrupted angrily. "If you break the law—"
"I can make that a condition of the vow," said Voldemort quickly, thinking it through. "That if I do break the law, you may have permission to seek me out." He doubted this would be a problem. In the tricky world of linguistics magic, Cadmus Ellwood and Lord Voldemort were two separate people, and Cadmus Ellwood had a squeaky-clean record.
Scrimgeour fell silent, considering. Voldemort knew he had them now. Both were too curious. Voldemort could tell Dumbledore's mind was already whizzing with possibilities as to who 'Cad' could be. He was going to take the bait. Voldemort knew it. How could he not? Voldemort had given the man an out. If he thought 'Cad' was up to no good, he could hunt him down and stop him. And Dumbledore was a man used to keeping secrets. The secrecy clause shouldn't bother him. There was really no reason for Dumbledore not to agree to it—
"I accept your terms," said the headmaster quietly. Voldemort nodded shortly, even as elation swept through him. Dumbledore turned to Scrimgeour. "Rufus?"
"I don't know, Albus," said Scrimgeour hesitantly. "My word's not going to be enough to convince the Aurors—"
"I will back you on it, should it prove necessary."
Scrimgeour fell silent once again, though this time he cast Dumbledore a rather baleful look. They both knew that Dumbledore's word would be enough to convince everyone of 'Cad's' trustworthiness.
"Very well," he finally grumbled, though he looked distinctly unhappy. "It's not like I have much of a choice. Let's make the vows."
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After the vows had been said, the man known as Cad settled back into his chair with obvious reluctance. Dumbledore studied him carefully as he gathered his thoughts.
When 'Cad' had first appeared in his office, only to whip around and storm out, Dumbledore had been at first shocked and then shamed. He hadn't seriously considered the possibility that the reporter might make the man uncomfortable—it had crossed his mind, of course, but Dumbledore had rather thought the man would have expected it; after all, his casting the Death Eaters out of Hogsmeade had been headline news all weekend. But Dumbledore had misjudged him: having seen Cad with a child, and having seen his dueling skills, somehow the impression that had lodged itself in Dumbledore's mind was of a man rather like James Potter or Frank Longbottom, but quieter. But no, this Cad wasn't like them at all. He was more like Severus—good, but not good with people.
Dumbledore suspected that whatever secret Cad had was what had made him this way. He had seen it before with people: secrets that made them unwilling to get close to anybody. It always made Dumbledore so sad to see it, and this Cad's secret must be the most terrible of all, for it was terribly obvious, from his extreme paranoia, that the man had never trusted anyone in his life. Good gracious, an Unbreakable Vow was needed for the man to divulge his full name! Dumbledore had never gone to such lengths to try to get someone to trust him before. The feeling of not being trusted was foreign and it stirred in him the desire, absurd in its suddenness, to make sure that this man, who had obviously been scared all his life, knew that there were people out there who could be good and true.
"My full name," said the man suddenly, and Dumbledore's eyes fell on him sharply. The man seemed hesitant to even divulge that much, "is Cadmus Ellwood."
Dumbledore immediately searched his brain for anyone else he knew with the surname Ellwood and came up blank. The man, Cadmus, went on to answer the unasked question.
"My father came from a family of Wizarding expatriates in France. My mother was an expatriate in France also, but she did not live in the Wizarding community. She was muggleborn, and she lived in Colmar. Her name was Emma." Cadmus twisted his hands in front of him. He stared blankly at a point past Dumbledore's shoulder, apparently reliving a distant memory. "My mother—" he broke off. His voice wavered a bit. His eyes flicked to Dumbledore's, pained, before falling to the ground. A blush tinged his cheeks. "My mother was a bastard child." He raised his eyes, and said, rather fiercely, "But she was a very good woman!" His expression was defiant. He was daring Dumbledore to say otherwise.
Dumbledore supposed he had a reason to. Doing a quick calculation in his head, he realize that at the time Cadmus's mother had been born, a bastard child still would have been a shameful thing, especially in the muggle world. Cadmus had probably gotten lot of grief over it. "I would never," he assured Cadmus quietly, "hold your mother's birth against her."
The man let out a snorting sound Dumbledore construed as disbelief. The sound filled him with inexplicable sadness, as it always did when people who had been judged repeatedly refused to believe it when someone didn't judge them.
"You might hold it against her," Cadmus said warningly, his voice wavering with an emotion somewhere between irony, hysteria, and disgust, "when you find out who exactly she was."
Ah, now they were getting to the crux of the matter. The secret, the thing that had been haunting this man all his life—it had something to do with his mother. Beside Dumbledore Scrimgeour shifted, but Dumbledore just waited patiently. The man would speak when he was ready.
Indeed, after what appeared to be a moment of collecting his thoughts, Cadmus spoke again. "My mother—" the inflection of his voice changed, loathing, longing, and distress all mixed in—what a complex, complex man!—"she searched for the truth of her identity. She wanted to know where she came from, who her father was. My maternal grandmother didn't want to tell her—apparently, he had hurt her horribly somehow, but—" His voice faltered, and a miserable, pained expression crossed his face. "My mother found out anyway. Her father…he was…Mr. Dumbledore…her father was a muggle named…Tom Riddle."
Dumbledore inhaled sharply. Cadmus's eyes flicked up to him. He had a desperate expression on his face, but Dumbledore barely noticed it. His mind was reeling. Tom Riddle. Cadmus Ellwood's grandfather was the muggle Tom Riddle. That meant Voldemort was—
Merlin, no wonder the man didn't trust anyone!
Everything fell into place all at once, and the shocking suddenness of it all left him dizzy. Dumbledore could barely breathe. It all made horrible, horrible sense. It explained everything so perfectly—the man's peculiar behavior, his reluctance to trust anyone—even his appearance!
Dumbledore reeled, and when he finally got over the shock his eyes settled back on Cadmus, and he saw that the man was eyeing him nervously. A sudden surge of pity welled up in him. The poor, poor man! No wonder he didn't trust anyone! Even now, he looked like he was waiting for Dumbledore to whip out his wand and scream, "Avada Kedavra!"
Dumbledore leaned forward across his desk, trying to smile, trying to be gentle, but even as he opened his mouth, his wayward eyes couldn't help but pick up the nose, the line of the mouth, the arch of the eyebrows—why hadn't he recognized the resemblance before?
"I understand," he said earnestly. "And it's alright, Cadmus."
A strange expression crossed the man's face, like he both wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Dumbledore had a feeling no one had ever told that to him.
"I don't understand!" Scrimgeour exclaimed irritably from his side. Dumbledore almost jumped. He had almost forgotten the Minister was there. "What's so important about being related to a muggle named Tom Riddle?"
Cadmus's expression suddenly became very uncertain, and he swallowed nervously as he stared at the Minister. Dumbledore felt a wave of pity. He could tell Cadmus was a strong man, but this was a terrible secret that left him open to the sort of emotional vulnerability he wasn't used to. People had probably thought Cadmus was a monster all his life.
"Tom Riddle," said Dumbledore quietly, turning to the Minister, "was a muggle Lord Voldemort particularly loathed."
Scrimgeour's face scrunched up. "I don't understand," he protested, confusion lacing his voice, "Why would You-Know-Who hate one muggle in particular?"
Dumbledore hesitated in answering—it wasn't his secret to tell—but Cadmus did it for him. In a suddenly tense voice, Cadmus said, "Because that muggle was his father. Lord Voldemort…is a half-blood."
Scrimgeour gaped at him.
Suddenly speaking very quickly, his voice shaking with emotion, Cadmus continued on, "That means I am Lord Voldemort's nephew…through his father's side, who he hates. Voldemort tried to obliterate all members of his father's family, and if he ever found out he was unsuccessful—that there was a member of his father's family still living, someone from his shameful muggle side—he would kill me. And my son. It wouldn't matter to him." He said it as though the thought caused him physical pain. "If he ever found out I was alive, Mr. Dumbledore, Minister,"—his face twisted, his voice thick with misery and shame—"if he ever found out about my son, he would hunt us down and kill us." He choked out, "He'd kill my son, my child, my baby. He's only five, but he'd kill him!" Cadmus closed his eyes, as if to prevent himself from seeing the mental image, and he shuddered. He opened his eyes again, and they were pained. "I've been trying to hide from him all my life, trying to avoid his attention." He looked up at Dumbledore, and he suddenly appeared very vulnerable. "I've never been able to trust anybody with this. No one would help me, if they found out that Voldemort …is my uncle. And Voldemort himself would certainly kill me, if he knew."
And Dumbledore knew he would. Voldemort had gone to extraordinary lengths to erase his paternal heritage. If he ever found out that someone had escaped his scourge, he would seek to obliterate them with a single-minded fury. He felt a well of pity for the man before him. The poor, poor man. Trapped by his heritage all his life. Marked by death for even existing.
Beside him, Scrimgeour still appeared flabbergasted, but Dumbledore already knew what he had to do. This man had been alone all his life, punished by society for something he had no fault in. He deserved to be accepted somewhere.
And so Dumbledore smiled kindly and leaned forward. "Like is the case with your mother, Cadmus, I don't hold your birth against you."
A tear slid down Cadmus's cheek.
AAAA—Page Break—AAAA
Voldemort stared at Dumbledore's face, full of pity, and gleeful laughter bubbled up inside him, threatening to burst free. Why had he ever feared this fool's intellect? He wasn't even questioning this trollop! It took all Voldemort's concentration to maintain his pitiable expression when all he wanted to do was cackle madly. But still the laughter bubbled up inside him, reaching his eyes. So while Voldemort laughed on the inside, he cried from laughter on the outside.
Fate favored Lord Voldemort. For as tears of laughter poured down his cheeks, Dumbledore's expression shifted to the benevolent, caring expression he so often wore. "There, there," he said, reaching out and patting Voldemort's hand, "It's all right. I understand."
The tears came a little faster.