So, this is the shortest chapter yet after my longest break yet, and for that I apologize. I've just gotten out of finals, and as such my brain is resisting the transition from writing essays to writing fiction, and I'm having a bit of a writer's block. Fingers crossed that it clears up sometime soon so I can update more over Winter Break. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy this (pint-sized) chapter!
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Somewhere in the utter chaos surrounding the events of Hogsmeade, thoughts of the Sorcerer's Stone had faded from Voldemort's mind. This would be understandable for most wizards, all things considered, but it disturbed Voldemort, for he very much prided himself on being able to comprehend several difficult situations at once. Yet somewhere in the midst of trying to do everything possible to keep Revelin safe—deceiving Dumbledore, hunting down that loathsome wizard from the candy store, and devoting long hours to contemplating the child's general mental health—consideration of the only artifact known to grant eternal youth had vanished. Voldemort wondered if this happened to most parents: concern for the child inadvertently overtaking all other thoughts. It was quite annoying, if it was. He wished he had known it would happen before undertaking this parenting venture.
Still, with most everything settling down—Revelin once more acting normally, Arthur Griffiths now tortured and dead, Voldemort's plan for the upcoming meeting with this Caradoc imbecile firmly in place—Voldemort was free to once more contemplate the multiple uses to which he could put the Stone, some of which were so positively delicious he would shiver upon considering them. Yet as delightful as all of his ideas concerning the Stone were, Voldemort realized, upon intense consideration, that he had another, better idea for it. The problem was that he didn't know what that idea was yet. It was a strange feeling, one that Voldemort didn't feel often: this intense suspicion that he was on the verge of brilliance but was somehow not connecting the pieces, that if he only gave it a bit more thought he would figure it out, and it would change everything. His thoughts flicked between the Stone, Revelin, and his Horcruxes in a never-ending cycle: Stone—Child—Horcruxes—Stone—Child—Horcruxes—Stone—Child—Horcruxes—and he would know he was on the verge of connecting the dots, but no matter how much more he thought about it, he couldn't figure it out.
Whenever Voldemort's thoughts on the matter reached a dead end, frustration so strong he wanted to scream rushed through him, making his arms shake. In the beginning he would often blast things apart in his rage, till one night his Earth-rattling Reducto was followed by a frightened little sob. Eyes glowing red, he had whipped his head up from the decimated courtyard to see Revelin cowering against the upper railing, dried tear tracks running down his cheeks.
Fury soared through him. "What are you doing up so late?" he had hissed menacingly. He gripped his wand tightly. The child should long be in bed!
Revelin burst into tears, his face screwing up in misery. "I-I w-was t-trying t-to s-sleep a-and I-I f-felt th-the g-ground sh-shaking a-and I-I th-thought i-it w-was a-n e-earthquake!" He choked on tears, barely understandable. "I just r-read about e-earthquakes i-in C-Carson's G-Geology and I w-was a-afraid!"
Bemusement quickly replaced anger, and Voldemort suddenly could think of nothing else to say but, rather blankly, "You're supposed to drop, cover, and hold on when an earthquake hits."
Which had just made Revelin cry even harder.
It took him an hour to get the child back in bed, and by the end of it Voldemort's nerves were on end and he was promising himself over and over again to never again lose his temper where Revelin might see him. The child's fear was bad enough, but the tears were practically intolerable. It was the second time in a month that he had made Revelin cry, and the fact that he had done so filled Voldemort with a strange sinking feeling, like he was doing everything wrong. Which he knew was silly, because it was impossible for him to be wrong, but still.
Since then, he had been much more careful about controlling his temper, but the issue of what to do with the Sorcerer's Stone still haunted him, which was silly whenever he considered that he wasn't a speck closer to finding it.
Emmeline Vance and Dorcas Meadows had vanished from the face of the Earth. Voldemort had no doubt they had gone into hiding because of the spy, and normally he would have used his own spies to try and ascertain their whereabouts, but Wormtail couldn't be entrusted with that information and Severus, well…Voldemort was beginning to suspect Severus might be the spy.
He didn't want to, for sure. Severus was one of his most competent Death Eaters, a brilliant Potions Master, right next to Dumbledore…but that was also what made it more likely he was a spy. Because a spy who had successfully deceived him would have to be incredibly clever…and the man's proximity to Dumbledore…Impossible to watch his actions there…And, as far as motive…Voldemort was not blind to Severus's affections for the Potter mudblood…but he had never thought it was so strong…
Severus Snape. Voldemort's lip curled. He was no longer sure he could trust the information of Severus Snape.
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The letter caught Voldemort off-guard in that he hadn't expected it for another six years. The owl fluttered down into the riad around midday, causing Voldemort to whip out his wand and eye it warily as it alighted on the edge of the fountain. It was a beautiful bird, golden and exotic-looking. Attached its claw was a yellowed piece of parchment, which Voldemort only took after casting a couple dozen curse-detection charms.
The letter was addressed to "Mr. Cadmus Ellwood, Re: Revelin Ellwood," from the Sahara School of Magic, and he stared at it dumbly for a moment before opening it. Why in Merlin's beard was Revelin's school contacting him now? The child was only five!
And speak of the devil—"Is that an owl?"
Voldemort glanced up to see Revelin peering down at him from the second-floor railing, his eyes shining with excitement. "We've never gotten an owl before!" He ran down the narrow stairs and pattered over, eyeing the owl in wide-eyed wonderment before turning to Voldemort. "Who is it from, Shara? What does it say?" He clutched Voldemort's pant-leg.
Voldemort was a bit amused by the reaction and lowered his gaze to the letter, reading it quickly. His brow furrowed, first in surprise, then in confusion. He felt a faint thrumming in his chest, like a bird or butterfly fluttering within. It was the sensation he got whenever someone pulled a trick he didn't expect. He didn't like it.
Revelin tugged on his pant-leg. "Can I read it, Shara? It has my name on it!"
"Hmm," said Voldemort noncommittally, folding the letter and placing it in the inner pocket of his robe. He had much to think about. "Not right now."
An ominous silence followed. Voldemort didn't glance down, but he could well imagine the shocked, then stubborn expressing crossing the child's face. He waited a moment, certain of Revelin's reaction, and bit back a smile of anticipation. Predictably, a few seconds later, Revelin's arms tightened around Voldemort's leg, and he felt both sides of the child's knees brace his calf as the boy prepared to sit stubbornly on Voldemort's foot and keep him from moving anywhere: his favorite protest tactic. A second later, Revelin slid down—then yelped and scrambled away, rubbing his behind and staring at his shara with a betrayed expression on his face. "That hurt!" he exclaimed, sounding rather shocked.
"It was only a mild sting," said Voldemort, amused. "And you'll remember it the next time you try that, won't you, child?" The last part was added rather warningly.
Revelin suddenly looked so mutinous that Voldemort had to bite back a grin as he turned his back and headed to the library.
"I want to read the letter!" Revelin protested stubbornly as Voldemort stepped through the doorway.
He glanced back. Revelin was standing next to the fountain, still looking mutinous and like he very much wanted to chase after his shara. The pain in his behind, however, kept him wisely in place. After a moment his expression collapsed from mutinous to pure misery, and Voldemort felt his lips quirk up. "We'll discuss it over dinner," he promised Revelin, and watched in amusement as the child's countenance immediately brightened.
"Thanks, Shara!" he hissed in excitement, before running back off upstairs. Voldemort noted that he ran with a slight limp.
Hmm. Perhaps that Stinging Hex had been too strong.
AAAA—Page Break—AAAA
Voldemort had a good reason for not wishing to disclose the contents of the letter to Revelin, and that was precisely because he had no idea what he wanted to do about it yet. He had thought he would have several years to adequately prepare Revelin for something like this, and as such he was feeling a little out of his element, a feeling he deeply loathed.
The letter had been an invitation to the school's program for gifted children. Much like the names of magical children were written down for each new school year, so also were the names of exceptionally gifted younger children, apparently. The school directors were inviting him, Voldemort, or more specifically, Cadmus Ellwood, to an orientation for other prospective parents about the benefits of the program.
It intrigued Voldemort for a number of reasons and presented a multitude of problems for a number of others. It could be good: the program was probably prestigious, he would have Revelin off his hands for several hours a day, and Revelin would learn more quickly to appreciate that no one else was nearly as gifted as he. It was also problematic, for what if Revelin became bored, or the education didn't meet Voldemort's standards, or worse, what if by some quirk of fate, he actually made friends? After all, Voldemort had yet to completely instill in him the dangers of friendship.
But what was even more interesting about the letter, aside from its content, was the fact that it came at all, because that meant the Sahara School of Magic was capable of tracking very young wizards, even through the enchanted walls of Voldemort's riad. He hadn't known it was possible. Magical trackers, such as Hogwarts', generally couldn't pick up children younger than eleven. It wasn't just because younger children weren't as powerful as older children—if that was the case, extremely powerful children might get sent their Hogwarts letters at 7, or 8, or 10, depending on how powerful they were—it was that their magic manifested itself differently. Magic changed with age, constantly morphing and changing its frequency, till about eleven when it stabilized to more closely resemble adult magic, though each person's magic would always retain its unique flair. That the Sahara School of Magic had developed a way of tracking not only underage magic users, but the potential of underage magic users was…intriguing. Perhaps useful. After all, it might be able to be modified. If it could be used to track specific types of people—5 year old witches and wizards of a certain power level or above—then might it also be modified to track even more specific types of people, like Emmeline Vance or Dorcas Meadows, for example?
Hmm. He would have to investigate it. It couldn't hurt. Voldemort whipped out a quill and a piece of parchment and quickly penned his acceptance of his invitation to the prospective parents meeting.
If nothing else came of it, then at least Revelin would be happy about spending an afternoon outside the riad.