A/N: The reviews were lovely, guys. Thank you to Sachita, Sherbet, Aquitane, and bexypants. Now, I feel that I need to get around to furthering that thing... you know, the central conflict to a story... what's it called again? ….hmmmm... oh yeah, the PLOT! First things first: I skimmed the dueling chapter, and I realized that I'm starting to go off on a tangent about the lovely couple's relationship and not focus on what the fic is about, which is the crackfic humor and hilarity that would almost certainly ensue were Voldy to get the job in my crackverse. So I'm going to take this chapter to further the crack plot, but for you romance lovers out there I'll slip in a little something for you to keep you happy. :) I already thanked everyone, right? Fic time!

The Three Broomsticks

"What do you mean, Order of Sentient Magical beings?" Malfoy was unsure if Riddle was joking or not. "What is that, some kind of code?"

"No, but it's equally stupid," Riddle said. "Apparently, a group of vaguely magical animals-" He stopped when several of his Death Eaters forgot themselves and snorted quite obviously in disbelief- "yes, I said animals- have a problem with how wizards are running things."

"Well that's perfect, then!" Dolohov straightened up suddenly, prompting the others to look at him questioningly. "We can enlist their help!"

"No, idiot," Riddle snapped. "I happen to be... acquainted with their 'supreme overlord' as he calls himself." He laughed coldly. "What a ridiculous concept, a supreme overlord. Imagine." Nott and Rosier exchanged looks, looks that clearly said irony much? "Anyway," he continued, "after

a little interrogation, he told me that they were displeased with Dumbledore's way of doing things. Clearly they see him as more of an affront to their goals than Bagnold*, and I must say I agree; the woman is pathetic. She sends Dumbledore countless owls a day, begging for advice." He paused for dramatic effect. "And apparently, Dumbledore isn't the only target." He closed his lips and leaned back in his chair, taking a delicate sip of absinthe and setting down the glass with a satisfied click, unaware of how much his behaviour resembled that of the man he so despised.

"...are you going to tell us who the other target is, my Lord?" Rosier asked tentatively.

Riddle smiled, having just heard the question he wanted most to be asked. "He told me it was a young wizard by the name of Lord Voldemort, quickly rising to prominence." He inclined his head. "Do any of you gentlemen happen to know of such a fellow?"

Dolohov frowned, confused. "Is this a trick question?"

Riddle exhaled loudly. "Yes Dolohov, it's a trick question. Why don't you go home, have a nice nap, and come back and tell me when you've figured it out?" His tone was coated in sarcasm so thick it could be spread over an entire loaf of bread.

"All right, if that's what you want, my Lord, I'll just be-"

"Of course it's not a trick question!" Riddle snapped. He flicked his wand sharply, and Dolohov wheeled around, clutching his hand, stretched towards the doorknob moments ago, as if it had been burned. "Really, I don't know why I keep you around. He has no idea what social cues mean," he said, addressing the room at large. Dolohov crept back to his seat, ashamed and in severe pain, but too afraid to ask Riddle to lift the jinx. "Now," Riddle said, frowning. "Where was I before this blithering idiot caused me to lose my train of thought?"

"My Lord, perhaps we should lower our voices?" Rosier said tentatively. "We're starting to attract some attention."

"No, no, no, that's not what I was talking about," Riddle said, dismissing Rosier's advice with a deprecating gesture of his hand. "Ah yes. That ridiculous Order." He looked at the assembled Death Eaters. "They're trying to enlist the help of the dementors and goblins. Now this is something we need to look into. We can promise the dementors more sustenance than the Ministry could ever hope to, and the idea of an alliance with the goblins lead me to my next idea: an alliance with the giants." He looked around. "Nott, you and Mulciber need to pay our overgrown friends... a little visit."

Nott blanched. "As...as you wish, my Lord. When are we.." He paused, swallowing audibly, "...to do this?"

"Whenever convenient," Riddle said. Nott began to relax. "For me, of course. And fortunately for you, that's not right now." Frowning, he added, "They intend to launch an attack at some point and overthrow wizard rule, but as of now they see us as the lesser threat. You know, this is quite a bit like the war between the Muggle governments of Britain and France, in the war of 1812, only here we're Britain, Dumbledore and the ministry is France, and..." He stopped, realizing what he was saying. There was confused silence at their table as the busy, warm atmosphere of The Three Broomsticks bustled around them.

"How do you know about-" Mulciber began, when suddenly, Riddle stiffened, and with a curt "I have to go" stood up and swept from the room.

"What's going on?" Malfoy said slowly. As anyone proficient in the art of nosiness knows to do, he followed Riddle's line of sight, and observed Minerva McGonagall and Pomona Sprout walk in, engaged in lively conversation.

Dolohov, his pain finally diminished, began to grin. "I told you she was the pressing matter."

"She doesn't know about... the thing, does she?" Rosier said. "She can't know."

"Well, it's only a matter of time before she does," Dolohov said pointedly. "How easy is it to hide a Dark Mark after all?"

"Fairly easy when clothed," Nott said. "Obviously."

"My point exactly," Dolohov said, grin widening. The others rolled their eyes at his immaturity.

"No, his is different, it only shows if we summon him," Malfoy said thoughtfully. "Should we leave too?"

"No, that's conspicuous, just... act natural," Mulciber suggested. It was a comical sight to behold; the men were fretting over whether or not they had been overheard and what to do about it in a manner much like a flock of sheep without their master. Compound this hilarity with the mental image of said men in matching long black robes, and it was nearly a textbook example of how not to behave when trying to avoid suspicion.

"Well hello, there," Minerva said, standing at their table with her arms folded. "What are my old classmates doing in Hogsmeade? Rather odd timing for you to be on holiday."

"McGonagall," Rosier said, rising. "Teaching now, are you?"

"As if you didn't know that," Minerva scoffed. "If you intend to play dumb you'll have to do a much better job of it." Looking around at them, she asked, "Are you all here to visit Tom?"

Rosier was surprised. "Why do you say that?"

She exchanged looks with Pomona. "Isn't it obvious? You all were his friends from school and you're in Hogsmeade of all places. You're either waiting on him to get here, or you just met with him and aren't ready to return home." She arched a brow. "Which is it?"

"What does he see in her?" Cygnus Black muttered under his breath. Aloud he said snidely, "You really haven't changed a bit since school, Minerva," ignoring the question entirely.

"Thank you. Unfortunately I can't say the same for you," she said dryly, looking down her nose. "Come on, Pomona. Lovely seeing you again, gentlemen," she added sarcastically as she and Pomona found their own table a ways away, and resumed chatting. Dolohov started to wave, ceasing immediately when Malfoy cast him a filthy look. He lowered his hand slowly, abashed.

A voice seemed to whisper directly inside Cygnus' head. "I'm going to leave now, and I advise you to do the same."

Cygnus flinched and turned, finding no one there, though he recognized the voice. "Yes, my Lord. Oh, and how much is McGonagall aware of?" He tried to speak casually, as if he were addressing the group.

"That's my concern, not yours. I'll be in touch with you shortly with more details about that pesky Order."

"Yes, my Lord." Cygnus spoke to the Death Eaters around the table who were looking at him curiously. "He says to leave," he said, voice hushed. "I think he already has."

"How did he just-"

"I don't know," Cygnus said, raising his hands. With no small bit of commotion, chair legs were scraped against the wooden floor, drinks were drained, and with much swirling of cloaks the Death Eaters exited the pub. Over at her table, Minerva watched over her gillywater, eyes narrowed and thoughtful. What an interesting report this will make, she mused.

Headmaster's Office

"And Mulciber was there too, and..." Minerva frowned, trying to think, "and Dolohov, of course. How could I forget Dolohov?" She stopped pacing before Dumbledore, her narrative complete. "And that's about it, Albus."

Dumbledore steepled his fingers and looked at her seriously. "And you say Tom was never there?"

"No, never," Minerva said, wondering why he was looking at her like that. There was curiosity and some disappointment in his eyes as well.

"Minerva," Dumbledore began, not unkindly, "if you are uncomfortable relating all of Tom's doings to me, you don't have to feel obligated to continue."

Understanding, Minerva explained. "No, I'm perfectly fine with all that. He hasn't exactly proven trustworthy just yet, I'm honestly not entirely sure what we expect of one another. But I haven't... censored what I saw in any way to shield him, Albus. He really wasn't there."

Dumbledore nodded. "I appreciate the honesty, Minerva, thank you. I don't want to trouble you with unnecessary information, but I think it will interest you to know that Aberforth told me a group of the same young men came with him in early August, when he applied to Armando for the job of DADA teacher."

Minerva frowned, intrigued. "Really? You know, I noticed him talking with Abraxas Malfoy when I went to see him after his last class... do you suppose..."

"I'm afraid I avoid jumping to conclusions with extraneous pieces of information," Dumbledore said carefully, "even when they may support the hypothesis I have. As Britain's most famous detective once said, too often people twist facts to fit theories, rather than twist theories to fit facts." He smiled at her. "I do so love a good mystery story."

Minerva's lips twitched as she allowed herself a small smile. "Elementary," she quipped.

"That, I regret to inform you, it is not," Dumbledore corrected. "Tom is capable of a great many things, Minerva. I don't mean to boast, of course, but I am a very powerful wizard-"

"That's not bragging, that's honesty," Minerva interrupted.

Dumbledore, eyes twinkling, continued. "-and it isn't false humility that prompts me to say that I should find Tom a most formidable opponent, thus making him an extremely formidable opponent to everyone else." His head snapped up. "Ah, that reminds me. How was the dueling lesson? You have another one scheduled sometime this week, correct?"

Minerva felt her cheeks flush as she recalled what had transpired during their little display. "It...went well," she managed, mastering her embarrassment. "But I found him to be a bit short with the students."

"How did he go about teaching the lesson?" Dumbledore asked. "Horace told me about a little...demonstration that was a bit...questionable." He smiled, pulling out a licorice snap from a scalloped candy dish in lieu of his customary lemon drops, eyes twinkling still more merrily.

Minerva's face heated again at the implication. "Well...he lectured a bit on theory and history, and it was fairly standard stuff, I found nothing questionable about it at all. And then he asked me to duel with him for a demonstration."

"As planned," Dumbledore interjected, nodding for her to continue.

"As planned," she agreed. "And he...corrected my stance," she went on, cheeks flushing again as she recalled how he had, even in such a detached, business-like manner, turned something as unromantic as dueling into such an intimate thing. "It was a bit...unsettling." She tried to laugh. "Perhaps it was deliberate; he certainly got the students' attention." She tried to fill the awkward silence after her explanation. "I was a bit peeved of course, because I lost. He's quite a terrific dueler, I must say. Excellent reflexes as well..." She trailed off. "But the students were quite transfixed, so I would say it was effective."

"So I've heard," Dumbledore said at last, face unfathomable. "Mr. Flume mentioned-"

"Oh, I know what Flume mentioned!" Minerva exclaimed, hating herself for blushing furiously yet again. "I don't need to hear it again!" She was fully aware of how childish she seemed.

Dumbledore looked mischievous. "Oh, so you heard that he said that it appeared as though you two-"

"Yes, I heard!" She whirled around in agitation, watching him carefully.

"...as though you two-"

"Albus!"

The two stared at one another and laughed for a good while. "All right, Minerva. One last thing for you, if it isn't too much," he said, turning business-like. "Find out why Tom hates Lowther so much, will you?"

"Of course." She paused at the door. "I really feel as though I never left home during these chats, Albus. I used to speak to my father like this, you know."

Dumbledore's eyes grew a bit misty as he regarded the witch he had seen grow from an uncertain eleven year old to an independent woman of twenty-six. "I am...very touched, Minerva."

Order of Sentient Magical Beings, undisclosed location, somewhere in Scotland

"How have the goblins responded to our request for partnership?" Lowther demanded, his feet gripping the podium.

"Not well, sir," a large thestral replied. "They sympathize with our aims, but they refuse to get involved, preferring instead to work alone as a race."

Lowther's scowl darkened. "It will be their loss. You there!" The frightened owl looked up. "How are things in Hogsmeade?"

The owl ruffled its feathers nervously, resolved to not slip up and be tortured again. "Things seem pretty good right now, sir. Very good, in fact. We have a bit of a lead on the elusive Lord Voldemort. Apparently he was in that local pub, The Three Broomsticks for a short while."

"Did you manage to glimpse his face?" Lowther asked, excited.

"...No," the owl said, worried what would happen to him now that this news was out. "I'm sorry, I only heard his followers mention him. They were talking as they left the pub. I never got any indication if the man we want was with them or not, but by the sound of their conversation it was as though he wasn't there...I'm sorry, that's all I know." The owl shuffled backward in an odd sort of bow, fearful. Gordon Lowther's eyes were glowing again, and that was never a good sign...

"Very well," Lowther said softly. "Good work. We'll make a competent member of you yet." He turned his attention to a niffler. "How are things in Ireland? Has our contact responded yet...?" The meeting continued in this manner, and updates from the various animal representatives from different areas of Britain informed Lowther of the doings of the prominent wizard leaders there. Lowther wasn't comfortable though, even when he heard that negotiations with the dementors were at last underway. Something troubled him. He had woken up in a bathroom in disrepair, with his memory distinctly fuzzy and his body aching from some torturous ordeal. He suspected the teacher Riddle was to blame for it, but was reluctant to do anything about it, should it prove wrong or, as was the worst case scenario, should Professor Riddle prove to be a greater threat than he had previously believed. But he wasn't ready to jump to such conclusions just yet. No, he had a ways to go before he believed that lovestruck fool capable of something so devilishly clever- something after his own heart. He had bigger fish to fry. The rebellion and siege on Hogwarts were in the planning stages and it wouldn't be very long before the forces could be mobilized, but once Dumbledore was disposed of there was the issue of that damnably evasive Voldemort. He had a vague feeling that he knew the man, that he had even seen his face once, but it passed. It was ridiculous, of course. He returned to Dumbledore's office, where he waited for the man to return and amused himself with Fawkes' food and Dumbledore's trinkets, ready to spill what little tidbits he had collected on Riddle and Miss Jean Brodie -as he called Minerva- in his mind. By relating to Dumbledore these juicy bits of gossip, he stayed in his good graces and was shielded from Riddle in the process. He was certain of it. Surely that young professor couldn't hope to compete with the man that his entire Order viewed as a threat!

Some say ignorance is bliss. Lowther didn't know how accurate that statement was, but it can be assumed that were he to know that the man he knew as Riddle was actually the Lord Voldemort he was preparing to wage war against, he would have ceased his operations at once, realizing from the angle he was taking, he was way in over his head.

Riddle's Chambers

"So what should I call you?" Riddle asked Minerva, voice muffled by her hair. She made an unintelligible noise. "If you insist, ma minette, but I don't think 'mmnfrvfff' is very easy to remember."

"I said, 'Minerva' would be fine," Minerva said, pushing herself up. "But you may call me whatever you like, since clearly my preferences have little bearing on your nicknames for me anyway." She curled up next to him again, face in the hollow of his neck.

"But you had a problem with me calling you 'minette' in front of the students."

"Tom, I've gotten over that."

"Have you seen yourself when you're annoyed though? I've never seen anyone with such a perfect example of Avada Kedavra eyes in my life." He smiled as he said it; it was so easy to enrage her and when she was livid, her eyes snapped in a manner that was most deadly that he quite enjoyed to see.

"Are you hinting at something?"

"No." He was about to ask her in a roundabout way what she had done in Hogsmeade. He couldn't let her know exactly how much he was aware of just yet, though things were proceeding at an admirable rate.

"Yes, something's bothering you." She let go of him, turning his face towards her and tilting her head. "What's the matter?" she prodded gently.

"Nothing," he replied. "I'm a bit preoccupied at the moment is all."

"Do you want to talk to me about it?" she asked. "You don't need to internalize everything, you know."

"You and I aren't quite at the stage that we can divulge everything we think of to the other, though right now I'd like nothing more, minette." The thought suddenly occurred to Riddle that perhaps he could prompt her to spill a bit of what Dumbledore was having her do, since she was in such a... sharing mood. He sincerely doubted that the old man wouldn't be keeping his nose and sherbet lemons out of any situation involving himself.

"Really?" Minerva asked, looking a bit upset at his words. "And why might that be?"

"I'm not sure." He reached for her hair. "Perhaps because I'm so used to working alone. We can engage in some amateur psychoanalysis and figure out which of my mental issues that stems from." He smiled at her, the expression fading as hers remained unchanged. "You aren't smiling. Why aren't you smiling?"

"You are so guarded," she murmured, eyes falling half shut as he eased out the soreness in her scalp from wearing a bun all day. "But there's a difference in working alone and being completely solitary, darling."

"I'm aware."

"But, since you're pointedly ignoring all my hints for you to open up to me, I'll open up to you." She suddenly stiffened, and her eyes snapped open as she tilted her face up to lock her gaze on his. "Don't you dare make a dirty comment." Her nose brushed his.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

She lay her head against his chest again, fingers idly playing with her abandoned hair clip as she continued. "Anyway, back to my little confession. I'm afraid I'm getting to be dangerously fond of you." She looked at him over her shoulder. "Don't be weirded out or anything."

Riddle controlled himself, though it was more of an irrepressible smugness rather than hurt indignation, a look he decided to try for, as Minerva might not take kindly to too much arrogance on his part. "Are you really? How long has this been…"

"Probably since the Yule Ball." Minerva felt a bit awkward admitting it, especially when she considered the fact that at the end of the day, she was still reporting to Dumbledore on his doings. Tom's silence wasn't helping either. "I don't exactly know when it began… I guess you could say I was halfway there before realizing I ever started." She wished he would say something, and began to wonder whether she may have admitted too much too soon. After all, he couldn't possibly have been in many relationships –he wasn't that type, after all- and so this sort of confession was probably one he wasn't used to hearing this soon.

"Are you going to continue?" Riddle asked at last. His hand resumed its attentions to her hair, and Minerva relaxed.

"That's all."

Riddle frowned. He had rather hoped she would say something along the lines of "Dumbledore is having me spy on you and I'm going to quit now" or something to that effect. Clearly, she had no intentions of doing so. Still, it was progress, and he could honestly say that he was growing fond of her company, so… "No, I meant are you going to continue to grow 'dangerously fond of me'? Because I would enjoy that very much."

Minerva smiled, content. "I don't think I can very well stop at this point." She chuckled, more to herself than to him. "Oh, I wonder what Albus would say if he knew."

"Ease him into it," he suggested. "I don't see why you care so much about his opinion of us minette, but you can always gradually acclimate him to it." His hand moved to her cheek. "Would that be so hard?"

Minerva leaned against him again, feeling relieved when she felt his arms encircling her. "All right. And your sentiments are the same?" she whispered, feeling nauseatingly cliche and child-like. It was something that she had been wondering for a while.

"Of course they are," Riddle replied semi-honestly, his overlarge ego threatening to burst. And they stayed like that for several minutes, until a chime from the clock alerted them of the late hour.

"I should go," Minerva murmured, moving from where she lay against him. "Tom?" He appeared to have dozed off. Minerva tried to slip away noiselessly, but some small disturbance must have betrayed her, as he opened his eyes.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you it was rude to leave without saying goodbye?"

Minerva smiled. "I'll kiss you goodnight instead," she said, leaning over him and kissing him softly, preparing to leave the room.

"Minerva."

She turned to look at him leaning against the headboard, hair mussed and collar undone. "Yes?"

"Stay awhile longer."

"Tom, I'm tired, you're tired, and I want to go to sleep, because unlike you, I'm not okay with becoming an insomniac zombie living on air."

Riddle ran a hand through his tousled hair. "I have reading to do, and I want company. I'll take you to your room when I finish."

"And when might that be?" she asked sarcastically. "Two in the morning?"

"Probably," Riddle admitted. "But this moment bears so much resemblance to every romantic cliche I'm aware of, so it seems a pity to end it so abruptly, don't you agree?"

Sighing, Minerva rejoined him on the bed, worming her way into the blankets. "Be warned. I'm lousy conversation when exhausted." She looked at him pointedly. "Still want me here?"

"Obviously." They talked, or rather he talked and Minerva listened, of magic, of politics, and of trivial gossip related from both dubious and reliable sources, but never, Minerva noticed even in her drowsy state, of himself. More than once she found herself wondering what he was reading, as the book was angled in such a way that she couldn't see, but she was too tired to care, content with making a few sorry attempts at enlightening remarks on the subject at hand. She didn't remember when she fell asleep nor when he carried her to her room, but she found herself waking up in her familiar surroundings, and a note on her nightstand.

Her reading glasses were nowhere in sight, so she held the note at an arm's length to read it. She found herself curiously excited, and squinting, she began to read. "Minerva," she began aloud, and stopped after she took in the rest of the note in a glance. "Really, Tom?" she said with amusement and annoyance as she threw the note aside and rose to start her day.

Minerva,

That's the second time you cut off circulation in my shoulder. Delightful though your company may be, you really need to stop. I suggest you either use a pillow or find a more comfortable angle if I am to be the pillow, because frankly, it's getting ridiculous.

*Millicent Bagnold: The Minister before Fudge. Just fyi.

A/N: This end scene was my try at cutesy-fluffy. How'd I do? Also, Voldy isn't the best at the sentimental thing, is he?

Well, hope you lovely people enjoyed. Don't forget to review!