Notes: Hey hey! I am resurrecting this story again because of a plot bunny that I need to write. This is probably going to be a two-part arc and a followup chapter that relates somewhat to what happens in this arc but has its own plot (and will therefore have its own name, rather than "Part III").

Chapter Thirty-Three: Operation Dark Sunset, Part I: Bad Intentions

Late December 1963.

Tom Riddle, Minister for Magic, nodded loftily to his employees as he departed the Ministry. Ordinarily he would want to mingle, but he had important business tonight. Madeline was home from Hogwarts for the holidays as of today, and he was going to have a family dinner—with all the family.

"Minister," muttered a male voice nearby.

Tom glanced up, hoping that this was not an emergency. His dark eyes met the eyes of a wizard whom he vaguely recognized. It was someone from… not Crouch's department, but Griffith Diggory's, Tom was reasonably sure…. Yes, he remembered, it's Diggory's new deputy. Rockwood? Rookwood. That's the name.

"Rookwood," Tom said in curt acknowledgment. He certainly was not going to postpone his plans at the behest of a departmental deputy. If Diggory himself had something important to say, that was one thing, but Tom was not going to let underlings get inflated heads about their claims on the Minister's personal time, because they had no such claims.

"Minister—"

"Rookwood, I have a date with my family. Did Diggory send you to tell me something?" Tom's voice verged on a snarl. "If he did, you can take word back to him that I will hear it later."

Rookwood was taken aback for a moment. "I just wanted to wish you a nice evening, Minister," he said apologetically. "That was all."

Tom momentarily felt guilty. He supposed he shouldn't have assumed the worst… but as Minister, he had so many people wanting things of him, even when most office workers were off work and he preferred to spend time with Hermione and the children. He nodded quickly to Rookwood. "Thank you, then. You as well." His words remained brisk, but he prided himself that he had removed the impatient sneer from his voice, at least.

He left the Ministry building by Apparition and landed at the doorstep of his home. Hermione had sent him word through the Floo that she had got off work and picked up Madeline from Hogwarts. He knew that she was more than capable of Side-Along Apparating all three of the children to the restaurant, but he considered it ungentlemanly to leave that task entirely to her and arrive separately from his family.

Tom accepted Hermione's greeting kiss with a faint hint of a smile. He knew that she knew what his subtle markers of affection meant. He went into the sitting room and gazed upon his family. Madeline was slumped on the sofa, staring ahead glassily, looking bored like the teenager she was as of October. However, she leapt up at the sight of her father, grey eyes coming to life. At the table on the other side of the room, Virgil set down the book he was reading and smiled at his father. In that moment, Tom was stunned at how much of himself he saw in his scholarly son. His elder two children had inherited his black hair, and Virgil had also inherited his dark eyes.

A jubilant shriek broke the silence as his youngest child, Cynthia, bounded up from behind a chair, her brown curls—just like Hermione's—bouncing behind her. "Did you see me?" she exclaimed. "I was hiding!"

Tom feigned surprise. "I didn't see you at all!"

She beamed. Hermione gave him an indulgent grin, pleased that he had played along. "Let's give Dad a few minutes to get ready," she urged them.

Tom did not require that much time. He retreated to the master bedroom to comb his hair, wash his face, and brush off his clothes. He passed into his home office to drop his briefcase, opening it on his desk and taking some of the items out. Instinctively, he picked up the small blue leatherbound diary that tingled and buzzed with the powerful magic that could only come from—

I should not have this tonight.

Tom did not know where the sudden dark, foreboding thought came from. The closest to danger that the book had ever come—after those days in 1945 when the Elder Wand manipulated him into taking it into the Black townhouse—was when MACUSA had tried to perform a full magical scan on him in New York. He'd had no such bad feeling about that.

Tom was a wizard, however, and he decided not to question his magical intuition. In all probability, I'll never know why I had that foreboding, he thought, because the action I'm about to take will prevent the danger from materializing. He opened his desk drawer, shoved the Horcrux to the very back, closed it, and locked it tightly. He checked the window—even though he knew the entire house was warded—and locked the door behind him for good measure before joining his family.

Dinner passed pleasantly. Madeline had recovered from her sullenness and chatted animatedly about the last Quidditch game at Hogwarts, her exams, the Christmas party, her friends—and her new enemy, Bellatrix Black, a first year.

"She's horrid," Madeline said in a hushed voice. "She sat on the stool at her Sorting for so long, and then the Hat finally put her in Slytherin House, but I think it wanted to put her somewhere else! It just… spat the name, as though it were angry. I think she told it to put her here because all her family has been here. And even though she's just a first year, and I'm a second, and I can fly a broom so much better than she can and make better grades too, she's been an utter brat to me. You would not believe the things she says about our family!"

"Oh, I would," Hermione said darkly. She glowered at her plate. She had always known that this was inevitable, and that she should offer the same grace to her other former adversaries from another world that she did to her husband. They were different people, after all. However, Bellatrix was bullying her daughter—or trying to bully. Hermione knew that Madeline could hold her own, both verbally and magically.

She is a twelve-year-old girl, Hermione told herself. She is twelve and Madeline is thirteen. It's a teenage girl rivalry. No Cruciatus Curse, no knife carving, no murder. They are schoolgirls who dislike each other.

Tom understood what Hermione was thinking. He squeezed her thigh under the table, giving her a meaningful look and another subtle smile.

Tom and Hermione observed, as they ate, that the bond between Virgil and Cynthia seemed to have strengthened with Madeline's attendance at Hogwarts—and that Madeline was comfortable in her independence rather than attempting to assert her "big sister rights" over Virgil when she was home. Virgil had needed the space to develop more assertiveness himself, and even though she was the youngest, Cynthia's own personality was such that she certainly did not suffer from Virgil's "budding prefect" example. It was good for all of them, and their parents were glad to see it.

The Riddles finished eating and gathered up their possessions to return home. As they were leaving the restaurant and just entering the darkened street, Tom thought he saw something in the shadows.

They shouldn't be here, that same voice that had warned him against bringing the diary told him. "Hermione," he whispered, trying not to alarm the children, "take them home—now. Bypass the entrance. Apparate inside. There is something I need to check out. I don't want them here."

Hermione was startled. She gazed back at him, warm brown eyes wide, fear and alarm radiating out of them.

"Hermione, please."

Something in his voice told her that she had better do as he asked this once. With a look of worry for him, she gathered the children close and Disapparated on the spot.

Tom snarled quietly to himself and drew his wand, turning into the alleyway beside the restaurant where he had seen the shadowy movement. He barely had time to react before a heavy bulk rushed and slammed him, knocking him to the ground.

Tom reached for his wand, but before he could cast a spell, a sharp, ferocious pain pierced his right shoulder, momentarily shocking his arm from the injury and what felt like a poison. He cursed himself inwardly as he felt his own blood pour from the wound. So prepared for a magical attack, but I did not even think about a plain, physical, Muggle-style ambush!

The attacker began to rummage through Tom's coat pockets, growling and cursing in a foreign language that Tom recognized as perhaps Russian. Russian! he thought in dismay. The Aurors' investigation of Malfoy and the Rods! They sent someone to assassinate me!

The attacker drew his wand and pointed it squarely at Tom's nose. "Where is the book?" he sneered in a heavy accent.

Book? An inescapable conclusion shot through Tom's mind at that word, connected to the premonition he'd had at home, but how it could be, he could not imagine.

However, the assassin had underestimated Tom's ambidexterity. With his left hand, he flicked his wand, sending the would-be assassin backward. He tumbled on his back, his wand clattering away uselessly. Tom picked it up and instantly cast a hex to bind the wizard in chains.

"You are under arrest for attempted murder, attempted assassination of a head of government, sedition, and we'll see what else sticks," Tom growled, pointing his wand at the supine man. His right shoulder still throbbed, but oddly, the pain was lessening. Why would the assassin not have used a lethal poison….

Unless he was told not to? Because he was also told to retrieve "the book," and his principal knows what "the book" is? At that rather horrible thought, Tom cast a Stupefy on the man. He rather wanted to kill this scum, but clearly, something worse was afoot. He had to keep this wizard alive for questioning.

Questioning…. In a fraction of a second, Tom decided not to notify Caspar Crouch or Chief Auror Moody for the initial questioning… or Auror Abbott, who led the ongoing investigation into Florian Rosier, Abraxas Malfoy, and the Russian blood-purist wizarding crime family that they suspected funded them—Rodoslovnaya, often called "the Rods" in English-speaking countries. This was almost certainly a "hit" from that group—or an attempt—but Tom did not want this… person… talking too freely to Crouch, Moody, or Abbott about what he apparently knew about Tom. Tom had the legal authority to arrest and perform interrogations himself, in any case.

"Who are you?" he snarled at the man.

The wizard spat on the ground.

"All right," Tom said. "We'll see if you are more talkative in Ministry custody." He withdrew the general-purpose antidote he kept with him at all times, quaffed it, and healed the wound and rips in his clothing, leaving no indication that the blade had pierced his flesh. The poison responded to the antidote, Tom noted, but he was too worried about what that implied to feel contempt over the fact. Any assassin that would use a non-lethal poison had not intended the poison to kill anyway.

"Well?" Tom snarled as he sent another bruising curse at the assassin. He had sent word to Hermione of what had happened, but the law prohibited her, as an outsider to the Ministry, from participating in an official interrogation of a criminal. Tom had taken the assassin to a holding cell in the bowels of the Ministry, where he now sat in a chair, chained and unable to escape.

The Russian wizard winced and grimaced. "My name is Borzakov," he said. "I was hired by the boss for important job. What do you want to know, Minister?"

"Your 'boss,'" Tom drawled. "Who is that? Do you work for the criminal organization called Rodoslovnaya?"

"Of course." He paused, then added, "Is not criminal organization. Purity of blood is critically important."

"It is a criminal organization according to Britain, and that is where you committed your crimes. Where is your home?" Tom glared into the man's eyes, using Legilimency on him. "And know that I can tell if you are lying."

"Moscow."

It was true, Tom determined. "Interestingly enough, Borzakov, your employer is a criminal organization according to the legitimate Russian wizarding government too."

"It is not legitimate government. You put Karkaroff out of office! You interfered with Russian government, so we interfere with yours."

Tom had long suspected that Igor Karkaroff had been intimately involved with the crime family—indeed, that it had funded him and placed him in his former position, as it had attempted to do with Abraxas Malfoy through its British affiliate, and also meant to do for like-minded blood-purists in France and Germany, with Florian Rosier's help. He was disgusted that the Russian patriots that he and Grindelwald—ah, no, Baginski—had aided had not executed Karkaroff five years ago. He certainly would have. But they had not, and now, his Ministry's intelligence sources told him that the crime family had sprung Karkaroff from the new government's ill-secured prison and welcomed him into its ranks as a direct employee.

As he thought about Karkaroff, he realized through Legilimency that this particular assassin possibly had not been told very much about his "hit." Karkaroff was his direct boss—Karkaroff was the one who had given him the orders—but Tom was unable to determine if Borzakov knew much about the reasons for his very specific and peculiar orders. Time to try asking him directly, then, and seeing what thoughts passed through his mind as he answered the questions.

"Igor Karkaroff is your boss," Tom stated, noting with pleasure that Borzakov's eyes widened in surprise—and assent. The assent was on the surface of the assassin's thoughts, at least. That was good. It meant that anything else would also be there for Tom to pick up as he chose. This man was no Occlumens.

"Karkaroff ordered you to get a book from me," Tom continued, "not to use the Killing Curse in your attack, and apparently to use a poison on me that I could easily counter with a common antidote. Why is that?"

"I do not know," said Borzakov. "Karkaroff told me to get this book. It is a book of strong magic and personal significance to Minister Riddle, Karkaroff said."

Tom was utterly horrified. Karkaroff knew—somehow, he knew! He did not just know that Tom had a Horcrux, but somehow, he also knew what it was.

Calm yourself, Tom urged himself. It may not be as bad as it appears. He may just have word from… someone… that I have a book that I tote around a lot. He could think that it's important to me without knowing why. He might think it is important for intelligence purposes. A personal diary of the Minister would be. This may not be what it looks like.

"Did Karkaroff say why he gave this order?" Tom asked the assassin.

Borzakov shook his head. "He said to retrieve this book and bring to him."

Dissatisfied, Tom moved on. "Why did he tell you to use that specific poison, then?"

"He ordered me to keep you alive."

Tom closed his eyes momentarily. Intelligence purposes, indeed. He knows. How can he know? He saw me revive myself after the Killing Curse in St. Petersburg, yes, but I wiped his memory of that, and he still would have no way of knowing what the item is.

Unless there is a spy somewhere. But… what spy could know that? No one knows that except Hermione. Grindelwald knows I have one… he was on that same mission… but I swore him under the Unbreakable Vow. If he betrayed me, he died for it… and he never learned what the Horcrux is. How could this be? This simply does not make sense. It must be an intelligence operation. Someone, some spy, has seen me carrying it around, and deduced that it is a personal diary. That's all that this is.

"Did he say why?" Tom pressed.

"He said he must have the book before killing you."

Oh, my God. Tom closed his eyes again. The last flame of hope flickered and died.

Tom rallied his courage and strength as well as he could. "Karkaroff does not know of what he speaks," he said with cold disdain. "That doesn't even make sense."

"Karkaroff knows more of magic than I do," said the wretched Borzakov. "I trust him. He called it 'Operation Dark Sunset,' and I understand what that means. He told me that you are a Dark wizard."

"How does he know that?"

"It is commonly known," Borzakov scoffed. "You admitted to it in the British press."

Tom grimaced; it was true enough. There had been no serious repercussions domestically for that admission, but Tom had—myopically—only considered the political sphere for that. He had not considered a risk to his life.

"Does Karkaroff have a spy in Britain?"

"I have no idea."

To his dismay, Tom realized that the assassin was telling the truth about that too. This was a very professional job, with a rather stupid and ignorant hitman who knew as little as possible in case this exact scenario—the assassin's capture by his intended target—unfolded. Much to his loathing, Tom had to give the Russian blood-purity mob credit. With a final scowl, he flicked his wand at the unfortunate Borzakov, sending the man into a deep stupor. Black robes flapping behind him, he strode from the dais and opened the soundproof doors, where a team of Aurors waited to take the prisoner to Azkaban.

Hermione fussed over Tom after he finally came home, very late indeed, and explained the full details of what had happened after she had taken the children home. "It never ends!" she exclaimed as he drank the spiked peppermint tea she had given him. "I understand why you did not tell me more, but Tom, this is incredibly dangerous!"

He sipped the tea and set the cup down. "You don't say. I am just glad that I had that premonition."

She sighed and sank down in the chair next to him in their sitting room. "Tom," she said, placing a hand gently on his shoulder, "we have to get to the bottom of this."

"Yes," he agreed, "and we must do it, indeed. This is certainly related to the topic of the Aurors' investigation, but they cannot take this part, for obvious reasons. We have to solve it ourselves." He took another sip.

Hermione rubbed her forehead. Even after nineteen years, she still did not approve of what Tom had done that dark night in 1945, but it was no longer as simple as it had been then. The diary had saved his life twice. She still had him, and the children still had their father, because it had protected his life in 1958 against Dolohov's Killing Curse. And if either of them had died in the confrontation at the Black family home in 1945, the survivor would not have had a family at all. No, it was not nearly as simple as it had been that night many years ago. She hoped that someday, he… no, Hermione thought, shoving that line of thinking aside. She was not going to brood on it. Attempting to reunite the pieces might well kill him, and he was too young to die. And in any case, it existed now. It needed to be protected, which meant that they had to figure out how the secret had escaped.

"We need to make a list," Hermione said. "A list of anyone who ever knew that you had a Horcrux… even if you think that you protected the secret later," she said as he opened his mouth to object.

"That's very few people," Tom said. "Dumbledore, of course." He scowled. "As much as I would like to have something on him, this was not his doing."

Hermione agreed. "Dumbledore would not pass sensitive information to the Russian blood-supremacist crime family." She paused, considering the role that Severus Snape had played in the Death Eaters in the alternate timeline, before dismissing that doubt at once. Dumbledore had always made certain that Snape did not tell the Death Eaters anything truly critical.

"And he does not know what the item is, either," Tom said. "It wasn't Dumbledore." He considered. "Grindelwald—Baginski—knows that I have one as well, but I checked tonight with him. He is alive, which means that he didn't tell anyone, and he has not turned his coat. He wouldn't betray an ally to the wizarding Russian mob. This was not his doing either."

They thought more on the matter. Finally Hermione spoke up. "In 1945… the big duel at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. I know that we used a Memory Charm on Arcturus Black, but they aren't infallible. Sometimes people recover bits and pieces of memory with time."

Tom glowered at the table. "That applies to Slughorn as well, you know. I don't remember… was Black out when I revived myself from old Lestrange's Killing Curse? I think he was. Slughorn wasn't, though. He saw it all—and we exchanged words about it, to boot. But," he reflected, "Slughorn would be even less likely to tell anyone than Dumbledore. I am interested in the idea of Arcturus Black, though." He leaned back in his chair. "He has been very retired for years. He turned over the headship of the family to Orion, who—to give the bloke credit—has not been that big of a thorn in my side. He has been a typical, ordinary political opposition leader since Abraxas Malfoy's disgrace… and sometimes he has allied with me. If his wretched father has secretly remained active, passing intelligence to Russian organized crime…." Tom trailed off darkly, the threat unspoken.

"You shouldn't assume that without testing the hypothesis," Hermione said. "It's possible—I will grant that, Tom—but you should not assume it. And even if it proves true, you should not assume that Orion knew about it without evidence."

Tom rubbed his forehead again. "You're right," he said abruptly. "I should look into it. But Hermione… you need to accept the fact that I may need to go abroad if this turns up nothing."

Her face fell in dismay. "Tom—this could be just like the fight with Karkaroff and Dolohov, only worse, if you have no support. I should go, at least."

He winced at her distress. "No, Hermione, you really shouldn't. If the unthinkable happened, what would become of the children?"

She looked down at the table, unable to answer. It was too awful to contemplate.

"I will go only if none of our domestic leads produce anything," he said. "And… we will check all of them, just to be sure. But Hermione, this cannot wait too long. These people, whoever they are, know a lot of things that they should not. I need to know who they are, what they know, and how they know it." He finished the last of his tea and rose to give her a kiss.

The next morning, Hermione was even more determined to look into all the obvious possibilities before letting Tom hare off on a solo adventure in Russia that—all things considered—had a grave risk of going very badly for him. He certainly would not bring the Horcrux with him if he ended up taking the trip, but if they captured him and discovered that he didn't have it on him, they might do some sort of magic that rendered his body uninhabitable. Or give him to a dementor, Hermione thought, with a chill of marrow-freezing horror at that idea. No, Tom did not need to take this trip. They had to solve this here, together, somehow.

Even if the assassin's story was complete—it was certainly true, as far as the man knew, but the question remained as to whether what he knew was accurate and complete—Karkaroff had learned of the identity of Tom's Horcrux through some British source. He must have. Hermione just could not see how it could be otherwise. Like Arcturus Black, it was possible that he had recovered some memories of the 1958 fight, just enough to make the deduction as to what Tom had done, but he would not have any way of knowing what the item was without outside help.

Why hasn't whoever it is told the press? Hermione wondered. They could destroy Tom in that way if they wanted. Why tell the Russian blood-supremacist mob if they just want Tom out of office? She followed that trail of thought for a while before arriving at a very unpleasant conclusion.

It's because the person is a spy for the Rods, she thought. For Rodoslovnaya, she corrected her thought. Hermione disliked the shortened name, which seemed vaguely silly-sounding to her, whereas the full, proper name meant "bloodline" in Russian—fittingly. The person who told Karkaroff about the diary is a true believer. It is not just about getting Tom out of office. This is not a routine Wizengamot power play. The spy is not an ordinary Isolationist of Wizarding Britain. This was an attempt to assassinate the Minister for Magic, the specific Minister who first ordered the investigation of ties between Rodoslovnaya and prominent figures like Abraxas Malfoy. This is deadly serious, and that is why the person kept the information secret. And… now that the attempt has been made on Tom's life, the spy definitely won't come forward to the press. That would entail instantly outing himself as a spy now. Or herself, I suppose, but I bet anything it's a wizard. In Hermione's experience observing these people, she had found them to be extremely sexist, even more so than the British blood purists.

In an adjacent room, Tom brooded as well. He was rather put out, to be honest. He had looked forward to spending time with his children. The holidays were nigh, but he had to devote family time to tracking down a despicable traitorous spy.

Arcturus Black first, he thought. He is the most likely possibility. He actually handled the diary in 1945. Dumbledore has never seen it, nor has Grindelwald. Tom studied his pocket watch. He was not going to waste any time with this. He had sent a letter to Orion this very morning, explaining that there had been an attempt on his life and that he wished to question—just question, he had assured Orion—Arcturus about his past ties to Abraxas Malfoy and other suspects in the plot. Orion had agreed quickly, perhaps because he was afraid of Tom, but that was all to the good if so. Even better, Orion was going to bring his father with him to the Riddles' house, a clear indication that he acceded to Tom's dominance. He was also going to bring his rather rowdy four-year-old son, Sirius, but Tom hoped that the boy might find a playmate in five-and-a-half-year-old Cynthia.

If you have come back from my past to trouble me again, Arcturus Black, you'll wish you had not, Tom thought—though what he would do to the man if it turned out that he knew inconvenient secrets about Tom, he was not sure yet.

Arcturus Black was in his sixties, but like any wizard, he had aged very well indeed. Hermione and Tom had seen little of him over the years, since he was in a family-imposed seclusion, but it was obvious to them that the only major change to him had been additional grey in his hair. For that matter, Tom had a few silver hairs himself now. His son looked stunningly like him, just younger.

Sirius, Hermione noticed with a pang, also resembled his father and grandfather. He was a very good-looking child, and even at this very young age, Hermione could see signs of the man that she knew he would one day become. It was poignant and painful for all kinds of reasons… but at the same time, she knew that she was giving him the chance for a much better, much longer life than he otherwise would have had.

Cynthia was about a year and a half older than Sirius, and she exhibited all the bossiness inherent in the age difference, but she was nonetheless glad to have a playmate approximately her own age. "Come with me, Sirius," she said authoritatively, her curls bouncing. "I have two snakes, and I can talk to them. Really! Let me show you."

The Riddles' aged cat, Sable, eyed Sirius with mild interest before returning to his sleep. Grabbing the younger boy's hand, Cynthia practically dragged him away to her magical terrarium.

Orion observed the play with a very mixed expression on his face, but he quickly cleared it at the sight of the glare that the Minister for Magic was giving him. "Minister Riddle," he said respectfully. "And Mrs. Riddle. I have brought Father here, as you requested."

The Riddles eyed their old adversary, who stared back at them in return, hostility in his face.

Hermione spoke up first. "Mr. Black," she said to Arcturus, "we really have requested your presence here to ask you some questions. That's all that it is. And as a show of our goodwill… why don't we have the discussion in the parlor? There are drinks… tea and strong drink as well, if you prefer."

Arcturus sneered. "If you have any proper firewhisky, I will take that."

"We have Scotland's best," Tom assured him, showing the Blacks into the parlor. He flicked his wand at a cabinet as they sat down. The bottle and four glasses levitated across the room, the bottle opening itself and pouring the drink into the glasses.

"Well," Tom said, once they all had their drinks, "I will get right to the point. An attempt was made on my life last night, as I was returning from a dinner at the Isle of Apples with my family." He eyed the Blacks. "It was a very clever attempt, too—and there were some peculiarities about it. But I'm getting ahead of myself. I apprehended the assassin—obviously, since we are talking—and interrogated him at the Ministry. He is Russian, an employee of Rodoslovnaya, which—yes, Orion"—for Orion's eyes were wide with alarm—"is the criminal organization that trafficks in illegal potions ingredients, endangered magical creatures, and which had a child smuggling ring in Albania until my wife and I rooted that out." He glared at his guests. "Florian Rosier and Abraxas Malfoy, among others, are subjects of an ongoing Auror investigation examining possible financial and political ties to this same organization, and a likely scheme to undermine and infiltrate wizarding governments. That returns us to the assassination attempt."

Arcturus Black spoke up at once. "Minister Riddle." It was obvious that the words curdled on his tongue, but he managed to get them out. "I have been out of politics for years. My son has handled all of that. Those were the terms of the agreement that reinstated the Black family to the Wizengamot, and I have not violated it."

Tom studied him for a few seconds. His face twisted in disappointment; evidently this statement was largely true. Hermione grimaced inwardly. She really did not want Tom to go abroad for this.

"Mr. Black," he said, "that may be, but I still must ask you about something. You remember, of course, our—confrontation—at your house that day in 1945."

Black scowled.

"When Slughorn, Rosier, and I arrived to retrieve Hermione, you took something from me: my diary. It—reacted strongly."

"I remember that," Black said, eyeing Tom. "What of it, Riddle? Minister?" he corrected himself.

"Well, the assassin last night somehow knew of its existence. I must confess, I have continued to use it as a diary over the years, and it contains what I suppose a foreign crime lord would consider highly useful intelligence about the British Minister for Magic, since it has so many of my personal thoughts and recollections inside it."

Hermione was impressed, in a cold way, that he still could lie so smoothly about this.

"And you think that the Russkies know of it because of me?" Black said indignantly. "Listen, Minister, I have had no contact with Malfoy in years, and certainly wouldn't have any after the despicable things he did to his former wife… to say nothing of spying for a foreign country. If he did. Is this why you summoned me here?"

"Yes," Tom said. His face was grim with disappointment; Black was telling the truth. "It was just a lead. I haven't carried it about openly, you see, and it was baffling to me how Karkaroff's organization could know of its existence. I had hoped that it would be an accidental disclosure in the past, rather than having to consider the possibility of a spy in Britain. I'm sorry to have troubled you," he ended insincerely.

The two adult Blacks finished their firewhisky and set down their glasses. As Arcturus rose from his seat, he dropped the attaché case that he had brought. It popped open, revealing a set of handkerchiefs, a case of cigars, and a black leatherbound volume, which in turn fell open. It was a photograph album.

"Oh, dear," Hermione said, reaching for it politely. She made to close the cover when one detail in the two facing photographs to which it had opened suddenly grabbed her attention. She stared at the pictures, hardly believing her eyes.

"What is it?" Arcturus Black said.

Tom looked over Hermione's shoulder at the photographs. "Merlin," he said, gazing at it. "I don't believe it." He glanced at the date that Black had written on the bottom of the pictures: 1953. Ten years ago, well before he had made the bargain with the family.

Tom gazed at the Blacks. "Thank you for coming," he said. "We know all that we need to now."