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9
Gaunt Legacy
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Severus knew Regulus Black.
During his time as a Death Eater, Severus had met the other man several times, worked with him, and, while Regulus was Sirius' brother, he was far more palatable, both in demeanor and… as a colleague. Regulus knew his Potions, was an aspiring Alchemist- or, that's what Severus figured at the time, given the other man's impressive knowledge of obscure reagents, learned when the two briefly worked together under the Dark Lord.
Indeed, in his more lucid moments, Severus found himself wondering if Regulus would've been a better choice for Hogwarts' Potions Master; the other – and more agreeable – Black son was certainly of a kinder bent than Severus, and most Slytherins of the time, for that matter. Or, that was how Severus remembered him.
And then Severus would also remember that Regulus had vanished during the War, and he'd go back to grading papers with a grumble.
Now, he was forced to see that the Regulus he knew, a young man curious about all the facets of the Dark and a brilliant, beautiful mind besides… Severus had not known him at all.
Regulus had played everyone, deceiving even the Dark Lord, learning all he could from Severus, the Lestranges, even true monsters like Rookwood and Dolohov, all for a chance, any chance, however small, to stop the madness the Dark Lord had unleashed on Britain. And, as soon as he had the slightest chance, he'd taken it, giving his life for a single fragment of the Dark Lord's soul, entrusting it to a House Elf in the slim hope that it'd be destroyed.
He didn't know whether to admire the bloke for such purely Slytherin cunning, or hate him for the deception.
"Severus," he looked up from rubbing his eyes, having slumped into one of Albus' armchairs after seeing that dreadful memory, to find Lenore Black offering him a glass of… he sniffed… gin.
He took it with a thankful nod; at least it wasn't vodka.
Albus had his own drink – a neat scotch, going by the color – sitting on his desktop; the wizard himself was seemingly deep in thought, staring at a point to Severus' left, stroking his beard with a glaring frown, Fawkes perched on the back of the chair, the Pensieve, still swirling with the memory, at the Headmaster's elbow.
Lenore, for her part, had returned to the window with her brandy and was gazing out over the grounds, lazily swirling the drink in her hand. Severus couldn't even guess what the Hunter's thoughts might be; pride? Sorrow? Anger? He expected all and any of those emotions, especially from one who held her own house to a higher standard than her descendants. But Severus knew better than to even attempt a passive Legilimancy to sate his curiosity.
The one time he suggested doing so to Albus, the old wizard had just given him a pitying glare, and suggested that there were 'easier ways to commit suicide, Severus'.
The destroyed necklace sat in its lead box.
Somehow, its very existence chilled Severus worse than seeing a lake full of Inferi.
A horcrux. The Dark Lord had made a horcrux.
The Mark prickled on Severus' arm, making him feel filthier than ever.
Severus drank, savoring the sweet burn and warmth that drove the chilling emotions further back, allowing him to muster up the courage to speak, "The spike Regulus used… I'm not familiar with it."
"Nor I," Albus said quietly, looking over Lenore's way, "An invention of your House?"
The Hunter sighed softly, her voice just as soft as she explained, "It is a Quietus Spike, and no, it was the House of Bones that invented them, back in the days of the Crusades." Taking a large gulp of her drink, she continued thickly, "Essentially, it is an item of last resort, to prevent one's body and soul from being used by an enemy after death. Driving it into oneself turns their flesh, blood and bone to salt; their soul is then dispersed into the ether, destroying the Spike itself in the process.
"Originally, I believe they were made after the Saracens turned a company of Knights Templar into revenants, after which they were unleashed on Kerak Castle." Lenore paced back towards the Headmaster's desk, continuing the rather fascinating history lesson, "Afterwards, the Spikes were carried by mage-knights in service to the Knightly Orders, so the same or worse couldn't be done to them. The items were scattered after Jerusalem was retaken and the remaining Crusades failed, but they had a habit of turning up at opportune times, particularly when an arch-necromancer or cult rose up to annoy humanity. After Emeric the Evil and his pack of corpse-humpers were killed, few Spikes remained, mostly in the Bones' family manor, with a few given out to close allies; the one Regulus used… I'm fairly sure it was on display in one of the Black Library's curio cabinets."
"A grave thing regardless, these Spikes; that the cost is the person's soul… one would have to be quite brave indeed, to use it on themself," Albus hummed, reaching out to lift Slytherin's Locket from the box; turning it in his hand, the old wizard's lips curled into a grimace. "At least the poor boy's sacrifice was not in vain. One horcrux down… at least five more to go."
At this admission, Severus felt his body lurch; he knew what horcruxes were – studying what Herpo the Foul did was part and parcel with study of the Dark – but this, "I… what? Five?!"
Lenore hummed before extending her hand, setting her drink down on Albus' desk, "Give me your arm. Albus, catch him up to speed while I examine the Mark."
Hesitantly, but with the reminder that every Hunter was also an accomplished Curse-Breaker, Severus held out his arm for examination; the woman gripped his wrist like a vice as she peered and muttered, while Albus explained what the pair had already discovered of the Dark Lord, Voldemort…
Or, as he'd been named on birth, Tom Marvolo Riddle.
The Dark Lord was a half-blood. The thought of such information being told at a full session of the Wizengamot amused Severus, taking his mind off Lenore Black's poking at his arm with her wand.
"Our objective, at this point," Albus concluded, standing and moving over to the pensieve's storage cabinet, "is finding the nature of the remaining horcruxes. Happily, I already figured the necklace was one of them-"
Lenore looked up sharply and squinted at Albus' back for a moment, before going back to squinting at the Dark Mark.
"-from a memory I recently acquired from one Bob Ogden, former Auror with the DMLE. He's currently dying in St. Mungo's from a slow-acting curse he took during Grindelwald's War, unfortunately, and is no longer able to speak, but his mind remains sharp as ever," returning to the desk, Albus held up a vial full of memory with a victorious twinkle in his eye. "Here, I've discovered not only the first instance of the locket before us, not only the possible location of a second horcrux, but I've also deduced the identity of Tom's mother. His father, also named Tomas Riddle, was already known to me; his mother's identity, I think, may be a clue as to the nature of the remaining horcruxes."
"Hm," Lenore huffed, drawing a small black case from her pocket. It opened with a snap, revealing six double-ended silver needles, each one finely etched with tiny Runes-
-her grip tightened painfully around Severus' wrist as she plucked a needle from the case and-
"Tss…" Severus hissed as the Black Professor drove the needle through the center of the skull making up the Dark Mark; the pain was sudden, but fled as…
The ink of the tattoo swirled into the needle, right before Severus' shocked eyes; as soon as the last of it was absorbed, Lenore yanked the needle back out.
No wound remained.
The Mark was gone as well.
Severus gaped.
Albus sipped his scotch with a pleased expression.
After setting the needle in the lead box with the Locket, Lenore sniffed and asked Albus, "Who was his mother, then?"
"Are we not going to talk about how you just removed a magically binding oath tattoo like it was nothing?" Severus asked with what he thought was a reasonable amount of panic.
It was gone. Where once there was the most lasting mark of his sins, his crimes, there was now only pale, healthy flesh.
It was gone. He thought it would stay with him until his death; anyone trying to remove it-
The Hunter scoffed, "Every single Hunter since the Dark Emperor Commodus has carried a pack of Severing Needles, mostly for prisoners with tracking or loyalty seals like the Dark Mark. Dark Cults use those things so often, it's practically cliché."
"It's actually not so common these days. Grindelwald certainly didn't use any." Albus observed.
"Well, he actually had healthy brains between his ears, instead of a lump of dragon dung." Lenore paused, reclaiming her drink, "Not that it's saying much, given the Holocaust."
"Quite, quite," Albus nodded, setting down his drink and saying to Severus, "Come, lad, pull yourself together. We might have a few more shocks before the night settles in fully."
"I'm fine," Severus insisted… though he still reached for his gin so he could knock it back in a long series of gulps; he didn't care about Black raising an eyebrow at him, either, or Albus' humored chuckle. After all these years, he was free.
"As you say," Albus shrugged before turning back to Lenore, "As to answer your question, Tom's mother was named Merope Gaunt."
Lenore stiffened with a sharp inhalation, back going ramrod straight, the glass in her hand cracking-
Reality stuttered-
something in the dark between the stars was looking at him-
and then everything was as it was before, though Albus was looking quite concerned.
"What…" Severus wondered aloud, checking the remains of his drink, which had turned purple; a sniff- cough syrup?
"Apologies, gentlemen," Lenore said breathlessly. "My… my magic slipped out of control for a moment."
"I take it the family name is familiar to you?" Albus ventured carefully.
Severus also looked over at Lenore Black; face pinched, empty hand fisted, and cheeks reddening… either it was something that made her furious beyond anything he'd seen in her thus far, or it was singularly embarrassing. A jilted lover, maybe-
The Hunter finally snarled, voice low and rough, "That family of inbred savages are the reason I slept for so long."
Ah. Rage it was, then.
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|\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/|
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Frank Bryce coughed into his fist as he washed up after dinner, trying to ignore the pain from the old but awfully stiff war wound in his leg; damn Rommel, damn that dark-haired boy, and damn the cold. Always made his lungs act up.
For near-on 50 years he'd been working as the Riddle Manor's gardener, even after the name was changed and other people came to live there. Driven off by the rumors that Frank killed the Riddle family, no doubt; a crock of shit, the lot of it. He hadn't harmed a hair on any of their heads, had just wanted a quiet life.
But down in Little Hangleton they all sat, jeering, muttering about his short-tempered youth and whatever; none of them had gone to war, been shot at by tanks.
Franks sighed and put his plate away, before stumping over to put the kettle on; there was no use being bitter over the whole business, and hell, peace and quiet was what he wanted, wasn't it? A little more than he'd bargained for, and people still thought him a murderer, but at least he had his flowerbeds, and the weather was agreeable more often than not, so… no big complaints.
The local kids, though…
Frank had just grabbed his box of teas when a sharp series of four knocks came from the front door, followed by a woman's voice, Scottish, or his ears were going, "Mr. Frank Bryce? Are you home?"
"Who is it?" he barked back; no doubt some reporter, or a government mook come to bother him, and at such a late hour-
"Dame Lenore Black, MI5, here on the Queen's orders."
Frank gasped- and started coughing. The Queen?! What-
"Are you going to open the door, or shall I pick the lock?"
"I'm coming, I'm coming," Frank coughed, grabbing his cane and hobbling his way as fast as he could to the front door; the Queen- MI5- sure, Frank had read a spy thriller or two, heard a couple stories on the radio, but in real life?
The names and titles the woman just gave him, they weren't words given lightly; quite the weighty claims, these.
He opened the door a crack, not undoing the chain.
Three persons stood on his porch: the woman, wearing a brown coat over a careworn red and black men's suit and tie, a black top hat with a grey band sitting on her head, her hair in a ponytail over her left breast and a bored yet stern look on her face; behind her to Frank's left was one of the tallest men he'd ever seen, wearing his own cloak over a patterned red and gold shirt, vest and slacks, a large but finely trimmed white beard sitting beneath a kind expression; the final individual was a sallow-faced man with a hooked nose, greasy hair under a bowler hat, his head turned to one side as he examined the setting sun, the graveyard, and the Manor in the distance, his arms and clothing hidden by a thick black cloak with a silver clasp.
Frank frowned; these were rather rich-looking folk, so maybe the woman was telling the truth, but one thing he'd learned over the years was to trust, but verify.
"You got some way to identify yourself, ah, what was it again?"
The woman slowly lifted up a badge – one he wasn't familiar with, a sickle crossed with a pistol, over the old flag of England – with an identification card confirming that, yes, this was indeed a Dame Lenore Black, of MI5.
Frank grunted, undid the chain, and opened the door wide to ask this "Lenore" person directly to her face, "And what does the Queen want with me, hm?"
"The events of the Riddle murders have just arrived at Her ears, Mr. Bryce. After consulting her advisors, she found the news concerning enough to send me."
Ice dripped down Frank's back; the look in her eyes, he'd seen it before, back in the war. Some soldiers that were kept apart; they were the killers, the ones who did the dirty work. Frank didn't miss those eyes-
fweeeeeee
He jumped as the kettle went off- and now Dame Black was gazing around with polite interest.
"Ah, I was just making tea when you showed up." Deciding that, with three of them and one of him, there was little he could do otherwise, Frank stepped aside invited, "Please, come in. Not a lot of space at the table, but if ya fiddle about, should be able to manage."
"Oh, you needn't trouble yourself, Frank," the tall bloke swept past him and headed for the kitchen; the whistling of the kettle stopped, "Go on and have a seat while I get the tea ready."
"You needn't worry about the Queen's wrath either, Mr. Bryce; this is mostly just a house call, getting your side of the story, filling in the blanks in what Her Majesty already knows," Dame Black said in a more friendly voice, doffing her hat along with the dark figure behind her, who backed into the house; scoffing, Dame Black thwacked him with her hat, "And would you lighten up, Severus? Ah, and these are my colleagues: Sir Severus Prince-"
The hook-nosed fellow gave Frank a tight smile and equally tense nod, but nonetheless took off his hat.
"-and Mr. Albus Dumbledore with the tea," Dame Black continued, taking off her coat and removing a notebook and a fountain pen from its pockets, before making for Frank's table.
"Charmed, despite the late hour," Frank told the woman honestly, sitting with a bit of difficulty.
"Trouble with your leg?" remarked Mr. Dumbledore – was that even a real name? – as he set Frank's tea tray on Frank's table, and there was the tea, set up for four with cream and sugar, with a few fig biscuits that definitely didn't come from Frank's pantry.
Dame Black and Sir Prince grabbed one each swiftly, to the amusement of their older colleague.
Somehow, Frank didn't feel crowded, despite having three people in his modest little cottage- but still, the question hung, as did the expectant looks of his unexpected houseguests.
"Old war wound," Frank explained, pulling his tea closer. "Got it in North Africa, chasing that bastard Rommel. Tank shell burst."
"Africa," Mr. Dumbledore's friendly face turned sour, shaking his head, "Gods and spirits, what a hellhole."
Frank gave the old man a look; he must've been over a hundred at least, but a veteran of the Great War, in the second war… "You were an officer, I reckon?"
"Oh, nothing so glamorous," Mr. Dumbledore gave Frank a wave, "While you lads were dealing with Rommel, me and mine were out in the wings, making sure things didn't get worse for you lads."
Frank grunted, grimacing too while pointing at each of the strangers in turn, "You all spooks, then? Do the dirty work for the Lords and Ladies?"
Dame Black just sighed and gave Frank a look, opening her notes before asking, "The Riddle Family, they were how many and whom?"
Straight to the questions, then; fair, Frank was overstepping his bounds a bit, and they didn't seem dangerous… at least, not to him.
"Was the Mister and Missus Riddle, Timmon and Penelope, respective and God rest 'em both, and then there was their son Tommen; always referred to him as Young Tom, the Mr. and Missus did," Frank coughed into his fist and had a little more tea… and one of the biscuits…
Okay, maybe a second one wouldn't hurt; damn good figgies.
"You were on good terms with the Sir and Madam Riddle, then?" Dame Black asked.
"Course I was. Like I already told everyone," that old anger of Frank's was rising again, "Tim was a good man, and a good boss, gave me a nice quiet place to garden when I came back from the war; and his wife, Penny, she insisted I call her, she came around to check on my work. Sometimes she'd offer advice, make suggestions, what kind of flowers she'd like planted or changes to the bushes' trim, but mostly we jawed about the weather. And Tom, kid was just married, sweet girl named… Natalie, I think; stayed in the Manor most of the time, given she was expectin'…"
Frank stopped to check himself; his lungs felt hot with anger, making him feel like breathing fire. Maybe he should've pulled that bottle of brandy he was saving for his 90th birthday; talking about them, even after so long…
And people thought he'd done it. Him! Frank Bryce the tank gunner, killin' a mother and father and their son and a young girl carryin'-
"I didn't do it," he muttered, voice thick with the injustice of how he'd been treated after the Riddle's murder.
"I believe you." He looked up; Dame Black was still writing in the journal, not looking up as she continued, "I, and Her Majesty by extension, are acutely aware of your innocence in the crime that occurred nearby, Frank Bryce."
"Then why're you here, now?" He asked gruffly, "Diggin' up these old memories?"
She met his eyes, "Because we know who killed them, but the story is incomplete, and if there is one thing Her Majesty dislikes, it is a half-assed investigation."
Frank blinked, trying to regain his bearings, but find them he did, "Well… that's good news. Don't know how much more a help I can be, though. Happened near fifty years ago, it did."
"While your leg might've degraded over the years, your mind clearly hasn't, given you can remember even brief conversations with your employers," old Albus smiled that warm smile of his.
Shifting in his seat, Frank grunted, "They were mostly just that, though: my bosses. We didn't really mix, though I had cigars with the boss and his son on Nelson's Day, bout a week after I got hired; was honorably discharged, see, back in, oh, July '42. Started working for the Riddles in October, which was around the time Little Tom got married; cigars were for that. We exchanged a couple stories, us old-timers gave Tom some advice and congratulations, and then went our ways, as men do."
Nods were exchanged, words were written, and Dame Black asked another question.
"Did they ever confide in you that their son was kidnapped roughly 17 years prior to their murder?"
Chewing his figgy biscuit before swallowing, Frank had a thought and shook his head, "Nah, they never mentioned… son seemed alright, decent bloke if a little spoiled by his mother, no sharp edges on him I could spot."
Dame Black nodded and made a couple more notes.
"Does the family name Gaunt mean anything to you?"
Frank huffed gruffly, "Proper ghastly surname, that, but otherwise don't ring no bells, ma'am."
She looked him directly in the eye, asking one last question, "Is there a forest beyond the nearby hedgerow, down by the road to the southwest of the Manor?"
Frank frowned; what was she on about? "…no? Just a peat bog that way. Even the pigs stay out of it. Ghastly place; heard a nearby perfume factory dumped chemicals there in the sixties."
The notebook was closed, and Dame Black smiled, eyes crinkling in a friendly way. "Thank you, Mr. Bryce. Now, as for what's going to happen next…" she cleared her throat, folded her hands on top of the notebook, and looked him in the eye again.
He felt like a recruit again, being examined by his old and grizzled company officers out on the parade ground all those years ago.
"Firstly, we were never here. Secondly, tomorrow on the local news stations and radios, a bulletin will go out, detailing the investigation and identification of the actual murderer of the Riddles, a madman named Bartemius Crouch, Jr. who committed several grisly murders in the 70's; the Riddles were his first taste of violence, when he was very young, and it's likely there are more victims in the 20-year gap in his activity, but further investigations are ongoing. As for the man himself, he is in a prison that specializes in difficult mental health cases, as he is suffering from the early stages of dementia.
"In short, Mr. Bryce, Her Majesty is of the opinion that there be no question as to your innocence."
"Was it him, though?" Frank asked gruffly, not able to hold back his curiosity, "This Crouch fellow?"
It was old Albus who answered, "No. Mr. Crouch, Jr. was indeed a cold-blooded murderer, but is too young to have done the deed, and is nearly ten years dead besides."
"Then who was it?" Frank demanded, "If ya know-"
"We do, and, as the truth would cast mud on the Riddles' memory, it has been decided to keep the actual murderer's identity a secret," Dame Black told him sternly, "Yes, it is tied to Young Tom's kidnapping, but beyond that, I implore you to let the matter rest."
"If it's any consolation," Sir Prince drawled, "the one who did the deed is also many years dead."
That… Frank let out a great sigh and raised his tea, "Well, thank God for that, and may the bastard rot in Hell."
"Amen," Dame Black toasted him, as did her mates, before concluding, "Finally, Her Majesty feels that some restitution is in order, to make up for the long years of loneliness have suffered."
Frank waved her off, "I have my garden and my cottage, ma'am. It's all I want in life."
And it was the truth, too; sun and beaches meant crowds and their droning roar.
"We're well aware," Dame Black replied, extracting a thick manilla envelope and sliding it to his side of the table, "Nevertheless, Her Majesty has noticed your skills, and has gifted you with a small cottage in the village of Howick, along with a job at the nearby Howick Hall as advisor to their, in Her Majesty's own words, 'rather pedestrian' head gardener. This is in addition to the fifty thousand pounds sterling a year for the rest of your life, apart from your salary, paid by the Crown in thanks for your testimony… and, yes, for your silence."
Frank was floored; the home of the Earl Grays, one of the most distinguished manors in Britain… yet…
"I… I'm honored, really, but with my leg," he moved it, expecting pain… only to feel nothing.
Frank blinked, and looked at Lenore Black, who, along with Sir Prince, was giving Albus a dry look; the old man himself just drank his tea serenely, ignoring their stares.
Shocked quite completely, Frank stood up; his leg didn't hurt. He walked in a small circle; there was no pain.
"How?" he looked at the woman and two men, "How… how can this be?"
"Mr. Frank Bryce, two weeks ago, you went to Manchester for a doctor's visit, regarding your lungs; while there, the doctors performed an operation and gave you some drugs. You took them, and by the time they were done, your leg was in good working order." Lenore Black stood up, taking her pen and notebook with her, giving him a stern glare, like an owl might give a rodent, "I suggest you go to bed and rest; two days from now, the movers from the government will arrive and take you to your new home.
"And just so we're clear, we were never here, this conversation never happened, and to imagine otherwise would be an extremely foolish thing to do."
Not being a fool, Frank nodded numbly, offered the three some of his homemade jam – taken with thanks by all three – and saw them out the door.
They turned to the southwest and made for that part of the property, and the bog they mentioned-
Shaking his head, Bryce put those folk from his mind and looked at the manilla folder laying facedown on his table. He walked over – no pain; by the saints and Jesus, praise the Lord and whatever was in those figgies! – and picked up the envelope to examine it.
On the front was embossed the seal of Great Britain, along with the words REGNUM DEFENDE.
Defend the Realm.
Frank spared a turn and quick salute to the departing men and woman, before opening the envelope and taking a look at what his future held.
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|\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/|
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Lenore adjusted her gloves and glared at the forest ahead of her. Gone were the Mundane clothes; in their place, her Knight vestments, while her Burial Blade – ostensibly wielded by the Master Hunters of the Silver Crescent Order – was resting against the hedgerow. Her newest armament, a .45 Colt Anaconda 8 in., was sitting snug in its holster on her hip.
If there was one good thing about sleeping for 300 years, Lenore felt, it was seeing the peak of firearm design; she preferred her flintlocks, but there was something satisfying about being able to put explosive Runes on her bullets and have them not ruined when shot. That, and the Yanks made damn fine guns.
Ah, and Severus was giving her a look; one day, she was going to take him and Albus to the shooting range she and Sirius set up in Walburga's bedroom. Sure, he was a Potions Master, so he probably had several nasty things in those armored dragon-hide robes of his, but other than that all he had was a wand.
Maybe she could convince him to pick up a Glock. He looked like a Glock kind of person.
"Shilling for your thoughts, Severus?"
"I'm wondering where you found the time to visit the Queen."
She blinked at him. "You do realize Buckingham Palace is connected to the Floo?"
He frowned. Well, frowned more, "If that were true, wouldn't the Dark Lord have assassinated her?"
"There's an invisible Thieves' Downfall just beyond it, and then there's the platoon of ICW Hit Wizards and Aurors hiding amongst the Royal Family. And besides, you're assuming he saw Mundanes as a threat," Lenore pursed her lips as Albus finally got his old silver and blue battle robes straightened out; at least he was carrying a mace and had Fawkes on his shoulder.
"Something about that strikes you as odd?" Severus oiled, raising an eyebrow. "It doesn't surprise me."
"What surprises me is that someone so intelligent would overlook the Mundane folk so completely, especially someone who lived in London during the Blitz." Reclaiming the Burial Blade and setting her top hat back on her head, Lenore started stalking into the forest that, presumably, hid the ruins of the Gaunt's last home, a run-down shack in the middle of scenic British Bogland.
Honestly, it was too good for them.
"I admit it was rather disappointing, seeing young Tom turn to the Dark. Lumos."
"And intelligence doesn't always correlate with wisdom," Severus observed, his wand out and dark eyes searching; for nothing. Lenore had excellent dark vision, being a Hunter.
Other than a few voles and a hungry barn owl, they were the only living things navigating the wet leaves of the bog. Not even the tickle of active wards were present…
Though… Lenore stopped and inhaled loudly and deeply- there.
Looking to her right, she spotted some rotten timbers sticking up out of a thicket. "Found it."
The rustling of leaves filled the air as the three made haste toward the ruins.
"How did you do that?"
"Trade secret." A pause, "It still makes no sense, how he acted; it's as though he disregarded all other life, along with every idea and belief that didn't align with his own. Yes, he was a vicious child, as you explained, Albus, but for that not to change? For him to learn so much of magic and then decide on so stupid a path?"
"You're talking about how the Statute will fail, one day," Albus said softly as they arrived at what was left of the Gaunt shack: a few timbers and a pile of wood, collapsed into itself. "Likely, he thought to break it early with his actions, and then rule the world."
"The Hunter Orders would've stopped him." Lenore huffed, drawing her wand, "Help me vanish some of this detritus. Evanesco."
"Would they?" Lenore gave Severus a glare as he swept away a cluster of vines. "I mean, you're literally bound by oath to follow the law, and if he took power legally -"
"Severus, I seriously doubt the ICW would recognize any government run by someone who used the Cruciatus Curse that often," Albus drawled as the floor of the Gaunt shack came into view at last: moldy, half-rotted planks- ah. There was a hole under the center of the floor plan, just like Lenore spotted in the memory. "Also, over my dead body."
"And mine, after I woke up."
"Fair enough," Severus grumped as they gathered around the hole; kneeling, Lenore reached into her mokeskin pouch and pulled out a roll of canvas. "So, if the necklace his mother wore was one of the horcruxes, the ring his grandfather wore is the other; are we sure it's here?"
Lenore unrolled the canvas belt; knives made from stone, vials of arcane substances, and a variety of archaeology tools made themselves known, some glinting, others seeming to drink the light around them, while one of the knives seemed to hum a tune on the edge of hearing.
Selecting the small crowbar, Lenore gave Severus a look, "You mean you don't feel something scrabbling at your Occlumency shields?" She glanced at Albus, "You said he was practiced."
"To be fair, Lenore, I barely felt that Compulsion probe." Albus rejoined with a slightly admonishing tone; while Lenore pried the boards off, revealing a half-buried jewelry box, the old wizard chided Severus, "Slam the doors fully shut, Severus. I don't think any of us want to know what traps Tom left for whoever puts on the ring."
"Indeed," Severus replied in a low, dry drawl; that got Lenore's attention, and reminded her of something.
"If it is a ring made by one of the Peverell brothers, then it may be the mythic Resurrection Stone. But!" she pointed the crowbar at Albus, who took a step back in seeming surprise, "It's still a fecking horcrux, Albus, and the only documented use has the user topping himself. Wait till I examine it, thoroughly, and if I say it's safe to handle… well," she turned back to the box, transfiguring a piece of wood into a square of black granite, "I suppose you can say your goodbyes before I give it to the DoM."
Something in her doubted it worked like that. Lenore knew that souls, after spending a bit of time in the Sunless Lands, returned to life in one way or another; to summon the soul, the essence of the dead… the odds of it actually working that way felt extremely unlikely.
Etching a tried-and-true containment and refraction Rune Array onto the granite, Lenore made sure her gloves were intact and had no holes in them… and drew the Blade of Mercy.
Usually only used to send fatally-wounded or blood-mad Hunters to their eternal rest, the siderite knife was also quite useful for destroying Dark artifacts, as it severed the thaumaturgic link between the caster and the object.
To her knowledge, only Satine Prewett, one of her fellow Silver Crescent Hunters, had ever tried to use a Blade to spread butter on bread. The result was a rotted piece of toast and a rather angry Order Master.
"Brace yourselves." Both men took a single step back, wands at the ready; making eye contact with both of them – so to test their Occlumency shields – Lenore took a deep breath and opened the jewelry box.
Put me on.
"My armor is contempt, my shield is disgust," Lenore intoned, taking the Peverell Ring and holding it firmly in place in the middle of the Rune Array; she was surprised it survived the force of her glare, "my sword is hatred." She raised the Blade.
No, wai-
Tink!
The Blade passed through the Ring as though it wasn't even there, cracking the granite beneath in a five-pointed pattern.
A terrified wail echoed through the air, dopplering away as the soul fragment was dragged into Tartarus, or whatever deserving Hell awaited Tom Riddle.
Lenore hummed, "Two down." She began putting her tools away- and batted Albus in the hand.
"Ow!"
"What did I tell you?"
"But it's been-"
"Headmaster, shut up." Albus let out an offended sound, Fawkes chuckled, and Severus frowned down at Lenore, "Is it, though?"
Carefully prying the stone out of its setting – easy enough; the ring was gold, and Lenore could bend steel if she wished – she stood up and examined it in the light of Albus' wand.
It was square, in the shape of an uncut diamond; faintly, etched in gold leaf, was the sigil the Peverell brothers chose as their standard, the mark of the Cloak, Wand, and Stone. The mythical Deathly Hallows, gifts from Death to the mortal world.
The Elder Wand had been examined extensively by both the Hunter Orders and the Department of Mysteries. It amplified spell power and gave the user slight precognition, at the expense of drawing challengers to either claim it, or make an enemy of the wielder so they might duel. A literal double-edged sword, it was otherwise no different than an ordinary wand, and arguably less useful as it actively tried to kill the one holding it.
The Cloak was a bit more spectacular, if still rather boring; all magic failed to affect it, and it even stopped scent if worn, but it didn't stop sound, and it was… well, a lightweight cloak. A stiff breeze could rip it off a person. It was a good stealth tool, but otherwise? Little more than a curiosity or conversation piece.
Stepping back three paces, Lenore gave both Severus and Albus – and yes, Fawkes – a serious look, "I'm unsure what will happen when I use this, but if it looks like I might off myself, please Stun me."
Both men nodded and levelled their wands at her; good. Two was more likely to be effective than one. Now.
She looked at the Stone.
Setting it in the center of her left palm, Lenore turned it clockwise with her right hand.
One rotation.
Lenore looked around. Nothing. Checked her magic. Also nothing.
Another rotation.
The barn owl made a noise in the distance. Lenore still didn't feel any different. Maybe it wasn't the Stone?
One last rotation-
"What're ye doin', Lenny?"
Lenore's blood turned to ice. She looked up.
It was Martine. Young again. As she remembered him.
He wasn't smiling. Only glaring, like that time she suggested using blood magic to-
But it was impossible, literally impossible, Hunters didn't leave souls behind-
"You can't be real," she felt herself say, terror rising in her guts like gnashing teeth.
"Then what am I, Lenny?" the thing that couldn't be Martine but sounded like him replied, with such-
She could smell the Old Blood.
And then Lenore Black realized what she was holding.
She dropped it like it was a hot ember- and then held out a hand to Albus as he started forward, "Don't touch it!"
He blinked slowly at her, "Lenore, you summoned someone."
"No," she shook her head, looking down at the cursed rock at her feet, "No, this thing doesn't summon. It reflects."
"…reflects?" Severus ventured, "So it's like the Mirror of Erised?"
"No, no, it's much more insidious, because rather than showing you your desires," Lenore gulped, her throat dry, "it reflects your own soul back at you. Your subconscious self."
It was, perhaps, the most dangerous thing Lenore Black had ever touched; what she wasn't telling them was that, when held by a Hunter whose blood had matured, it had the potential to manifest a Great One into the world
"Iago's Mirror," Albus breathed out, sounding mournful.
Lenore nodded regardless, having been informed of that particular item after she woke up, "Yes, the magical one. One might think it would bring closure, when in reality you're just talking to your most true and honest self. The deepest depth of the human psyche."
"Hm," Severus hummed, holstering his wand and withdrawing a velvet bag. "Rather ghastly thing, then, isn't it?"
"Quite," Lenore nodded, finally getting ahold of herself. "Bag it and keep it, Severus, but don't use it; there's a reason its first holder committed suicide. Alright, Albus?"
"Ah, yes. I… I had hoped, you see, to speak with my sister," he watched, visibly saddened despite Fawkes' cooing, as Severus picked up the stone like it was a day-old dead carp and dropped it in the bag.
"You'll get your chance to settle things when you croak," Lenore replied bluntly, turning and trudging back through the wet leaves, "Now let us away from this filthy place."
She needed a shower in the worst way, and then there were lesson plans to work on, a visit to Azkaban to schedule, Halloween was in a week, and Ms. Granger kept asking for books; ah, and Mr. Ron Weasley had discovered Palmira's condition as a Doll, and was trying to convince anyone who'd listen to his claim. So far, everyone thought he was nuts.
Lenore considered… perhaps she could kill two birds with one stone?
