June 1943
Myrtle Warren's funeral was entirely mundane in every way. It was a typical day in June: the sun was screened behind clouds and cold wafted off the Black Lake. Old Bones gathered his cloak tighter around himself and took care to keep stoic.
"Dreadful thing," whispered Galatea Merrythought.
Old Bones gave a crisp nod.
There were few mourners, and Old Bones could not say whether there was anyone who truly mourned the girl's passage or whether everyone around him was merely upset that anything like this had happened at all. He doubted the girl was mourned as an individual, but what she represented: Hogwarts was not safe.
Her parents, Dumbledore had revealed several days ago, were dead. They'd been Londoners and hadn't escaped the wrath of dreadful Muggle warfare. The girl and her one friend had quarreled more than a year ago. Olive Hornby was not here today, but her cousin was. He was one of the few students who had decided to attend.
"Dreadful what's happened." Old Bones said to Dumbledore, once it was over. "I wish I had foreseen it," he added sadly.
It was well-known that Dumbledore was impatient with prophecy. "You couldn't have done anything," Dumbledore said, clasping his shoulder.
Old Bones ignored the insult, and managed a perfect: "Thank you. At least… things will be safer now."
"Mm," said Dumbledore.
There was no lingering at the gravesite. Old Bones had been to funerals that had lasted several days.
He was back inside his office less than an hour after he had left it.
Tom Riddle was waiting for him there, having used the distraction of the funeral to pursue his own errand. The slight smile on his face told Old Bones that Tom had been successful.
Indeed, Tom held out a most marvelous pair of spectacles to Old Bones. "It was as you suspected," Tom said gravely. "With her parents dead, Myrtle Warren's effects remained at Hogwarts. They were all jumbled together in her trunk. I do not think they will notice them missing."
"They would have noticed if you'd transfigured a pair after she'd died," murmured Old Bones.
"It was excellent advice."
"Ah," said Old Bones, flattered. "You would have gotten there on your own. And I hardly gave advice. I merely told you the sort of magics that are performed at such an event. I have Seen them often enough. Oh, Tom… it is truly them."
"It is," said Tom. "Take them."
And at last, Old Bones's fingers closed over the Deathglass.
"It is true what they say," said Old Bones, a giddy sort of joy welling up inside of him as he at last clasped the glasses. "You are quite the most brilliant student — brilliant man that Hogwarts has ever seen."
"That is quite the compliment," said Tom, "considering whom you serve."
"Ah, but he was educated at Durmstrang," Old Bones said lightly. It was there, the mark of the Knights of Walpurgis. It did not even have to be examined closely: Having made a study of that most illustrious sect of wizards and witches nearly all his life, Old Bones knew authenticity when he saw it. "And I think even he would admit that of the two of you, yours is the more prodigious gift." It was true: Tom Riddle had a seething intellect that was unmatched. Privately, Old Bones thought Grindelwald had grander ambitions, but of the two, there was no doubt who was more powerful. "And you managed it so tidily!"
"It was hardly difficult," Tom said, coolly appraising the glasses held in Old Bones's hand.
He had spied them a week ago sitting perched upon the nose of a Mudblood. Hardly believing the evidence of his own eyes, Old Bones had drawn Tom aside and asked him to confirm it for him: Myrtle Warren wore the Deathglass, that priceless artifact enchanted into being by Celaeno Gaunt. Stroking it, Old Bones allowed pure love to sweep over him. It was not the most well-known of such artifacts, but it was singular. Who else could boast that they owned the Deathglass, which would allow anyone who peered through its left lens the ability to see the death of whomever they looked at? No one could boast that. No one but he, Old Bones, whose own family had deprived him of the artifact he truly wanted.
"I don't suppose," Old Bones said slowly, peering up at his student and friend, "that you might use your… means… to acquire another artifact for me?"
There was true regret on Tom's face when he said: "Ah, I'm afraid that my… means… would be unable to leave Hogwarts." His eyebrow quirked as did his lips. "Is this not enough?"
"Oh, it is!" Old Bones rushed out. He didn't want the boy to think him ungrateful. He held up the left lens to his eye, and strode over to the window. There was no one out on the grounds; it was the last day of summer term and everyone was packing their trunks. But still… he would have been able to see an omen of anyone's death, should he so choose to do so. "This is truly excellent, my boy."
Tom smiled at him, ducking his head a little. "I am glad it was returned to rightful hands," he said, with great sincerity. "That Mudblood had no idea what the Room of Hidden Things had given her. No idea at all. It was wasted on her."
"Hmm," said Old Bones, turning the spectacles over in his hands. "You are right, of course."
A little silence fell. Old Bones examined every inch of the Deathglass, still overcome that it had passed to him. Named for the Deathstick — the Elder Wand of legend — it was nowhere near as valuable or sought after. There were no wildly fanciful tales that Death Itself had created it. No, it was clearly the work of a talented witch, not a mythical being. But it was his.
"Sir," said Tom, with near-hesitancy.
"Mm," said Old Bones. Like many of the creations of the Knights of Walpurgis, the Deathglass straddled two major studies of magic: foretelling the future, and studying death.
"Even though Hagrid was expelled for opening the Chamber of Secrets," continued Tom, "Professor Dippet still won't allow me to remain at Hogwarts over the summer.
There was a tiny flaw in the glass of the left lens. Was that intentional, or had that Mudblood done something to weaken it? "That is unfortunate," said Old Bones, after a pause. "Did he say why?"
"No, he did the usual hemming and hawing." Tom's hand sliced through the air. "I don't understand why! I've — the Chamber of Secrets will no longer be any threat—"
"—least of all to you—"
"—and they will deny me my right to further my studies."
At that, Tom had Old Bones's full attention. Had his own family not done that to him by handing the Quill of Destiny to that cow, Dorcas Meadowes? It had been his by right. But Dorcas, foolish, frumpy, fucking Dorcas had merely been in the right place at the right time. It was Old Bones who was the family prodigy in Seeing! But Dorcas had been born of a mingling of the Blacks and the Bones… and the Blacks had their stupid family legend that each generation of them would produce a Seer of great worth. And so… the quill had gone to Dorcas.
Pah!
All this flashed through his mind in an instant.
"My boy, there is more than one way into the castle," said Old Bones.
Tom gave him a guileless look. "What does that mean, sir?" he asked politely. "I think you must mean the secret passages, but it may be too risky to use those every day. And truly, I wish free reign of the library."
"I can help with both," said Old Bones, making an instant decision. "As I believe I have told you, I have a most marvelous Vanishing Cabinet. It allows me to travel from my home to my office with none — and I mean none the wiser." It was how he was able to correspond with Grindelwald so freely with no suspicion falling on him. Most of his fellow professors did not even know Old Bones had a separate home. "I will give you a key… you may enter as you wish."
Tom's mouth was falling open with surprised gratitude. "Thank you, sir. Thank you."
Old Bones waved away the gratitude. "I fill your cup, you fill mine," he said.
"And that is one of the things I will be researching," said Tom. "Hufflepuff's cup…"
"And I've no doubt you'll find it," Old Bones said robustly. "You could find Ravenclaw's lost diadem should you set your mind to it!"
"Mm," said Tom.
And for a moment, Old Bones felt with Tom Riddle what he felt at Grindelwald's side: a certain unity of purpose. Great well-being rose within him. These were men who, like Old Bones, were not opposed to getting their hands dirty in order to achieve their goals. So much in common the three of them had! The feeling made him buoyant, jubilant, even, and it was this that had him making the mistake of lifting the Deathglass to his eye—
—and had his hand swatted away.
"No." This was all Tom said.
Old Bones blinked at him. "I'm sorry," he said ruefully. Of course Tom would not want Old Bones prying into his manner of death. "I don't know what I was thinking."
"I fully intend," said Tom, "to conquer death."
"You will," said Old Bones.
Tom eyed him as though peeling aside layers. "Did you see anything? Tell me now if you have."
"I did not," Old Bones said firmly. "It was rude of me to even attempt it. Do accept my apologies, Tom."
"It will not be 'Tom' who conquers death," Tom said softly. Something in him seemed to have relaxed. "Come, Old Bones. My friends have already started using my chosen name. Won't you do so? My… mentor and professor?"
Of course, Old Bones knew the name Tom wished to be called. He'd Seen it before it had ever come to his attention. An odd relief swept through him. "Lord Voldemort," he said in a low tone. "Your other name will never pass my lips again."
"Good," said Lord Voldemort.
Then, Voldemort gave him a nod. There was little to say after that, but the relief had remained. Later, Old Bones reflected that he ought to have known better than to bring the Deathglass to his eye when Lord Voldemort had been anywhere nearby. It had been a foolish thing to do. Voldemort wished to conquer death; he would not like to know the truth that all men must die. Whether they did so as ignominiously as a creature like Myrtle Warren, or did so having changed the face of wizarding society was, in a sense, immaterial. All men must come to dust.
Even without the Deathglass, Old Bones knew this.
OBOBOBOBOBOBOBOBOBOBOBOB
It was Simon Burke who nearly ruined everything. Months after the events of June, Hogwarts Castle had settled into what was far more typical. The students no longer had personal fear for their lives at the hand of the Heir of Slytherin; it was third year ignoramous, Rubeus Hagrid, who had been revealed to be the 'unwitting' perpetrator of the events of the last year. How Old Bones had seethed when he saw that written in the Evening Prophet. Instead of sending the hulking idiot to Azkaban, they had allowed him to remain free. All they'd done was bar him from Hogwarts and broken his wand – despite Old Bones's testimony.
He had Seen that, unlikely though it might be, there was some key role that Rubeus Hagrid might play should he be allowed to return to Hogwarts. There was little likelihood of that. The boy had been expelled, his wand snapped in half, and was now most likely living in a bin outside Diagon Alley. He was useless to Hogwarts, as he stood now. But if the Ministry had sent him on to Azkaban, Old Bones would not have to entertain any sort of niggling doubt.
The students no longer feared for their own lives, but believed themselves safe at the school. It was their families and their friends they worried over. But chatter erupted in the halls once more; no one looked over their shoulders, fearing a mysterious monster lurking behind them. Even the other professors lost their wary, pinched look.
As for Lord Voldemort, he had taken his NEWT in Divination early, at the end of the summer, with the fond permission of the Headmaster Armando Dippet. Old Bones missed having that quicksilver mind and phenomenal power in his classroom, but he had not expected him to remain in the Divination classroom long. There were other concerns that occupied him; Lord Voldemort expected Old Bones to perform the same service that Grindelwald required.
Thus it was with real pleasure that the days of fall term passed.
Old Bones's mistake was in taking the Deathglass out. It had been too soon, Old Bones reflected later. The castle seemed to have forgotten Myrtle Warren even existed. And this even though the girl's insipid ghost of all things had made appearances. In particular, it had made appearances to Olive Hornby, scion of the Burke family. Olive Hornby had once been friends with the Mudblood; Old Bones had taken care of that idiocy with a few words here and there, a couple of enchantments, and one confundus. The pair had fallen out with each other. Old Bones owed it to those Merchants of Truth to do what he could to see that their line didn't falter or make missteps.
And honestly, befriending a Mudblood as Grindelwald was ascending was beyond mere idiocy. What did they think would happen to people who had befriended Mudbloods once Grindelwald's vision had become reality? That they would continue to have tea parties with filth?
It had taken so little effort to turn them against each other. And the hatred was continuing even after the Mudblood's death; rumor was that Olive Hornby was being positively haunted by the vengeful spirit.
So he ought to have been slightly more careful in bringing out the Deathglass. The Mudblood hadn't been entirely forgotten.
Except that, ever since summer, the only blights upon Old Bones's life was the fact Rubeus Hagrid had not been sent to Azkaban, and that he'd had a series of odd dreams. All of them involved Lord Voldemort. All of them were portents of the future to come, though Old Bones could not fathom, yet, how. In each, he saw a mirrored image of Lord Voldemort. He had known, even while dreaming, that there was a choice to be made.
Each dream etched itself into his waking thoughts.
But why must I choose?
Old Bones stood in a small space, surrounded by mirrors. Every time he tried to count them, numbers would run through his mind, slipping away and returning. In each mirror stood Lord Voldemort at different ages, some young, some old, all powerful. What Old Bones wished, though he did not voice it aloud, even here, was for one mirror to show him Grindelwald. Grindelwald, who had raised him from the obscurity into which his own family had thrust him, deserved Old Bones's undying devotion. But no – every mirror showed him Lord Voldemort, no matter how many times Old Bones tried to make the faces change.
"Can I not follow all?" Old Bones always ended the dream with this cry.
The fifth time he had the same dream, Old Bones woke up, heart galloping in his chest, he thought of the Deathglass, sitting in a heavily warded box on his shelf. It had been too much of a wrench, the idea of being separated from it. His house in the country, to which his Vanishing Cabinet led, was not his primary residence. Sometimes, he did not visit there for weeks at a time. He could not bear to have the Deathglass that far from him, not after Lord Voldemort had gone through the trouble to liberate it for him. Besides, what were the chances that anyone would recognize them for what they were? The oh-so-briefly worn spectacles of a Mudblood who'd been killed by an Acromantula were hardly recognizable.
These were Old Bones's justifications until Simon Burke intruded into his office one Thursday afternoon in October.
Old Bones did not have the Deathglass in its box. It was in his hand. In front of him was a mirror. Old Bones had claimed illness, holed himself up in his office, and spent the morning transfiguring the mirror in front of him to look as much like the mirrors in his dream as possible. There were runes around it; in the dream, they'd writhed like snakes. Here, they were stationary. Old Bones blew out a sigh; his hair blew away from his eyes. He did not have the facility that Dumbledore had with Transfiguration. But still… all he needed was his mind's eye to believe it.
Settling on his flying carpet, after lighting incense, Old Bones sat in a meditative posture, allowing the Deathglass to dangle from his fingertips. Breathing in and out, he pushed out his concerns. His thoughts stammered on why he had so many choices of Lord Voldemort to choose from. Typically, when a path forked, there were two or three different choices. In his dream, there had been several… seven or eight or perhaps nine. The ages, too, were confusing. Some of the Lord Voldemorts were the youth that Old Bones knew. Others were middle-aged; still others were old, though hale.
Old Bones pushed his concerns aside. As his meditative state deepened, Old Bones wondered if it was meant to represent Old Bones's choices. Would he choose to follow Lord Voldemort in twenty years or so? And again in another fifty after that?
"If I'm alive," murmured Old Bones, "I will follow." Then, without another hesitation, he lifted the Deathglass to his eye, somehow knowing that this was what his dream vision wanted him to do. The real Lord Voldemort would never allow Old Bones to peer at him through the Deathglass; months ago, Old Bones had been foolish enough to, unthinking, raise the lens to his eye in Lord Voldemort's presence.
But the dream was forcing him to.
His vision was blurred: All the different Lord Voldemorts were superimposed on one another. There, at the top, just beneath the surface of the mirror, was a version of him that had tangled, elbow-length black hair. One eye was red, and the other eye was not the brown of Tom Riddle's eyes but a clear gray. Cocking his head, careful to inhale the incense, Old Bones stared at it. Was Lord Voldemort going to go into hiding someday? And yet Old Bones was still meant to follow? Or perhaps… find?
As though sensing his regard and his questions, the figure in the mirror gave him a long, slow wink with his gray eye.
At the same time, a voice popped up: "Sir? Sir, are you unwell?"
Another Voldemort shifted into sight. The Deathglass bit into the skin of his palm.
"Sir? Shall I get the Madam for you? Sir!"
Someone was shaking his shoulder. "Sir! You shouldn't look into mirrors!"
Whoever it was, was dousing Old Bones with panic. His meditative state shattered. And there, standing in front of him, was Simon Burke, young and pale. And it was here the Deathglass bloomed. Before his eyes, youthful and healthy Simon Burke aged and withered. His eyes were closed, his mouth fallen open, and drool had gathered on his lips and cheek. Death itself fluttered at the edges even as Simon slept on… and on… and on…
"Sir!" At this last, desperate shout, Old Bones allowed the Deathglass to fall into his lap.
"Simon," Old Bones said chidingly, still dazzled by the Deathglass's powers. "Simon, aren't you meant to be in class?"
"I… but… we were worried," said Simon. His face had paled further. "Sir, you were sat in front of that mirror, and I saw… I saw…"
"What did you see?" Old Bones asked lightly, slipping from his flying carpet, and pushing down his hair. What would the boy have seen?
His shoulders lifted. "I don't know… Orion… Orion Black's Dad, maybe? I don't know."
"I don't know quite what I was looking at either," said Old Bones. His shoulders relaxed. It was all well and good that Simon had not recognized Lord Voldemort. Simon would know him as Tom Riddle; anyone who hero-worshiped Lord Voldemort so much would surely have questions as to why a professor would be peering so intently at an image of him in a mirror. Ah. All was well.
Simon's next words were an unexpected curse. "But why," he asked, confused, "have you got Myrtle's glasses?"
Old Bones blinked at him. "Whose glasses?" he asked. The relief he'd felt a moment ago had deflated, and it made him slow.
"Myrtle," repeated Simon, guileless. He pointed. "Those are Myrtle Warren's glasses." His face fell. "Or they were. I recognize them."
"Surely they aren't," said Old Bones, as robustly as he could. "They're mine—"
"I recognize them," said Simon, excited now. "Did you find them, Professor? They're very special; I told her so. She was ever so lucky to have found them, wasn't she? That's a sign of the Knights of Walpurgis—"
"Simon," said Old Bones, very gently, though his heart was racing, "I will have you know, these are not — not whose glasses?"
It was Simon's turn to blink at him, shocked. "Myrtle," he repeated. "Myrtle Warren. She died last year."
This had been the wrong tactic. "I remember her," Old Bones improvised. "Of course I do. Dreadful thing, what happened. But these could not be her glasses. Simon, Simon, Simon. The girl was not — she was not exactly part of our community, was she? If you truly do know the mark of the Knights of Walpurgis, then you would know how these treasures are hoarded." Old Bones forced a laugh, and he gave the boy a warm clasp on the shoulder. "We're all a bit like dragons, we who are part of the oldest families. Like the Bones… and the Burkes. Your family motto is Merchants of Truth, is it not?"
"But—"
"How could Myrtle Warren even come to possess such a treasure?" Old Bones laughed again. "Who would give it to her?"
"She said she found it," said Simon, flabbergasted.
"And how easy is it to find such a thing?" prodded Old Bones. "How many galleons would someone have to pay your grandfather for the privilege of 'finding' such an artifact in your venerable shop?"
"A… lot," Simon said slowly.
"How realistic is it that she would have had the genuine article?" Old Bones asked. Had he known what he'd been gambling, he would have called the words back to his mouth before they reached Simon's ears.
"It's the Deathglass, though," Simon said reasonably. His eyes were clear, his tone was earnest. "Grandfather said we'd only ever find the real thing… it was cursed not to be replicated. It has to be…" Inexplicably, he smiled at Old Bones. "I told her all of that. Even Tom Riddle confirmed it! He was quite impressed!"
Old Bones's guts roiled. Here was Simon, simple Simon, who unwittingly held an answer to a more complex question than the other professors and authorities had ever asked. The fools were all content to blame Rubeus Hagrid for unleashing an Acromantula in the school. It wasn't the Heir of Slytherin at all! They caroled with joy. It was a silly third year! And none of them had ever even thought there might be another reason for the Mudblood's death. Their minds were not subtle enough for Old Bones and Tom Riddle. The girl's blood status had been secondary to what she had had in her possession.
Leave no trace. That was the underlying principle that guided Old Bones's life. Do not leave behind evidence or motive. Let everything appear random. This had been Grindelwald's advice to him upon learning of the accidents Old Bones had engineered for his family. He, Old Bones, had been clumsy at it. And your joy when they died was much too loud. When you do your work for me, you must leave no trace. And never let them know or guess you have a motive. You will not be safe, my friend, should they know your thoughts.
Simon Burke was a stupid boy. But if he spoke to the wrong people — say, Dumbledore, perhaps — they might find a trail that led from the Mudblood's dead body, fittingly sprawled against a toilet, that led to Old Bones… and Tom Riddle.
"I still believe you are wrong," Old Bones said lightly. "But I have also Seen that you are an astute young man." Simon puffed up with pride. "What if I do some research on the subject?"
"Oh, I know my stuff!" said Simon, delighted. The pity was that the boy really did have a keen eye for artifacts. He would have done his family proud. But he knew that the Mudblood had had the Deathglass and that it was now in Old Bones's possession.
Old Bones heaved a sigh. It sounded wistful even to his own ears. As well it should; Simon Burke was nearly a pureblood, after all.
"Let's keep this between us," said Old Bones. "Just for now. What if we surprised your grandfather by presenting him with the Deathglass to sell?" Over my own dead body. "Wouldn't he be overjoyed?"
"Yes," said Simon, nodding.
As the boy left, Old Bones caught a look on his face that nearly made him reach into his pockets for his wand to silence him at that moment. His brow was furrowed, his mouth tight—
—Old Bones's hand clenched around his wand—
—but it was to the mirror Simon looked, not the Deathglass. Then, just as Old Bones was about to silence those questions bubbling behind dim eyes, the boy gave a tiny shrug and left.
Leave no trace. Old Bones exhaled and flung himself into his seat. It was easy for an accomplished Seer. True, with the Quill of Destiny denied him by his family, Old Bones might have painted this horrid scene months ago, and known to avoid it if he could. But even without it, Old Bones knew he was formidable enough to stand shoulder to shoulder with the likes of Grindelwald and Tom Riddle, their equal and their ally. Old Bones was very successful at engineering tableaus for others that led very neatly into them making the choices Old Bones wanted them to make. He knew how to make it look invisible to authorities.
It was too soon after Myrtle Warren's death to engineer another one. Besides, the Burke family would descend en masse to Hogwarts, and rip it apart in response to the death of one of their own. But there was another, quieter way to achieve the same thing. The Draught of Living Death would still offer enough hope of recovery to the Burke family that they would not rip Hogwarts down to the foundations. Oh, true, Grindelwald's new recipe was just as final as death, but the older families still did not think so. By the time the Burkes knew Simon was lost in his dreams forever, it would be far too late for them to follow a trail that led to uncomfortable places.
"Leave no trace," Old Bones said out loud. And he smiled.
HPHPHPHPHP
Author's Note: Well! That's done! Old Bones has been quite a fun character to create. I knew going in that I was going to have one major bad guy who had flown under the radar in the original timeline. I wanted Harry to have plenty of interaction with him, so I decided he needed to be a Professor at Hogwarts. I also knew that there was a vacancy in Divination... Trelawney was not going to make her prophecy until later in the war. Old Bones was born! It's been fun showing little glimmers of evil, and figuring out all the ways that he could be tied to canon: Myrtle's spectacles, the Vanishing Cabinet, familial relationship with extant characters, etc. It's been a long journey for him, but he's with Sirius now. I don't think he's going to live very long.
