CHAPTER 38
3 July 1994 - The Grand Study - Parıldayan Güneş - Ahmedabad, 7:50AM
"So as you can see old friend, this situation has put me in a considerably uncomfortable position."
Madanapala Patil shifted uneasily at the loaded statement, knowing that things were not good if the Pasha was being evasive. Doubly so considering the older wizard having dragged out this particular conversation for almost a year. Not for the first time, the overly extravagant office space felt incredibly stifling as Madanapala struggled to not fidget in discomfort.
"I understand, truly I do." Patil subtly shifted, successfully swallowing his wince at being so outwardly nervous. "It was never my Parvati's intention to cause any such complications with her…accident, much less incur an accident to begin with."
The Pasha nodded sympathetically. "Trust me, I am not insinuating that your daughter fell to her near-death on purpose. But you must understand." He leaned forward on his massive gilded desk, dark eyes sharpening. "Your daughter now owes a Life Debt to Jim Potter, a national hero and celebrity who's infamous for vanquishing a Dark Lord, earning the moniker of the Boy-Who-Lived. Not only that, his status as the Heir of the Ancient and Noble House of Potter is, in the most technical sense, above that of Sanjeev's within Wizarding Britain. Despite the trouble of House Potter's Seneschal being some sort of criminal degenerate, the Potter family is still venerated as ancient and influential. My sources also confirmed that the Potter Heir is unattached, meaning that he can easily request a betrothal with Parvati to fulfill the Life Debt."
The older wizard paused to sip his bright yellow Thandai, lightly smacking his lips in delight. Madanapala noted the slight jiggling of his jowls at the action, though the sight failed to rouse any humor in him.
"Should Heir Potter choose that perfectly acceptable action, the betrothal between our two children would have to be terminated. The financial setback would be one thing; the humiliation to my Sanjeev and my family's reputation would be completely unacceptable. I will not have my only son suffer such an indignity."
Mr. Patil fidgeted. The dowry from Parvati's betrothal had provided a considerable boost of capital into his many businesses, along with elevating his family's social cache. The damage to Madanapala's reputation and that of his family should the betrothal fall through would be devastating.
While the Patils had been comfortably wealthy and influential for almost three centuries, the Pasha and his family were wealthy and influential for well over a millennium, originating from a cadet magical branch of the Chalukyan Emperor Pulakeshin II of the Ancient Indian Empire. Their wealth and influence spanned both magical and muggle India, and one word from them of the Patils' perfidy would render them pariahs if they were lucky.
"...What do you suggest I do, Kumar Pasha?"
The older wizard sipped at his beverage whilst reclining in his throne-like chair, expression surprisingly penetrating.
"Well, I would strongly suggest that you meet with Heir Potter and his father and sort out the specifics of the Life Debt, primarily how the boy wishes to fulfill it. Should he desire a monetary solution, I imagine this situation will be solved rather quickly." Madanapala skillfully bit back his wince at the man's falsely amicable tone. "However, should he desire a marriage contract…well…you do have an extra daughter, do you not?"
A flash of white-hot anger burned through Patil at the description of Padma as some sort of bargaining chip, but the feeling soon dissipated at the realization that it was exactly what he'd done with Parvati. His eldest Amaira hadn't been spared from that fate either, though her betrothed had grown into a genuine love match. Though he adored his daughters, a part of him bemoaned not having a son.
Pushing away those complicated feelings Madanapala murmured his agreement, before deftly shifting the conversation into more palatable topics.
The Heir's Suite - Longbottom Manor, 8:17AM
"BUGGER!"
Snarling, Neville crumpled up the parchment and angrily tossed it to the ever-growing pile.
It'd been the same since yesterday morning; trying and failing to write something - anything - to Harry and Hermione, but his best efforts were failing tremendously.
Heir Longbottom had awoken the previous morning to a copy of The Daily Prophet at the foot of his bed, emblazoned with every single detail of the history-making Wizengamot session. Rita Skeeter's tendency for dramatics was at its creative best, and the entirety of the paper was filled with her surprisingly detailed renditions of the day's many events.
Justin and Harry's elevation to Lords Peverell and Wilkes was jaw-dropping, with Neville openly gaping as he read through those details. Harry's ascension also confirmed that he was tangentially related to Erasmus Wilkes, as was his mother whom he'd brazenly elevated to his House's Seneschal.
As shocking as that revelation was, Heir Longbottom was surprised to discover that he wasn't all that upset at discovering the Slytherin was related to the notoriously deranged Death Eater. Though in hindsight, that was a combination of knowing Harry's character and being housemates with Amy Wilkes, the actual daughter of the Toymaker. She loathed her father without reservation, and proved herself to be a true blue Gryffindor.
'Though pulling the bloody Sword of Gryffindor out of the Sorting Hat went a long way with that.' The boy snorted in amusement.
Neville's shock compounded as he ravenously read through the newspaper, sympathy evoked at the news of House Potter's formal censure. Poor Jim had already been through the emotional wringer at the discovery of his godfather's painful betrayal, doubly so given the carnage the man and his Death Eater cohort wrought against the Ministry during their harrowing escape. Heir Potter had begged his father to skip the Wizengamot session, choosing to be holed up in The Burrow under Ron's concerned eye.
Reading of Lucius Malfoy's takedown of his disloyal vassals was thrilling, and for the first time ever, Heir Longbottom felt genuine respect for the older pureblood.
'Must be how Draco turned over a new leaf. Well…his second new leaf.' He snorted in spite of himself at the thought.
Of course, all that paled in comparison to the news of the Ultimate Sanction's revocation.
Naturally, Skeeter's focus on that legislation heavily referenced Theo No-Name, the most recent victim of the Sanction's punitive magicks.
And in that moment, all Heir Longbottom could see and hear was a memory of Harry Potter after a spectacular blowout between the two and Hermione Granger regarding their fraternization with the Outcast:
"There will come a time when all of this Ultimate Sanction nonsense is over, Neville. The mention of Theo's name won't fill you with this senseless rage, nor will you be compelled to the irrational anger that's been driving you to say all of these horrible things about your friend." An angry Neville made to retort, before freezing at suddenly being eye-level with the Slytherin Potter who gazed fearlessly at him. Like the boy's enemies, Neville was startled to realize that Harry's eyes burned Avada-green. "All you will feel, Neville Francisco Longbottom, is complete and utter shame at your words and actions. I just hope when that time comes, it won't be too late."
And without waiting for a response from his red-faced friend, the younger Potter deftly looped his arm through a fuming Hermione Granger's and briskly led them away, though not before the witchling threw a vicious and uncharacteristically-Hermione sneer in Neville's direction.
And as luck would unfairly have it, Harry was absolutely right.
The thought of Theo no longer roused those illogical and unrelenting feelings of disdain and distrust in Neville. He'd waited for those familiar feelings of contempt to arise upon seeing the Outcast's name, but to the Gryffindor's horror, they did not.
Instead, all Heir Longbottom could conceive were the moments of callous cruelty he'd shown the boy simply because he 'd been too weak to try to overcome the compulsion wrought by the Sanction. Every insult and glare he'd cast at the boy bubbled up in his memories, culminating in the pièce de résistance of him framing the ex-Nott in a twisted attempt to ruin his reputation and see him expelled from Hogwarts.
Mind clear from the cloud of the Sanction's effects, all Neville could do was be utterly horrified at his actions, the shame and regret so strong it'd culminated in nausea. Hunched over his toilet caught between dry heaving and sobbing was how Hoskins found him, horrified enough at the sight to immediately fetch his Mistress.
She'd been appalled at the sight, even more so when Neville desperately grasped at her robes as he continued having a fit.
Maternal instinct kicking in, she'd gathered the boy in her arms whilst gently rocking him, humming an old lullaby she used to calm a young Frank when he had nightmares. It took some time, but her grandson finally calmed enough for him to be coherent and explain the cause of his uncharacteristic episode.
"As I see it Neville, you only have two options." While firm, his Gran's tone held a distinct note of tenderness. "The first will be to pretend as if nothing happened and go on with life as usual. Most of Wizarding Britain will be doing exactly that, and as cliche as it sounds, time does a good enough job of patching up the most prickly of wounds." Augusta's voice became distinctly softer. "The second will be to face your troubles head-on, reaching out to your friends, apologizing, and letting the knuts fall where they may."
"How…how can I trust myself to make the right decision?"
"Because you are a Longbottom of Longbottom and a Gryffindor to boot." Her imperious expression melted away into a gentle smile. "But more importantly, you are Neville, a genuinely good person regardless of whatever unfortunate circumstances are forced upon you. You will always do what is right, never what is easy."
And with those daunting words, Augusta squeezed his shoulder before taking her leave with Hoskins.
Ruminating over his Gran's advice, Neville took several deep breaths to calm himself before grabbing a fresh piece of parchment and his quill, hoping the feeling of unease meant he was doing what was right.
The Lord's Workshop - Cauchemar Abbey, 10:15AM
"...Is she…is she supposed to look like… that?"
Grandfather lightly snorted at his grandniece's statement, not able to disagree with the sentiment.
Auntie Camilla looked utterly horrendous.
She was suspended midair by the sole force of Grandfather's wandless magic, form spread like the Vitruvian man. Gossamer black robes covered her body, sparing them the sight of her indignity.
There was a distinct flush to her complexion that was utterly abnormal and made her look entirely too…human. It was compounded by the rushed staccato of her heartbeat, quite loud in the ears of Lord and Seneschal Selwyn on account of their inhuman hearing. The only sound the old crone could make were a series of unintelligible garbles, drool gathered in both corners of her mouth. Her mind was still an unintelligible hodgepodge, a strange patchwork of too-bright images that exuded entirely too much warmth and comfort.
It was sickening to say the least.
"Did the Submergence Pool not help?"
Adramelech snorted. "No. If anything, it made it worse." His cold expression waned, heterochromatic gaze assessing Camilla like a dissatisfied scientist would a failed experiment.
It would be fitting, considering Lord Selwyn's prodigal prowess with the darkest of arts.
He wasn't just a purveyor like his peers and contemporaries; Adramelech was a true scholar, steeped in the knowledge and practice of the most arcane of forbidden magicks, twisting and molding them to suit his grand purpose.
It was he who delved into the murkiest depths of the Selwyn Anathema Codex, yielding even greater heights of sinister perfection.
It was he who crafted the Imago Dei-variant that gave truth to the great fiction of Berith Selwyn's existence, resulting in that falsehood being used to perpetrate the conspiracy of the Count of Monte Frump.
It was he who perfected the ritual of the Nightmare Child in Cassilda, a masterpiece of his darkest, most blood-soaked nightmares given the beauty of his long-lost beloved's flesh and the life of his blood and memories.
And it was he who whispered promises of greatness into the ear of Godelot, the Dark Passenger who steered the madman in the creation of Magick Moste Evile, the magnum opus of wretched spells that danced just close enough to the boundary of the Dark Wild to be permissible.
Especially with the inclusion of references to the Horcrux Ritual and the Six-Fingered Hand.
Though admittedly, Adramelech was still peeved that he'd failed to recognize the truth of the Elder Wand whilst it was in Godelot's possession until it was too late, once more lost to time and history.
"Were the twins salvageable?" asked Cassilda quietly, interrupting his train of thought.
Grandfather blinked. "No." He'd no choice but to flush them down the Waste Funnel in the deepest cavern of Cauchemar Abbey. "It is most…vexing…that I have not been able to ascertain what happened to them at Hogwarts."
Their mottled and molten bodies had been retrieved by Lord Carrow the day after their demise. Madam Pomfrey had been quite eager to hand them over, though Dumbledore was extremely suspicious regarding how Flora and Hestia ended up in such a grotesque state. Unfortunately for him, the reputation of House Carrow's liege prevented any additional inquiries, having no choice but to hand the girls over to their…father.
"...Is there a cause for worry?"
"...None at this time child."
"Of course, Grandfather." Cassilda further demurred by courtseying, mismatched eyes staring unblinkingly into her sire's own.
"Will you sup with us tonight child?"
"Not this evening Grandfather. I have a prior engagement I must fulfill…to set the stage for the Great Contingency. You-Know-Who is long overdue for a comeback."
Adramelech nodded thoughtfully. "Indeed."
Recognizing the dismissal, Seneschal Selwyn once more curtseyed before disapparating with a barely perceptible pop.
With soundless footsteps Adramelech drifted to Auntie Camilla, scowling as his ears pricked at the persisting sound of her heartbeat. His magiolfactory senses detected the faint smell of sweat, further emphasizing the harridan's newfound humanity. Grandfather scowled reflexively, peeved at this twisted anti-metamorphosis towards mortality in a being who had stopped being passably human almost two centuries prior.
Stopping about a foot away from the witch, Lord Selwyn waved his hand.
At once, skin separated from muscle separated from bone, all hanging in suspension. Her organs, not as shriveled one would expect given her true age, floated from her form to land in four magically-reinforced canopic jars.
"Gomez!"
A soft pop announced the arrival of his trusted valet, who maintained his gaze on his Master and not on the floating mass of disembodied flesh in his periphery.
"Go to the Germination Pods and retrieve Pod 6, from the 1790 batch. Add it and this," he gestured to the remains of Auntie Camilla, "into the Grand Spawning Pool. Keep it on simmer until such a time I am ready to attend to it. I will be spending the remainder of the day in my playroom."
"It will be done Master," replied Gomez reverently. "Can I assume the hunt is postponed for tonight?"
"Blast, I forgot all about that!" Grandfather looked keenly irritated. "I am loathe to waste good meat…" His expression turned pensive, before his lips quirked in a smile. "Release the muggles into the forest, but make sure to prep them with some nutrient potions and Invigoration Draught. Follow it with a hefty dose of Zornelixier. Prep the Viewing Balcony for observation, and ensure there is plenty of sangreoni along with a good vintage."
"The 1348, sire?"
"...That will do nicely."
"Very good sire. And for the ambiance?"
"...Le Chasseur maudit, first edition pressing."
"Excellent choice sir."
The Headmaster's Office - Hogwarts, 11:04AM
"Tea?"
"Yes, please."
Tom watched with a keen eye as Dumbledore poured their respective cups. To the Slytherin's mild annoyance, the Gryffindor poured the perfect amount, gesturing to the serving of cream, sugar, and lemon. With as polite a smile as he was able, Tom prepared his cup as the Headmaster did the same. As one, the two men reclined backwards in their respective seats, savoring their beverages as a somewhat comfortable silence brewed.
"So," said Dumbledore. "How is fatherhood treating you so far?"
A genuine smile illuminated Tom's face as he gushed about his daughter. Athanasia was a happy and surprisingly bubbly child, delighting her ancestors' portraits and elves alike. The little babe was quite keen on Valdis and her propensity for outrageously silly expressions, much to the older witch's shameless delight. His daughter was also fascinated by the many bright colors and sounds contained in Castle Basilicus' expansive gardens. Moth - the Groundskeeper Elf - had created a special arbor teeming with all manner of 'baby-proof' magical plants for the youngest Gaunt's enjoyment, under the indulgent supervision of her besotted parents.
Though the Headmaster's expression was equally delighted to hear of the newest addition to the Gaunt family, Tom was cognizant of the older wizard's assessing gaze. It was no secret that Albus Dumbledore possessed a…complicated impression of Lord Gaunt.
On the one hand, he was impressed by all of the strides the younger wizard had made in Wizarding Britain, as a muggleborn no less. He was in no way ignorant of the unique hurdles that burdened muggleborns in their society, and, admittedly, was impressed by Tom's skillful maneuvering of his detractors and establishment of a safety net for non-Purebloods with his Youth Liaison Program.
On the other hand, the younger wizard was still a Gaunt and a Slytherin to boot, and despite the strides he'd made to reform the reputation of his once-disgraced House, he still possessed a keenly ruthless cunning that gave Albus pause. Especially given the current situation.
"The Wizengamot Session," said Albus in a means to divert the conversation in the direction he wanted. "Quite unprecedented, if I do say so myself."
Riddle gracefully swallowed his snort at the man's attempt to fish. "I would agree. I must say it is one of the few times I've enjoyed reading Rita Skeeter's commentary, even in spite of her capacity for unsubtle embellishment with labeling Lord Peverell as the 'new Master of Death'." He rolled his eyes for effect.
Dumbledore chuckled good-naturedly. "All true. I have to say…Lord Malfoy's showing was most impressive."
Tom couldn't help his snicker. "Indeed, a truly masterful showing. I don't think Lords Goyle and Crabbe will be showing their faces around anywhere for the foreseeable future, and neither will Lord Nott. Thank Merlin for that small mercy." Their memories of the yet-to-be-publicly-revealed Death Eater swam to the surface of their respective minds, inspiring similar feelings of disdain in each man.
"Well I must say,
"Albus," interjected Tom with noticeable amusement. "While I enjoy our verbal jousting as much as I am able, I really do not have the time today. I have a Send-Off Luncheon to attend for my Program, one which you will be attending as a guest. I have some last minute preparations that require my attention, so please, kindly speak what's really on your mind."
The Headmaster paused for a few moments, before nodding in acquiescence. "Very well. Why did you take House Diggory as your Vassal? Especially given Amos'...reaction…when you staked your claim."
Lord Gaunt blinked. "Interesting…and what reaction might that be?"
Albus frowned. "You know precisely what I'm talking about." To his mounting irritation, Riddle snickered.
"No, I do not. Please," he gestured with false magnanimity. "Illuminate me on my vassal's so-called…overreaction."
Dumbledore grew visibly annoyed. "Fine. Amos was clearly distressed - shocked, appalled, and not without fear."
"Interesting." There was a mocking lilt to the younger wizard's voice, much to the Headmaster's rising chagrin. "And you believe that I am the cause of that reaction? That I…somehow forced Amos into becoming my Vassal? Interesting…" He paused to take a sip of his tea. "Now why would I need to do that? I have my hands plenty full with my own House's business, and while I do enjoy my fair share of politicking, Amos Diggory's brand of…personal values haven't necessarily aligned with my own. Certainly not enough to burden myself with the financial and magical responsibility of being his liege."
Truth be told, Albus was of a similar mind, annoyed that Riddle had cottoned on. He'd spent the past week or so ruminating on those very questions, unable to find answers. There were simply too many more convenient choices than House Diggory, and it seemed…illogical that he would bypass those options just for Amos.
"Tom." The Headmaster's tone took on a deeper octave. He was bluffing, and Riddle's amusement grew at the realization.
"Albus…you haven't answered my question."
"What do you want with Amos Diggory?"
"What do you think I want with Amos Diggory?"
A sharply disapproving glare bloomed on the older wizard's face. "This isn't a game Tom." The Slytherin bristled at the patronizing lilt to the Gryffindor's tone, one the old man was fond of using during his schooling years.
"Not one worth playing at least." He truly did not have the time for all the posturing, annoyed that the old man really thought he could bully him after all these years. Him!
"If you would just-"
"A Lone Buey Undulates Slowly."
Dumbledore froze as the last word of the strange phrase washed over him. He psychically registered the faintest whir-click within his mind as the Memory-Lock spell dissipated and revealed to him the real truth of the Diggory affair.
"Oh," whispered a suddenly pale-faced Albus.
"Yeah," snarked Tom. "Oh."
The Evans Keep, 12:41PM
"Ugh, all the salt and vinegar crisps are gone."
Grumbling around a turkey, pastrami, and ham sandwich, Lord Black ventured further into the wizardspace-altered walk-in pantry in the Evans' Keep, eyes sharp for any sign of his favorite crunchy treat.
The space was massive, hosting a veritable cornucopia of healthy and junk food alike. Fresh produce maintained by Stasis and Cooling Charms occupied a large section, directly opposite a floor-to-ceiling section maintained by Freezing Charms chock-full of various brands of muggle and magical ice-cream. Sirius made note of a particular brand of artisanal vanilla he would be using to enjoy the double strawberry and apple pie Ophelia had so generously provided for the Evans' household.
He spotted slices of cake stored behind the ice-cream, contemplating taking one. Upon further inspection, he realized that there were thirteen slices in total, recognizing the animated decorations from his godson's birthday cakes. Smiling, Sirius realized that each slice represented a sentimental reminder of Lily's baby boy growing up. The first slice held extra meaning, as it was the first - and only - memento she had to commemorate Jim.
'Already lost one arm, no need to lose another.' He snorted fondly as he continued his perusal.
A standing multi-tiered shelf bearing several packages of mixed nuts and dried fruits caught Sirius' attention, settling for the toffee almonds and dried mango.
Pleased with his haul, he jauntily made his way out of the pantry, pausing as his Padfoot-hearing registered footsteps coming from the basement where Lily's expansive research lab was located.
Interestingly enough, he didn't recognize the gait as either Lily's or Severus', expression wrinkling at the realization.
The stranger moved into full view, causing Sirius to audibly choke as he dropped his food in complete shock.
"REGULUS?!"
He jumped at the sound of his name, eyes widening in horror when they landed on Sirius' shocked own.
The two long-lost brothers spent a few seconds staring at each other in matching disbelief, before Sirius unholstered his wand in a blur to aim directly at Regulus' chest, expression contorted in a snarl.
"What the fuck is this?" he growled furiously. "My brother is dead, Regulus died a Death Eater." His voice and wand hand shook with the strength of his rising rage. To his shock, he registered the man deflate as his expression whilst maintaining his hands up in supplication.
"It's me, Sirius. Really."
Lord Black sneered. "BULLSHITE!" His so-called brother jumped at the volume and ferocity of the swear. "If you think for one second I'm going to believe that-"
"Merlin's sake Reg I said the left cabinets above the sink! Do you need me to draw you a map? Seriously what…" Lily's voice faded as she arrived in the kitchen, startled at the showoff.
"Lily…" Sirius' eyes widened as the truth of the situation clicked into place. "...You…you knew?"
She flinched at the depth of betrayal she registered in his expression and statement, horrified that Sirius had discovered Regulus' existence in such a shocking manner. A flicker of annoyance bloomed at herself for not realizing that Sirius was fond of dropping in unannounced for lunch, and as such she should have kept Regulus confined to the lab.
'Blimey, how could this get any worse?'
Of course, at that exact moment, the laughing and wind-ruffled forms of Harry and Theo bounded in through the backdoor with their brooms, both freezing in shock at the ensuing melee.
'SSShite,' thought mother and son simultaneously.
Strehë e Paqes - Thethi - Albania, 1:39PM
"Are you alright, miss?"
Baby blue eyes startled wide, staring into Bartholomew Janosky's own. The young man noted the glisten of tears in those captivating orbs, feeling immediately compelled to smite whatever or whomever had caused this vision such great distress.
She looked like a maiden out of a fairytale, or perhaps, a goddess of olde taken human form. Icy blonde locks shone under the summer sun, framing a perfectly symmetrical face. Sunkissed skin glowed with health, a smooth landscape shaped into tantalizing curves hidden beneath sheer white and cream robes. She looked to have taken a tumble, her apple basket upturned some feet away as she rubbed at her reddened ankle.
"Miss?" repeated Bartholomew, not realizing that his voice had taken on a breathy lilt in the face of her visage.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, suddenly looking quite embarrassed. "I am alright kind sir, I just slipped on the rocks here." She gestured downward. "I may have sprained my ankle." Her expression took on a pained lilt as she once more rubbed at the appendage, a single tear rolling down her cheek.
Bartholomew's heart skipped at her face, unable to focus on anything else but her as he felt his body temperature inexplicably rise. He would give his left hand to ensure she would be healed.
"Do…do you mind if I help you?" He gestured to her ankle as he slowly unholstered his wand - 12-inch walnut with dragon heartstring.
The witch's expression brightened, making his heart skip a beat at the sight of her smile. "You are so kind!" She stretched both arms outward. "May we go inside? I…I don't think I can walk around anymore due to…well…"
Practically racing to her side, Bartholomew deftly scooped the blonde in a bridal carry, feeling flushed at being in such close contact with her perfect skin and equally perfect face. She smelt faintly of soap and sweet flowers, and it took considerable effort to not press his nose into her neck.
"So…how did you end up in this little slice of heaven?"
He smiled forlornly as they continued their trek. "I lost my parents a little over a decade ago. We were originally from a small wizarding alcove in Thessaly, near the coast. There was a terrible storm, the protective wading magicks failed and our entire town was overrun. I…I was one of the few survivors, and I just couldn't stay there anymore. It was simply too painful." He looked away, eyes becoming noticeably glassy. The blonde tenderly stroked his face, redirecting his attention towards her as he found himself enraptured by her arresting eyes and almost too-beautiful face.
"Anyway," he continued. "I roamed around for a bit before settling here. I found out about it from a friend I met while I was in Pápa for a bit. Called the "Refuge of Peace", a small wizarding commune that's supposed to be a haven for those who've…lost their way. I came right away, but first, I had to pass the 'test' of the Mbrojtës." Fisnik Demiri - an alumnus of House Taltos - was the de facto leader of the commune, and anyone who sought the comfort of the land required his approval. Skilled in arcane terra magicks, he'd created a series of node stones that surrounded the expansive and picturesque landscape, incorporating wizardspace charms and protective shields in equal measure.
It never struck the young wizard as odd that this blonde stranger had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, considering everyone in the community knew each other and that she should have been introduced to them all in a formal town hall meeting.
"Thankfully I did, and this place has been my home since then. It gave me a sense of belonging and restored a bit of…sanity I felt like I'd been missing since my parents died." He didn't register the glint that entered the blonde's eyes at that statement. "I'm Bartholomew by the way, Bartholomew Janosky."
The witch smiled, and had he not been overtaken by the power of her ill-gained allure, Bartholomew would have recognized the predatory weight of that action. "Maia. Maia Frasco-Lyns. An absolute pleasure to cross your path."
Smiling widely, he snuggled her closer as they continued their journey.
Finally reaching his cottage, Bartholomew flicked his wand to unlock the door, taking the witch into his kitchen. Gently setting her down into the closest seat, he immediately attended to her ankle. He marveled at the softness of her leg as he slowly cast Sterilization Charms, feeling heat suffuse his face as the witch giggled at his reaction. He noted the cottony sensation in mind, but he was too . A slowly applied Episkey and Ferula caused the blonde to sigh in contentment.
"Thank you so much," she whispered, tenderly running a hand over his blushing face. "I do not know how I can ever repay you darling man." She coquettishly brushed her fingertips over his shoulders and arms, causing him to further blush as the strange warmth coating his mind intensified.
"How's about I repay the favor? A cuppa, perhaps?"
He blinked at the non-sequitur. "Oh! Um…are you… are you sure you wouldn't rather sit?"
She waved him off whilst staring unblinkingly into his eyes. "Nonsense chéri, I would be more than happy to." He nodded dazedly before gesturing to the kettle, taking her seat as she flounced up to manually prepare the tea. She moved with a surprising amount of familiarity within the space, her movements reminding the enraptured wizard of a ballerina.
Relaxing into his seat, he registered her humming a strange tune.
"What…what is that song?"
She smiled once more. "It's a lullaby my père sang to me whenever I felt…lost and sad…and I needed to find my way back home." She paused in her ministrations with the kettle, before resuming the humming at a slightly louder volume.
Bartholomew registered himself sinking further into his seat as his head suddenly felt…heavier. A prickling of unease crawled up his spine as his allure-addled mind suddenly registered danger.
And when danger was recognized, his real mind - that of Barty Crouch Jr. - sprung into action.
Just like it always did to protect him.
Like when he was six and his eldest half-brother Magnus locked him in the cellar of Crouch Manor, triggering a crippling bout of nyctophobia. His mind splintered and self-created Argus, who forced the terrified boy to focus on the sliver of moonlight filtering through the darkness, using his accidental magic to create a nightlight that allayed his panic attack
Or when he was nine, and his eldest half-sister Juno lured him into a boggart's path that transformed into a massive screeching banshee. His mind self-created Isaac, whose loud and never-ending laughter successfully pushed the boggart back into its cupboard without aid of the Boggart-Banishing Spell.
On his eleventh birthday, when his other half-brother Trajan jinxed his birthday candles into a roaring inferno that resulted in second-degree burns on his face, head, and neck. His mind forged Elmo, who ensured that young Barty remained resolute whilst his frantic mother tended to his injuries, refusing to let the boy show any weakness.
So many countless moments when his half-siblings - in piques of childish jealousy and envy - bullied and tormented him, resulting in his mind creating a solution - another version of him - to bear the brunt of the traumatizing experience.
The phenomenon - unbeknownst to him - was the defense mechanism unique to a Fuguist Occlumens. First documented by Mind Healer and self-taught Occlumens Maxwell Barnet in the 17th century, he'd discovered a young witch named Sarah Oakes who'd self-splintered her mind into ten uniquely self-sustained Personalities to combat the loneliness of being a neglected only child. Even more fascinating was that all the multiple Personalities co-existed peacefully, respecting when another was in charge and not fighting the body for control.
Greater still was that each recognized the prime Personality as the true owner of the body, ceding control when they successfully saw their charge through the moment of danger that required their presence. The prime Personality would never remember the other taking over, incurring an internal fugue state that would only be obvious to a Master Legilimens and only during a probe.
Augustus Rookwood had discovered this fact in a then 14 year-old Barty, who'd latched onto the older wizard as a replacement for the paternal affection he'd craved from his own woefully negligent father. The machinations of the boy's mind inspired Mr. Nemo's workings for Occlumency: A Beginner's Guide…among other equally terrible things.
"Stop." This command was low and gravelly, with a note of steel that would have given a lesser enemy due pause. Maia paused for a brief moment, recognizing that this wasn't Bartholomew speaking.
It was Johnny, and he was fighting with all the mental and physical strength he possessed to break free from his bonds and incapacitate his captor.
But Miss Direction was never one to be overcome.
Casting another Incarcerous, Maia began singing out loud:
"I that am lost, oh who will find me?
Deep down below the old rowan tree.
Help succor me now the Borean winds blow.
Seventeen by twelve, brother, and under we go!
Be not afraid to walk in the shade,
Awaken him, call him, come try!|
Take those steps - unus post unum
The field which he stands - is it Elysium?
Look down, with light and dark gaze, from on high.
Without your key, he'll be gone before.
Save pity for memories, now open your mind's door.
Thy soul seek the shade of the marigold's bloom,
Inside, brother mine -
Let Ianeus make a room.
Before he was gone - right back over the great gate.
Who now will find him?
Why, only she of fate!
Breath shall I bring to him, I that am queen.
Lost no more, twelve by seventeen."
She repeated the song as Johnny screamed bloody murder whilst flailing in his seat, completely powerless to move his body due to the bindings of the multiple Incarcerous spells. A series of Silencers were cast at the door and the windows, along with security charms that would ensure that they wouldn't be interrupted.
No one was coming to his rescue.
"STOP! PLEASE STOP!" The pain was excruciating, and he felt as though his mind was splitting into so many pieces as the Fuguist Occlumens fought with all his might to yield a psychic protector like he'd always done.
Just make the pain stop.
The witch tittered unsympathetically, slowly making her way over to him as she continued to sing that maddening song. She grasped his face as she continued singing, the action surprisingly tender as those baby blue orbs unflinchingly bore into his terrified and tear-soaked pair. Maia finally reached the end of the song, before leaning down and gently brushing her lips against his.
"Come play with me, January."
And at that declaration, Johnny threw his head back and bellowed.
A shout of agony, rage, and despair as he psychically registered the appearance of a doorway within his mind, a dark endless tunnel where someone else emerged.
A monstrous behemoth who-was-like-him-but-not-quite-like him.
And he would not be denied.
His other Personalities rushed forth to grab at this newcomer, to push him back through the doorway from whence he'd come, but he was too strong, too powerful. Like an animal he tore them and all their memories to pieces before grabbing a screaming Johnny - who scratched and clawed against the metamagiphysical floor in a primal panic - before he too was destroyed.
The one-like-him-but-not-quite-like-him stretched and stretched to fill every corner of his mind…
Every mental nook and cranny…
Until only he remained…
Suddenly his head snapped up, and Narcissa was both frightened and thrilled as she gazed upon his visage.
His russet-brown eyes looked almost black, nearly indiscernible from his pupils. The planes of his handsome face were sharper and more rugged, with one half of his face seemingly covered in shadow. HIs jaw was tense, lips settled in a hard line.
"Are you with me, January?"
A beat passed before he looked directly into her eyes and smiled. "It's playtime, Direction."
Upper Appleby, 4:22PM
"Gotcha!"
Tasgall Midgen lifted his fist triumphantly, having succeeded in catching the wayward Chocolate Frog he now happily munched on. He'd been chasing the little bugger for the past ten minutes, and truth be told, he'd gotten a tad carried away.
He didn't recognize the street corner he now stood, frowning around him in confusion. As he was only 10 years-old, he did not yet have access to a wand for a Point-Me spell to find his way back. Plus, he wasn't even from Upper Appleby; he and his family had been staying with his annoying Cousin Eloise and her family for the past four months as his parents settled into their new roles at the Ministry. Though he wished they could return to their native Inverness, his family would soon be getting their own home, and Tasgall was pleased to be getting his own bedroom and bathroom apart from his annoying little sisters.
Shrugging whilst he continued nibbling on his treat, he turned to begin tediously retracing his steps before freezing at the sight of fish.
Specifically, a school of brilliantly-scaled rainbowfish, their bodies undulating in figure-8's as though suspended in water.
Were he older with a smidge of Occlumency-training, Tasgall would've recognized the trick of the Fascination Fish and been able to ignore the supernaturally-distracting conjuration.
However, Tasgall was a child, and thus still believed in childish things.
Eyes wide in wonder, the boy followed the school of fish down a dark alleyway.
It would be the last thing he'd ever do for the rest of his young life.
"IMPERIO."
The Unforgivable washed over the boy, further relaxing his form as his shale-gray eyes turned glassy, completely under the spell's thrall.
"Is he the one?" growled Mr. January.
"According to Arachne's intel, yes. Born on 29 January 1984, and a recent resident of Upper Appleby. However, I am not averse to double-checking." Unholstering her wand, Miss Direction softly incanted "NOMENOGRAFICA REVELIA."
The golden light of the spell rushed into Tasgall, before slowly reappearing over his skin. It danced on his flesh for a few moments, before rising upward to configure into his natal chart. Retrieving a scrap of parchment from her robe, Direction compared Arachne's neat notes to that of the star chart hovering above the boy's head.
"It's a match, he is the chosen one." She giggled as though she'd told a most funny joke.
Snorting, January retrieved their Portkey and as one, the trio disappeared.
The Cobbed Web - Przesieka - Silesia, 7:59PM
"Come, come! Do be mindful of the threshold!"
Exchanging amused glances with each other, Mr. January and Miss Direction nudged little glassy-eyed Tasgall through the entryway before proceeding after him.
The super secret safehouse of Mr. Arachne was surprisingly warm, comfy, and very spacious, an Unplottable and bloodwarded treehouse style nestled up high in the trees, away from any prying eyes. It felt more like a holiday lodge than a safe haven for Dark wizards, and for a handful of the assembled, it was a welcome respite. The kitchen was the main point of focus as it held the evening's guests - a coterie of Rex Novergicus' most faithful.
There were seven gathered around a large table indulging in their choice of beverage and a bevy of baked goods. Conversation was scant, as most preferred the less-than-comfortable silence.
"We have the boy," said January flatly. Silence descended as everyone turned their gaze to the glassy-eyed little wizard.
"Splendid!" Arachne unholstered his wand and cast his own choice of identification spells, nodding in satisfaction.
"Set him in the living room for now, and join us in the kitchen!" The Potter Seneschal smiled with all his teeth, expression boyishly boisterous. "I made a lovely roast, with plenty of vegetables and trust me when I say, you'll need your strength!"
One Hour Later…
The full moon illuminated the clearing below, bathing the scene in cool white light.
Given the history of the Przesieka, it wasn't too strange of a sight.
The densely forested strip of land in the middle of Silesia that split the land into two halves, spreading from Golden Mountains in the south and reaching the towns of Namysłów and Byczyna in the north. The muggle settlers had destroyed quite a bit of the ubiquitous foliage in the 12th and 13th centuries as part of resettlement efforts, the magical occupants near the area warded and obscured a considerable amount for hunting and ritualistic purposes.
Blood and flesh willingly and unwillingly given to the gods and goddesses of olde for centuries, soaking through the earth and lingering alongside the echoes of spirits seen and unseen, resulting in terra contaminara.
This particular clearing served as host to rituals honoring the Great Entities who embodied the concepts of time, death, and rebirth.
It was this clearing that Gustav Kleunwuch's most faithful spilt the blood of their chosen muggle sacrifice, earning their Dark Mark tattoo and irreparably tainting the sanctity of their psūkhe, rising to become the Ghosts of Silesia.
And it would be here that Rex Norvegicus would achieve his first rebirth.
The ground below was painted with a mixture of Death Eater blood and charmed ink, surprisingly luminescent under the light of the full moon. The symbols were a combination of Verbis Diablo and Dark Wild Runes, altogether invoking Corruption and Metamorphosis.
At the center lay the unconscious forms of Rex Norvegicus - in his animagic Wormtail form - and sleeping form of Tasgall Midgen, blissfully asleep.
The assembled Ghosts stood at key positions bordering the symbols on the ground, making a 7-point star.
Mr. Nemo - The Puppet Master.
Mr. Justinian - The Bane of the Dark Lord's Enemies.
Miss Vespertine - Nightcrawler.
Mr. Misericorde - The coup de grâce.
Mr. January - The Gatekeeper.
Mr. Tyrfing - The Lance of the Dark Lord's Enemies.
Miss Direction - L'Agent Provocateur.
And in the center, standing above his Master and his intended sacrifice was Mr. Arachne - Master of Ceremonies.
He shifted into his Wyld Spider-man form, flexing his additional appendages as one would stretch out sore and cramped limbs. Gently lifting his hornbeam wand with his second left arm, Arachne deftly slashed his palm with Diffindo, allowing his blood to pour into the already squelched ground below.
"Taif ati, olov oge tucis,
Taif ati, olov oge tucis,
Taif ati, olov oge tucis."
The Verbis Diablo flowed from his lips, the sound of incongruous consonants and vowels disturbing the air like a physical thing.
"Sov ocovni oem eniugnas muc,
Oem utirips muc et ocov,
Etatnulov aem et ocov oge.
Maem mamina ediv,
Eacigam ihim ediv,
Muem roc ediv,
Aem oitacov ednopser!
Orcesbo Azathoth! Orcesbo Nyarlathotep!"
Arachne's gurgling voice descended to a harsh and grasping rasp as he struggled against the tremendous pain caused by his incantations, offset by the reedy whine that rose and echoed all around them.
Tyrfing resisted the urge to summon Hrod on reflex, feeling every single hair on his body stand in primordial fear.
Nemo was comfortably Occluded, successfully ignoring the preternatural scratching against his formidable psychic shields.
Justinian was impassive, not really moved one way or another.
Misericorde calmly kept his rising bile at bay, ignoring the sensation of something blasphemous slithering up his spine as he succeeded in not crawling out of his skin.
January and Direction blinked, the former recognizing the true nature of the corrupted tongue from Barty Crouch Jr.'s memories, but not really caring to react one way or another.
Vespertine only smiled, delighting in the forbidden sensations dancing over her stolen flesh.
Arachne suddenly doubled over as he repeated his incantations, only stopping when he registered the form of Tasgall began to decay. The resulting bloody sludge crawling of its own accord to the brown rat, stretching to cover the creature whole before rising midair in suspension. It stretched and thickened like a primordial amniotic sac, in matching tandem with the rising crescendo of the blasphemous whine that was pressing in on all their sides.
It went on for several minutes, before a pale hand suddenly burst through the sac.
Another hand burst through, followed by legs, a torso, and finally a head. The being gracefully tumbled out of its container, slowly rising to stand. As one, his followers all bowed
He looked no different than a 10-year old boy, save those terrible eyes. They gleamed with a razor sharp and malevolent intelligence one would never hope to ever see on anyone's face, least of all on a child.
Of course, this was no ordinary child.
This was Rex Norvegicus, as he was as a 10-year old Anselme Kleinwuchs.
"Looks like the gang's all here! Chi-chi-chi-chi-chi!"
The rat-like laughter washed over them, and almost automatically, the assembled Death Eaters' heads dipped even lower.
Steeling himself, Arachne morphed back into Obediah and stepped forward respectfully in a low bow. Reaching into his robe, he produced a 13 1⁄2 inch vine and phoenix feather wand, presenting it butt first towards the smiling form of a newly embodied almost 11-year old Dark Lord. The wand twisted slowly until it was pointing straight up, before Rex softly incanted "LUMOS."
Instantly, a savage light sprang from the wand's tip, brighter than that of the moon. Ending the spell, he waved his wand over his person, conjuring an adorable sailor boy uniform that covered his form.
"Our circle has been forged anew with the truly loyal among you." The Dark Lord's youthfully high voice held a keen note of approval. "It is time to begin!"
At the Same Time…
Serena Zabini's eyes widened at the sound of Orella, startled to hear the Ethergazer speaking. The nature of the Advanced Sleep and Statis spells she kept the witch in should have made that impossible. She couldn't understand a word the blonde was saying, her ramblings not in any language she was remotely familiar with. The six glowing cords connecting her body to that of the Alethiometer were pulsing rapidly,
Lady Zabini registered the widening of Poindexter and Einstein's eyes, but she presumed it due to the house elves' shock of hearing the usually comatose witch speak.
That was not the case.
Because both elves recognized the words tumbling from the blonde's mouth was the Forbidden Tongue of the Great Time Before, from the days when the Nine Eldest roamed Terra Firma and even before the Dawn of the Paar'zheal. The words increased in volume as the Ethergazer's voice grew louder, the sound discordant and unnerving.
Though horrified, Serena projected the utmost confidence whilst waving her wand in a series of hypnotizing whirls, before commanding Orella to "Calm down at once!"
In response, the blonde's eyes flashed open as she spoke in a guttural voice raspy from disuse:
"They're coming! They're coming! They're coming!"
Serena stiffened. "Who's coming?"
Orella froze as her unblinking gaze settled directly on Serena's own, pupils blown wide. The latter internally balked at the fact that there were no irises present. The cords attached to her body pulsed like a rapidly beating heart.
"Those-Who-Lay-In-Darkness," was the blonde's sharp reply.
Lady Zabini froze, recognizing the line from the First Potter Prophecy as a wave of fear coursed through her.
Still, she projected supreme confidence as she stated: "And who exactly is that?"
A beat passed in silence before Orella stretched her form whilst never taking her unsettling gaze from Serena's own.
"The Banished Ones who toil in their blood-soaked bond beyond the darkest precipes of the Dark Wild and the Wild Unknown. The All-Mother… The Daemon Sultan… The Mad God of the Void… The Daemon-God… He Who Holds the Darkness… The Render of the Veils…The Key and the Gate… The Demon of Dissonance… The King in Yellow…"
And with a great shuddering breath, she repeated the True Names of the aforementioned entities in the Forbidden Tongue, causing Lares Poindexter and Einstein to pale in absolute horror as the latter physically staggered backwards. Their mistress was equally horrified though she hadn't a clue as to any of what Orella had said, feeling her palms beginning to sweat as her heart tried to pound its way out of her chest. She turned away horror-struck, sinking to her knees as she felt a panic attack encroaching on her consciousness, Orella's harsh words continuing to wash over her.
The blonde kept repeating the same phrases before suddenly pausing as her eyes veered upward, seeing without sight.
"The yellowed suns shall rise once more in the horizons of Carcosa…it will begin once more in Carcosa…the dawn of apotheosis is nigh…THEY ARE COMING!"
Poindexter was the first to recover his wits, barking at Einstein to "get the Mistress out of here!" The elf staggered to do his bidding, still visibly shaken at all he'd just heard.
At the pop of their joint disapparition Lar Poindexter closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, interlocking his fingers and making a series of occultish hand gestures as the most powerful version of Heru-pa-khered washed over Orella and rendered her mute. It was followed by the Lulls-of-Bes, which immediately sent the witch into a deep sleep that would last through the following day.
Waves of his interlocked fingers rendered the crypt back to pristine form. Satisfied, Poindexter popped away to attend to his Lady.
What he failed to recognize was the Alethiometer's activity, its six unique hands spinning madly over the ever-changing pictures.
And spinning…
And spinning…
And spinning…
AN 1: Oh my, methinks Serena Zabini may have bitten off more than she can chew! We'll see what she makes of these new revelations in Book 4: A Song of Blood and Betrayal (ASoBaB).
AN 2: Tasgall is a Scottish name meaning 'god's helmet', which is also the meaning of 'Anselme'. The Dark Lord basically used the best available doppelganger he could find for his primary rebirth. His final form will be achieved in Book 4, per the canon timeline.
AN 3: January's 'awakening song' is taken from Eurus' Song in The Musgrave Ritual episode (SHERLOCK). Rather disturbing for anyone to be singing, much less a then school-aged Eurus Holmes. The references to Borean winds, Ianeus, and marigolds are all subtle symbolic references to Janus.
