She stepped through the gates, the wards brushing over like a static curtain, held her breath — after a couple seconds, clear that nothing was happening, Tamsyn smiled.
The stories extolling the supreme excellence of the wards of Hogwarts, the safest place in Britain, were somewhat exaggerated. They were a great achievement, yes, Slytherin and Ravenclaw had been unparalleled masters of the craft in their time, but that had been over a thousand years ago, and much had changed. And Tamsyn didn't solely mean in the sense that ward-breaking and security techniques had developed since then — though, naturally, they had — but the function of the Castle had also changed from its original purpose. When Slytherin and Ravenclaw had first raised Hogwarts, it had been intended as a fortress for the residents of the Valley to shelter within, the wards and the walls built to hold back literal armies. And so it had: in those early decades, Hogwarts had stood against viking raiders, proper sizeable armies both Scandinavian and goblin, even Dark Lords fighting from the backs of undead dragons, and through all that the walls had never once been breached. In those battles the Founders had first earned their stature among their contemporaries, and it was then that legends of the impermeability of the Hogwarts wards had begun.
But Hogwarts was no longer a fortress — it was a school now, and had been for most of its history. When the fighting had ended, and the Founders had gradually transitioned from warlords to educators, they'd needed to retool the Castle's wards to fit the purpose. A place of learning needed to be open to the coming and going of various people in a way that would critically weaken a military fortress. Hogwarts had still been very safe — it would need to have been for the habitually paranoid old families to contemplate sending their children, potentially vulnerable to attack or exploitation by their enemies — but the wards had begun to function more as an early warning system, alerting the staff to potential issues before they even occurred. (Utilising esoteric divination techniques that had since been lost, according to the stories.) In a sense, the true defence of the Castle was not in the wards, but in the Founders themselves — the wards simply directed them to where they were needed.
Imagine infiltrating the school to abduct the child of a rival to use as leverage, but even as you begin to make your move suddenly finding yourself face to face with a very angry Godric Gryffindor. Safest place in Britain, indeed.
Naturally, this system only worked so long as the detection mechanisms continued to function, and so long as the school administration remained incorruptible. While both conditions remained true for the first few generations after the Founders' time, they could not endure indefinitely — Ignatius Gaunt hadn't even needed to overpower the emergency war wards, instead welcomed through the gates by allies within and taking over the Castle before anyone could stop him. The wards and the very walls of Hogwarts had been breached by force, once, by the army led by Gwenffrewi of Aberdyfi, Gaunt failing to hold the Castle where the Founders had succeeded. That failure might in part have been due to Gaunt simply being less skilled than the Founders, true, but the loosening of even the emergency wards relative to the original state of absolute security during the Founders' war certainly played a part as well. Even by Gaunt's time, Hogwarts simply hadn't been equipped to stand against an army any longer.
And that was seven hundred years ago now, Hogwarts's defences had only deteriorated since. At least part of the issue was, if the vision passed to Liz were any indication, due to the Founders' brilliance — in their absence, nobody understood their wards well enough to maintain them. Wards did require occasional maintenance, which could be a serious design problem, one that was typically mitigated by the crafter compiling what was essentially an instruction manual that described the functioning of the wards, the various stresses and tolerances and weak points and how to manage them. It seemed Slytherin and Ravenclaw had left behind such a record, but that it had been lost in the chaos during Gaunt's time. In the months since Liz had told Tamsyn about the Castle's message to her, she'd only managed to confirm that such a document had existed, at one point in time, but hadn't been seen in centuries.
Sarah Selwyn, the multi-centenarian metamorph and master wardcrafter on staff at Miskatonic — who Tamsyn believed might be the only remaining living person to have personally seen the scheme book, when she'd been living at Hogwarts during its early centuries — suspected any surviving documentation had most likely been destroyed in order to prevent it from falling into Gaunt's hands. Which, if true, made Tamsyn's efforts to find someone who might be able to reverse the wards' deterioration far more difficult, and perhaps even impossible.
Tamsyn hadn't known the scheme book had been lost before Liz had tipped her off, but she might have guessed as much, if she'd had occasion to sit down and think about. The claim of Hogwarts's impenetrability remained as a commonly-accepted fact, despite evidence to the contrary existing if one looked for it — there were occasions of nobles attacking their rivals' children while at the school, and there'd been an increasing trend of dangerous artefacts being found at the school which should have been intercepted at the wardline. (Including Tamsyn herself, incidentally.) Each time one such incident occurred, people treated it as a fluke, the cultural idea of the school's security remaining unaffected, the incident forgotten by the time the next came about.
But even so, when she looked at the numbers, Hogwarts actually might still be the safest place in Britain, when one limited the evaluation to public spaces. Most public buildings didn't have much security at all. The Ministry had some in the offices themselves, but getting pretty much anything into the Atrium was easy. (Like an undead Dark Lord bound to an automaton hidden in a shoulder bag, for example.) The Wizengamot had physical security, in the form of guards, and all travel was limited to certain entrances, but the wards weren't built to keep anyone or anything out — they could close the floo lines and effectively cut the building off from the outside, but that was it. There were private spaces, manors held by old noble families or sanctuaries kept by priesthoods, that were far more secure, potentially even deadly to anyone who attempted to infiltrate them. By comparison, Hogwarts might as well not have any wards at all.
As evidenced by the fact that Tamsyn was able to walk over the wardline with seemingly no response at all. She was technically keyed in — every student was when they were Sorted — but it seemed that Dumbledore had never disinvited her since. To be fair, she wasn't certain that was a power the Headmaster even had, but she'd suspected it was possible he might have set up something to respond to Tamsyn specifically. It seemed he hadn't done so, or perhaps the new Headmaster had simply removed it.
Good to know.
Tamsyn had timed her trips back to Britain to coincide with Triwizard Tournament Tasks whenever possible. She teased Liz about coming to see her compete, but honestly it was simple curiosity — she'd read of the old Tournament, of course, but she never would have expected the event to be revived. There were very clear political reasons why now, of course — the grip conservatives had had on Durmstrang had gradually loosened since the Revolution, under Karkaroff willing to work with Communalist-aligned Beauxbatons for the first time in over a century, and Britain was desperately trying to build up a more positive international reputation — but it was still fascinating. There were plans to reintroduce the tradition of holding the Tournament every four years, and she hoped they kept with it. Hogwarts was too often terribly isolated from similar institutions, it wasn't doing Britain any favours in the long run.
(Evidently she wasn't the only one who thought so — there were also tentative plans for the house quidditch teams to participate in the youth league, and to start putting forward a showing in other international educational events. Though it might be too little too late, at this point, they would have to see.)
However, this was the first of the events that would actually be held on school grounds, within the bounds of the wards. It didn't seem that would be a problem, fortunately.
Tamsyn had arrived through the floo in the new village built in the Valley. The nomenclature was somewhat nebulous, so far as she knew nobody had quite settled on a proper name for it yet — the valley was called Hogsmeade, the name applied to the village by association, but having a second village adjoining the first complicated the matter. In the long term, both villages would gradually expand until they conjoined and could simply be referred to as a single town, but in the present they were still separate settlements. (Only a only a few hundred metres apart, but regardless.) The public floo at the centre of the new village had been listed as Hogsmeade — next to the pre-existing public floo in the Valley, which was and always had been listed as The Three Broomsticks (Hogwarts) — and so far everyone she'd spoken to had simply referred to the settlement built for the Tournament as the new village. In time, she suspected the entire town would just be called Hogsmeade, but until then the ambiguity of which village someone was referring to when they used the name was somewhat confusing.
The carriages were sometimes made available for guests to travel up to the Castle — in particular, whenever a formal event of some kind was being held at the Great Hall — but the number of people coming to populate the quidditch pitch for the event made that impractical. They all had to walk instead. Considering it was March in Scotland, the walk actually wasn't nearly as miserable as Tamsyn had expected — it wasn't a particularly cold day, free of rain (for the moment), and the track leading from the train station had been paved since the last time Tamsyn had had occasion to notice. It must have been after the Yule Ball — commentary on the event had mentioned Liz using quick-step to avoid the mud, because she could be absurd like that sometimes — but she'd had no idea it was being done. They must have planned out the project and accumulated the necessarily materials beforehand, so the construction could be done between the return of the students and today. Perhaps even earlier this month — she didn't recall seeing the path when she'd dropped Liz off on Valentine's Day, but she hadn't looked that closely...
The path was mostly plain grey brick, could have been sourced from anywhere, the gaps patched up with simple mortar. Judging by such projects elsewhere in magical Britain, she assumed the mortar would later be covered with strips of ceramic, to protect it from erosion, but that was a slow, labour-intensive part of the process, it was possible they were still working on mixing and firing all the tiles. The grey brick was wide enough to allow two carriages to pass side-by-side, a walk path to one side separated by a low kerb, notches through it every couple metres to allow rainwater to flow out into the ditch. It was a pretty impressive project to have thrown together in such a short amount of time, but Public Works could be terribly efficient once it was actually time to build something — the design phase and negotiations with the Office of the Minister and the Wizengamot for the funds to pay a sufficiently-sized team of labourers were always the slowest part of the process.
The path to the quidditch pitch itself was not paved — the grounds were stitched through with several dirt paths, some of them marked with the occasional stones to help keep them clear over the years, but still prone to mud and flooding in wet conditions. There were a trickle of people heading in that directions, squishing along one of the paths or picking through the grass, but Tamsyn had arrived early on purpose. She continued up toward the Castle instead.
Hogwarts Castle itself had changed very little from the time she was a student. The layout of the greenhouses was somewhat different, that was really the most noticeable. She suspected some of the windows and the stonework in the Astronomy Tower had also been redone at some point, but the profile was unchanged, in any case. Surprisingly, given how slowly Hogwarts changed over the decades, there were differences just from the last time she'd been here a couple years ago: it couldn't be seen from here, but she'd heard that they'd kept the terraced gardens set up for the Yule Ball on the opposite side of the hill. Who knew what they'd end up doing with the planters, but at least it would function as a good hang-out spot for the students, not a bad decision.
Besides, they'd put all that effort in for the Ball, it'd be a shame to just tear it all out afterward.
Tamsyn was unsurprised to see Hit Wizards standing guard at the entrances — they were letting countless strangers onto the grounds, after all, precautions must be taken with all the little noble kids in residence. A couple of them gave her long, penetrating looks as she passed, Tamsyn smiling pleasantly back at them, but nobody moved to intercept her. The Entrance Hall rang with the echoes of innumerable conversations in the Great Hall, more students streaming down the stairs toward the doors. The Task involved a somewhat ridiculous number of quidditch matches, spread over several days, so the staff had decided to keep classes going during the event — the first match started early this afternoon, so they'd still had morning classes.
The beginning of the miniature quidditch tournament fast approaching, the excitement on the air was a tactile thing, sizzling and simmering against her skin, putting a vicarious grin on her face. She didn't feel the emotions in the environment nearly so intensely as Liz claimed to, but she did have to admit large crowds could be almost intoxicating sometimes. Melanion's descriptions of his experience of the ceremonies he'd directed in his cult-leader role were fascinating...
While the exterior of Hogwarts hadn't changed, the interior had been somewhat altered since her last time seeing it, through Ginevra's eyes. There'd been a lot of remodelling done in advance of the guests' arrival, cleaning and repairs and replacements of the Castle's more deteriorated features, the countless paintings touched up, the colours more vibrant and the occupants more lively than she recalled. The animation of magical paintings was well-anchored in the materials, but it could still decay with time — she noticed a couple portraits along the way that had been sleeping in her day, but were fully awake and conversant now.
Of course, there were also coloured strips of tile along the halls, marking different sections of the map — because there was an actual map handed out to students at the beginning of the year, started just this autumn. Tamsyn was somewhat jealous about that, if she was being honest. Back when she'd been a student, they'd essentially been left to their own devices when it came to navigating the Castle, their timetable including only room numbers with no additional explanation about where that was or how the fuck one was meant to get there. It wasn't too much of a problem for most students, since the prefects gave the new first-years a tour of the Castle, so they would at least have a general idea of where they were going. In her first year, nobody had informed Tamsyn the tour was happening, out of what must have been simple absentmindedness — or so Slughorn had claimed to believe when she told him about it, anyway.
Tamsyn had been a rude little shite her first night here, but in her defence the etiquette in the magical world was different, and also she'd grown up in a rundown orphanage in an especially impoverished neighbourhood, so. She hadn't meant to offend all of her year-mates the very first time they met, honestly, she simply hadn't realised she was doing it. Also, they could feel her picking at the edges of their minds, and absorbing things from the adults around her had made her come off rather inappropriately mature for her age, so they'd also thought she was just sort of creepy, that didn't help...
Regardless, she would have killed for a map of the place when she started out — would have saved her the further ostracisation from the other Slytherins as she lost house points and got detentions due to getting lost and arriving to class late. (Which was entirely her house-mates' fault, of course, but one couldn't expect noble children to take responsibility for their own actions.) One would think this was a necessary degree of organisation, given the complexity of the school, she couldn't possibly imagine why they hadn't done it centuries ago.
To make muggleborns feel even more excluded and overwhelmed than they would regardless, of course, but that was hardly a good reason.
The colour-coding was new to her, but it'd been mentioned by both Liz and Barty. Discussing his time at the school, Barty had even described it in enough detail that, when synthesised with the few glimpses she'd managed to catch from his mind, she knew precisely where to go. The History classroom had been relocated, in large part due to difficulty getting old Binns's ghost to cooperate, now on the first floor not far from the Grand Staircase. A stream of students passed by as she neared, going the opposite direction — Liz's class, in fact, she recognised Black and Greengrass and Roper as they passed by. (Liz herself wasn't here, the Champions would once again be removed from the Castle for the duration of the Task, safety precaution.) Once they'd all passed, Tamsyn stepped into the emptied History classroom.
Or, not quite emptied, as it turned out: expected was Barty, currently in the guise of Max Ollivander, but unexpected was a dark-haired girl, clearly having stayed behind to discuss one matter or another. Something about an essay Barty had assigned, by the sound of it. "Ah, I'm sorry," Tamsyn said, drawing attention to herself. "Is this a bad time?"
Barty looked up at her, and then visibly twitched, the surprise intense enough she could feel it from across the classroom. "What are you doing here?"
Twisting her lips into a smirk, "Come now, Max, is that any way to greet a lady?" Reaching out, she carefully twisted around and through Barty's occlumency. Mercy Anne Creswell, I'm a Mastery enchanting student at an American school, she reminded him. I'm confident you can invent a believable excuse.
Clearly struggling past his exasperation and irritation and concern, Barty forced out a huff. "I'm sorry, did the Americans start handing out titles to nameless bastards when I wasn't looking?" Shaking his head to himself, he turned back to the girl. "Sorry about this, Miss Jones, it seems my friend here is early. Megan Jones, Mercy Anne Creswell — we met at a conference on New World enchanting in Virginia. We had planned on meeting up down in the Entrance Hall, but you know how impatient Americans can be."
"Um." Looking visibly awkward, Jones glanced between the two of them — the conversation Tamsyn had interrupted hadn't been too private, so she wasn't particularly embarrassed, just had an odd feeling. "Hello, Miss Creswell."
"Miss Jones. Sorry to interrupt, but I was attracting attention waiting down in that absurdly glittery golden entryway down there."
"And we both know how much you dislike attracting attention," Barty drawled, eyeing her outfit. Just muggle denims and a jumper, would be perfectly unremarkable back in America, but the trousers hugged close enough around her hips to be revealing by the standards of the nobility of magical Britain.
Tamsyn rolled her eyes. "Oh hush, you." Miss Jones here already suspects we're involved, and comments like that aren't doing you any favours.
Barty was taken aback by the implication thoroughly enough that he coughed aloud. "In any case," with a clear tone of desperately changing the subject, "if you need an extra week for research, Miss Jones, that's acceptable. I would rather read a quality essay than a timely one. Do keep me updated on your progress, I may be able to point you in the right direction if you find yourself stuck."
"Yes, Professor, thank you. Um." Jones glanced at Tamsyn again. "I'll go, then?"
"Of course. See you on Monday, Miss Jones." The girl picked up her bookback and slunk out of the room, giving Tamsyn and Barty a few more surreptitious looks along the way. As soon as she was gone, Barty's (Max's) wand appeared in his hand, casting a privacy paling with a flick. "Now, what are you really doing here?"
Tamsyn shrugged. "I've come for the match, of course. As long as I was here, I thought I would drop by to check in. It has been a month or two since we've spoken, I believe — finishing my Mastery work has kept me busy."
Scowling a little, he drawled, "I would say it's absurd to expect to finish an enchanting Mastery in such a short span of time, but I suppose you've known the material for decades."
"Enchanting was never a particularly intense focus of ours, but I'm hardly starting from scratch, no. And how's the teaching job going?"
The scowl only got deeper. "The standard material is abysmal. I thought it was obvious when I was I student, but it's only gotten more blatantly partisan since. Honestly, it's almost a relief that nobody ever learned anything in Binns's lessons, but I hate having to assign the readings. Spend half the time in class explaining to the children the wrong answers they'll have to give to pass the exams..."
At least Barty was also explaining why the 'correct' answers were the way they were, by the sound of it — that was probably an improvement from her own time at Hogwarts, frankly. "Binns was a shit useless professor while he was still alive, if that's any consolation."
"Why would that be a consolation, Tamsyn?"
"Ah ah," waving a chiding finger, "Mercy Anne. You don't want to slip over lunch, do you?"
Barty glared at her for a moment. "Excuse me, I didn't realise I'd extended an invitation to lunch." Once Miss Jones was out of the room, he'd lapsed back into his own accent — English, with a faint hint of the slurring drawl particular to the magical settlements of southern England — but he'd seamlessly slipped back into the sharper, archaic, faintly Celtic-flavoured speech ubiquitous in the magical nobility. Though it was somewhat milder than was typical in the stiffer, more insular nobles, with just a hint of the looser common speech Max Ollivander had picked up living and working among ordinary people after his academy days.
"Yes, well, you know how Americans can be." Tamsyn tipped up to sit on the edge of a desk, leaning back on her hands. "But seriously, how's it going here? On my end, I've reintroduced a few Knights to our father, and delegated the task of procuring ritual components — I hear you acquired the phoenix ash, and we're ahead of schedule on the unicorn blood and starshine, so we should have everything well ahead of time. I'm in the process of approaching multiple potential hosts for the center of our operations, I hope we'll have a few options for Father to pick from when the time comes." That was a lie: she was focussing entirely on recruiting the Bulstrodes, but Barty didn't know about her plans to tweak their political programme yet. She'd approached a couple other families too, but that was just for appearances in future retrospect, in case anyone thought to call her on it. "I've traded a few letters with Dumbledore, discussing the possibility that Father is behind Potter being entered in the Tournament, walking through how that might have been done, you know. I'm meant to meet with him in person while I'm in the country — he wants to check the Riddle Manor for any signs Father has been there, asked his new pet cursebreaker along just in case. So that's going well.
"All my projects are going well, more or less according to plan and on schedule. But I haven't heard anything about your end in a while."
Barty sighed, his eyes tipping up to the ceiling for a second. "I've been feeling out the current political standing of my students' families as well as I can — though that is limited, of course, given the context in which I'm working. I regularly send copies of my notes on to Father, for whatever they're worth. As far as the project to manipulate the Tournament is concerned, I've had to do surprisingly little so far. Miss Potter has turned out to be rather more competent than expected."
Curious, the Miss Potter was new. Though she guessed it might just be reflex, since she had been one of his students for a while now...
"I suppose she has been getting help from Severus and Sirius, so I shouldn't be surprised, but I didn't expect her to perform so well. She had me worried about the dragon, nobody had any idea what she was doing to prepare, it honestly never occurred to me how useful mind magic would be."
"She attempted to outright dominate hers," Tamsyn interrupted, "which was an extremely foolish thing to do. She's lucky she didn't hurt herself. Cæciné's use of enthrallment was the correct decision, but Liz can be blunt like that. She's pathologically straight-forward, you might have noticed."
Barty blinked a little at the use of Liz's first name — she had 'slipped' a few times before, laying hints — but didn't draw attention to it. "Yes, quite. Sometimes I wonder how the hell she ended up in Slytherin."
Flatly, Tamsyn just said, "Survivor." Same reason she herself had been in Slytherin, honestly — any subtlety she'd ended up with had only developed as strategy to live reasonably peacefully with her housemates.
He grimaced, presumably remembering the story about Liz being abused. "Ah, yes, of course. Anyway, this Task shouldn't be a problem — I've watched her team practising, they're quite good. I don't expect them to win, with Krum in the running, but they should perform well enough to keep Miss Potter near the top of the scores. From what I can tell, Dumbledore is helping her prepare for the Seventh Task, but who can say how effective that will be. I dropped a hint about the Eighth Task at the Yule Ball, given her skill with duelling I don't imagine she should have any difficulty with that one. She should be near the top of the ranking going into the final, it won't be too difficult to orchestrate a win. Should all go according to plan.
"I have intercepted a few plots to curse or poison her from the foreign students — and from Hogwarts students as well, it turns out — but I mostly haven't needed to do that much. Miss Potter's own sensitivity to magic gives her a degree of protection, and her schedule is so irregular it can be difficult to plan around. I'm uncertain she's even noticed — if she has, I doubt she's paid it much mind at all."
Not really, no. Liz was aware that she'd been targeted for some kind of interference on a few occasions, but it wasn't something she really actively worried about that much. She's very cautious about unexpected magic on food or objects, especially after the love potion incident, that was simply routine now. And she had enough friends and supporters among the student body that trying to hex her in the halls would be very foolish — she made a point of avoiding being alone while wandering the halls, or hiding under her invisibility cloak or deflection charms when it couldn't be avoided, but the precaution probably wasn't necessary, and was at least as much to avoid unwanted social interaction as it was for safety. Tamsyn was not at all surprised that her enemies had difficulty marking her, given Barty hadn't even been able to approach very close over the summer either.
Of course, Tamsyn could easily abduct Liz at any time — she could have apparated Liz anywhere back on Valentine's Day. But even if they wanted to attempt holding her until the resurrection ritual was ready, she wouldn't be informing her conspirators about their relationship until it was too late to matter. The fewer complications in the plan, the better.
"Everything's going according to plan, then," Tamsyn said, smiling. "I do so appreciate it when that happens."
"Fortunate for you that yours do so often, then."
"You'd be surprised — the plan went terribly astray long before that Hallowe'en." Tamsyn didn't need to be a mind mage to see the sudden interest stealing over Barty's borrowed face, but she had no intention of explaining right this second. "So," she chirped, tipping off the desk back to her feet, "I believe you invited me to lunch."
Barty gave her a sharp frown, but Tamsyn didn't believe it for a second. He was still turning over the implication about the last war, trying to figure out what she meant by that — he wasn't going to have much luck, he didn't have enough information to put it together himself. "That's funny, I have no memory of that. I do recall you speaking as though I already had invited you to lunch, seemingly presuming that I would be too polite to refuse."
"What, I went through all the effort to come early so I could visit you, and you're just going to turn me out? Is that any way for a young man to treat a princess?"
Seemingly despite himself, Barty coughed out a thick laugh, a smile twitching at his lips. "Oh fine," he huffed, with a forced roll of his eyes. "I'm calling an elf to bring the meal up to my office, though — showing your face in the Great Hall could quickly lead to some very uncomfortable questions."
Perhaps suggesting there would be gossip about the two of them in the aftermath — though it was probably already too late for that, thanks to Miss Jones (was that Megan Jones from Liz's study group?) — but she suspected he meant that someone might recognise her. The chances of that were very small. There was nobody on staff remaining from when she'd attended, and she didn't think she'd even met any of them in person before. Oh, except Minerva, of course — their time as prefects overlapped, she'd been Head Girl the year after Tamsyn. If the judges were here already, the only one who would recognise her was Dumbledore, but of course he knew her as Mercy Anne, she was sure she and Barty could keep up the act. There were all kinds of reasons a scholar like Max Ollivander might have come across Mercy Anne, and if anything Dumbledore might actually be pleased she was building more social connections in Britain. (Especially among safe, approved families like the Ollivanders.) And if there were any guests around who'd known her back then, well, Barty was probably overestimating how likely it was people would recognise her — the 40s and 50s were a long time ago to remember a face.
Casual acquaintances were one thing, but even people she'd known best didn't recognise her sometimes. Julie hadn't at all, not without prompting. That reunion, during her last visit to Britain, had been rather disappointing, honestly. After a bit of sounding out, Tamsyn had decided to start with a cover story, claiming to be her own daughter, and maybe move on to the truth if she felt it was going well, but Julie was... Well. Tamsyn's apparent age meant her 'mother' would have needed to have lived for decades after she disappeared, and, she hadn't disbelieved Tamsyn — especially after she got out some old photos, the 'resemblance' was uncanny, after all — but the conversation from that point had been...
Tense, Tamsyn guessed was the word for it. Her other self hadn't done her any favours by, sort of, slowly fading out of Julie's life during her time with the Malfoys before just disappearing without a trace. Apparently Julie'd been seriously concerned she'd gotten pregnant by Andy and he'd killed her and covered it up before anyone could find out...for some unfathomable reason. (There had been some controversy over their relationship at the time, Tamsyn understood, but there was no reason she couldn't have simply gotten rid of it without anyone knowing — purebloods were so strange sometimes.) Julie had thought something had happened to her, if not some drama with Andy then something else, that she'd just left without a word, ignoring all attempts to contact her, and...
If Tamsyn had thought to contemplate how Julie might have reacted to her disappearance, she would never have anticipated she would be so badly hurt by it. She didn't know what she was supposed to do about that. Revealing who she was would probably only make the situation worse, especially given how Julie's religious orientation had developed over the decades, and what the Monroes' politics were like these days...
It'd been fucking miserable, honestly. She'd immediately taken a portkey down to Palermo to find a party she could get fucked up at, just to avoid the emotional fallout for the remainder of the evening. And through the hangover the next day, of course, hard to feel emotionally miserable when you're too busy feeling physically miserable...
(Tamsyn definitely agreed with Liz on this one — feelings could be fucking awful sometimes.)
So, if Julie hadn't recognised her at first, she was willing to bet whatever old acquaintances might be visiting for the Task wouldn't either. Dumbledore had probably only recognised her because he was an obsessive old bastard sometimes, had put who knew how long looking into Melanion's past and trying to figure out his strategy. (And with all that research still only achieving mixed success, because Dumbledore made such peculiar assumptions about their motivations.) Barty might be surprised how much of a difference fifty years made on one's memory. But regardless, she wanted privacy for this conversation anyway, so she didn't complain.
Well, she might have teased him a little about inviting an unmarried young woman into his rooms, but that was just for the fun of it. Barty got so flustered whenever she flirted at him — very much aware who her original self had grown up to be — it was so terribly amusing, she couldn't help herself.
Barty's office — or Max Ollivander's office, she supposed — was rather more busy and colourful than Tamsyn might have expected. The bookshelves were packed, the volumes a mix of magical and muggle bindings, along with rolls of scrolls protected in enchanted leather or ceramic cases, space made for trinkets here and there, little decorative sculptures or enchanted paraphernalia. All Max's belongings, after abducting him Barty had broken into his private flat in Charing to pick up things to populate his office, and also to just show 'his' face for the last couple weeks before term started. (Barty had quite enjoyed cracking the wards — set by one of Max's Ollivander cousins, he'd found it an entertaining challenge.) Parts of the walls that weren't covered by bookshelves were covered with finely-embroidered tapestries and paintings instead, also Max's. One of the paintings was a family portrait, Max's parents and siblings and a couple more closely-related households in the House of Ollivander. One of Max's uncles looked distractingly familiar, Tamsyn assumed their time at Hogwarts most have overlapped but she couldn't quite think of the name. An Ollivander, obviously, but there'd been a few at Hogwarts in her time, couldn't remember.
Since taking over his life, Barty had actually kept up Max's relationships with his family, even getting through holiday gatherings without drawing suspicion. He did have access to Max's memories — Melanion had simply copied all of them for him, in a form he could relive in first-person for best effect — but combining omniglottalism and a passion for theatre was simply cheating.
The desk was somewhat messy, strewn with books and papers and a woven basket filled with scrolls of false 'parchment' — student essays, presumably — but there was a little table bracketed by padded chairs right in front of the hearth which would be more comfortable to eat at. There was a tea set waiting up on the lintel, Tamsyn assumed this was where he'd entertain guests. Barty called a house-elf up to ask for lunch, Tamsyn putting on a show of being startled and then politely curious about the 'unfamiliar' being — they didn't have elves in America, after all. She'd learned visiting the Davises over summers that elves could be shockingly gossipy, had to stay in character as long as he was around.
It was going to be rather warm so close to the hearth, so Tamsyn pulled her jumper over her head, hung it over the back of her chair. The muggle tee shirt she was wearing was, again, perfectly ordinary by muggle standards, but rather more form-fitting than was considered appropriate by more conservative mages — she noticed Barty giving her a look. When she smiled warm and sweet (knowingly) back at him, he twitched and glanced away, abruptly changed the subject, a hint of pink rising on his cheeks.
Like she'd said: terribly amusing. It was honestly a little hard not to laugh at him.
It'd occurred to her that simply seducing him would probably make it easier to subvert him into cooperation with her plan, but it would be unwise to risk the possibility of hurt feelings before the time came. This was too delicate, the slow way was safer.
Besides, it'd be a shame to ruin all the progress she'd made over going on nine months of work now — she had a good feeling about this upcoming conversation, this might be it anyway.
They wiled away a few minutes with directionless gossip, Max sharing random stories about his coworkers and students, Mercy Anne contributing with an occasional snipped involving one of her classmates or teachers. (Some were made up on the spot to amuse herself and/or mess with his head, but most of them had actually happened over the last couple years.) Before long the elf returned with bowls of mutton stew, hearty and warm against the murky Scottish spring, one for each of them, plus a loaf of bread with a little plate of soft cheese, a bowl of mixed berries, a little round shortcake, and a bottle of wine to share. Barty looked rather exasperated, but he thanked the elf and sent him on his way without comment anyway.
The tray was obviously set up for a couple — that sly little elf must have assumed this was a date, and was maybe trying to help Max get laid. That was honestly just precious, elves were so funny sometimes.
While Tamsyn occupied herself slicing up the bread — the elf had included a knife, but she just used wandless cutting charms, easier to do without squishing the bread or getting crumbs everywhere — Barty leaned over toward the hearth to sketch glyphs over the bricks with a finger, leaving behind trails of glimmering yellow-blue light. The free-cast enchantment took a second after he finished the last glyph, some kind of paling crackling across the air in a wave. "There," he sighed, settling back into his chair, "the elves won't be able to listen in now."
"Did you already have one of these up in your classroom?" It hadn't occurred to her that that might be a problem — she hadn't grown up with elves, the implications of their presence still went by her sometimes.
"No, but we didn't have anyone's attention then. Since he just brought us lunch, Ona will be keeping an ear out for us in case we need anything else. Of course, elf magic works by different rules than ours, he can listen through the paling if he wishes to, but he'll also recognise it's there and respect the request for privacy. It'll be fine."
Right, okay. "You're the expert — I'm still not accustomed to elves."
"I imagine they don't have many house-elves in muggle orphanages." There was some kind of tone on Barty's voice — he'd lapsed back into his natural accent again — but she wasn't quite sure how to read it.
"You could say that. I didn't have much contact with them at all until I was staying over at the Davises over the summer, during the war. The Second World War, I mean." When most mages said the war, they meant Melanion's rebellion. "I was curious, naturally, but it didn't go very far — I was only a guest, and it's difficult to read elf minds."
Barty looked slightly surprised by that, one of his eyebrows arcing up. "Really? I don't have any trouble reading them at all. I speak elvish just fine, have for longer than I can remember."
"Yes, well, different class of mind magic." That Barty had been partly raised by an elf should also make a difference — the tone of their minds was alien to Tamsyn, but he'd been around them his whole life. If she'd been raised a wealthy pureblood, she didn't doubt that she'd be able to read house-elf minds just as well. Keeping her tone light and casual, she said, "So, was there any particular reason you wanted me in private?"
He rolled his eyes. Having just opened the wine bottle, he used it to gesture at her, drawling, "You know, you're not nearly as subtle as you think you are."
"I'm exactly as subtle as I think I am — I intend for you to be able to tell I'm messing with you. If I were trying to deceive you, you wouldn't know."
"If you insist." He didn't seem to believe her, but that was fair enough. Barty believing she wasn't a very good liar was actually better for her purposes anyway. "So, do you expect me to ask?"
Pulling on a guileless smile, "Ask what?"
"If I'm to believe you're exactly as subtle as you think you are, then I must assume that any implications you make are intentional. And so I must assume that the suggestion that our father's plans had failed well before that night was meant to attract my interest — especially given how bluntly you changed the subject immediately afterward. So, do you expect me to ask?"
"And I say again: ask what?" The flat, exasperated glare he shot her had her innocent smile tilting more toward a smirk. "It's not an unreasonable question. What was our original intent? Why and when did it go astray? What was the new plan, once we'd realised the first was no longer viable? Why and when did that one go wrong as well? What did we fail to foresee that lead to that ultimate failure that Hallowe'en? Those are all separate issues, with varying answers."
"And I think you're still being difficult on purpose. I'm not an idiot, Tamsyn — you wouldn't have dropped the hint if there weren't something you wanted to tell me."
"Oh, you're no fun." She paused to take a couple bites of her lunch. Partly since they might as well get on with it — there wasn't that much time before the start of the match — but honestly she also just enjoyed making him simmer. She chased the food with a sip of the wine (heavy and strong, paired with the hearty stew), before deciding she'd let it hang long enough. "You're an observant young man. I'm sure you've noticed that Melanion now is...different, than he was at the end of the war."
His building irritation with her stalling quickly dribbled away, a more thoughtful cast coming over his face. "Yes, it is... Well, I had assumed his behaviour had changed simply due to the circumstances we find ourselves in, and perhaps as a consequence of being bound to the automaton. The mind being shaped by the body, and the like."
Peeking just a little — subtly, like leaning over a garden wall too look into the neighbour's — Tamsyn could tell that one of the things that had tipped Barty off was that Melanion cooperated with their whole filial dynamic rather more readily than he had before. He was also much more open with his praise, but that could be just because he was relying on Barty at the moment, and wanted to keep him happy. At first, he'd thought that was all it was, but he had noticed that Melanion was rather more measured than he remembered — still prideful (and with just cause), but slower to anger and quicker to humour. A subtle difference, but it was impossible to miss, having spent so many days in close quarters.
Of course, that change in Melanion's treatment of Barty was in large part due to Barty himself: he'd conducted a ritual with Melanion's soul as a component, after all. Barty's understanding of Melanion would inevitably influence the result. He conceived of Melanion as the father he wished he'd had — and so, his ritual had altered Melanion's essence to reflect Barty's intent, ever so slightly. Tamsyn was mostly certain Barty didn't realise that, and she was unsure how he would react if she told him he was responsible.
So it would be better to avoid that particular detail. Tamsyn intended to discuss the general subject, but if Barty chose to focus on the changes to his temperament alone, so be it. "That is true, to a degree. The mind is produced by the body, and while the mechanics of such a construct as Melanion is bound to now are somewhat different, the same principle applies. And I imagine carefully planning his own resurrection is somewhat less stressful than attempting to direct a revolution. But it is more than that.
"As I recall, you were exposed to Melanion early, before the fighting proper started. Do you remember what he was like then, in the Sixties, early Seventies?"
"...Not terribly well, if I'm being honest," Barty admitted, with a clear note of regret. "It was... I had relatives, aunts, who were more involved with public practice, but... Well, Senior never had much patience for such things — like so much else he dismissed as frivolous." Like poetry and theatre, for example. "I was brought to a few gatherings of Father's cult, back in the old days, but it... I never got very close to him back then, only saw him from a distance. And I was a child, I would have been too intimidated to approach. He was..."
She let Barty trail off, eyes going unfocussed as he turned inward, struggling for the words to describe Melanion back when he'd been fully embracing the character of firebrand pagan priest. It had been a very effective performance, there were reasons he'd managed to attract such a following. "A force of nature," she offered after a minute. "Seeming halfway removed from those around him, as though he stood with one foot in the physical world, but one foot somewhere else. Listening to him speak, watching him move, the presence he had, one could believe that he had, indeed, seen the face of the Huntress — that perhaps, when he was at his most compelling, his voice seeming to fill the air and to shiver through one's very blood, perhaps he approached so near as to enable Her to speak through him. And when he commanded magic, by wand or by ritual, one could almost feel the world hold its breath, such power and such grace and such wonder that it was difficult not to believe, in the passion of the moment, that he must have been granted such favour by the gods themselves, so as to enact their will upon this Earth."
"...Well, yes," Barty said, with a sheepish little shrug, "you describe the feeling better than I could. How much of that was an act, anyway? I know now that Melanion had always been a performance, to some degree — given that he was once you, it... Was any of it ever real?"
"Some of it was. Perhaps more than you might expect." Tamsyn broke to take a bit of bread and wine, once again carefully thinking over what she was going to say. This was a very delicate moment. She didn't think there was a risk of sabotaging Barty's loyalty to Melanion, but whether he would cooperate with her plan was still very much up in the air... "The person was designed, of course. We needed a following, for what we planned to do — there were long discussions on strategy, what angle would best suit our purposes. It needed to be a man, given the social and political environment we'd be stepping into, the name and the face, all of that was designed. And, yes, to come in through the priesthoods of mos maiorum was a choice, the particulars of the rhetoric, all of that was planned.
"But that doesn't mean it was all artifice. As I'm sure you know, the best performances, the most compelling, are built out of the truth, in one form or another. And even the presentation of a character can be its own kind of truth — you might have noticed," she drawled, with a commiserating sort of smirk, "but both of us can be dramatic bastards sometimes." She got a crooked little smile at that, because yes, Tamsyn could be a terribly dramatic person when she was in a mood, she was well aware of this about herself. "But the passion, that was real, it...
"I often felt, once I found myself at Hogwarts, that my classmates who'd been raised with magic didn't appreciate it the same way I did. Magic saved me. I could hardly have expected it to, I grew up in a world where there was no such thing, when my mind magic awakened I had no idea what it was. And as I began to explore witchcraft, alone with no guidance whatsoever, only myself and what I could discover, I came to believe that I must be special somehow, that... That there was something out there that had seen me, powerless and helpless, and had chosen me, to give me the strength to protect myself, to save me. It was something of a disappointment to learn that there other mages out there, in secret, that I was not so special as I'd thought. But even then, I couldn't shake the feeling, that something out there had come for me when I needed it.
"And in time, I did come to find people who had more respect for Magic than most of my classmates — the more religious among them, you might say. The particulars of their beliefs were alien to me, but it was still more familiar, in another way. The way they spoke of Magic was closer to how I understood it than those who felt the urge to reduce everything to clean arithmantic formulae, to reject even the possibility that there might be something out there, that magic was simply another aspect of nature that could be analysed and domesticated. Their specific practices might have been new to me, but their attitude was more appropriate.
"And then..." Tamsyn consciously trailed off, eyes turning away from Barty to her wineglass, her fingers idly turning about the stem. Being dramatic, of course, playing to her audience — but the performances did have truth to them, the solemnity, the wonder on her voice wasn't entirely fabricated. "Some years after the diary, there was... She never could quite describe the experience to me — oh, it was still 'she' then, of course, this was in the...mid-Fifties, I think. Time got rather fuzzy while I was in that bloody book. It was difficult for her to put into words, and something about the experience didn't quite translate into a copied memory. But she...encountered something. A god, you might call it, revealed to her while deep in contact euphoria, and... It seems to have been a very intense experience, and that was not the only time, She came to her again and... I'm still rather jealous, if I'm being honest. I've never experienced anything of the like, and the copied memories are...less. Something meant for her alone, I expect, and not to be shared, even with a copy of herself. Pity."
She wasn't even lying about any of that. It was gratifying that her childhood conviction that there was something out there had been validated, but she was still disappointed to have never felt it for herself. Perhaps it would happen one day, it couldn't be forced, she simply had to wait for the right moment.
(Tamsyn never had been a particularly patient person, but she guessed she could make an exception for literal divine revelation.)
Silence lingered for a moment, still and heavy, Tamsyn let it linger for a few breaths before shattering it with a sharp, "So. Was Melanion initially a character put on as part of a political design, yes, of course. But there had always been truth in that lie, from the beginning. And the conviction that drastic action must be taken to save magical society from itself is all too terribly real. Muggle warfare has grown so destructive that they have killed hundreds, thousands of us, by accident, with no knowledge of our presence — how much greater damage may they be capable of if it is done by choice? Our world is balanced on the edge of the knife, one wrong step might see it all washed away in nuclear fire, and it is simply maddening that so few seem to take the threat seriously. Part of Melanion may have been an act, in the beginning, but the greater part of the character, the heart of him, was legitimately sincere. For all that might be worth — it all went terribly wrong regardless."
"Yes, you've hinted at that before," Barty drawled, poking at his stew. It was hard to tell exactly what was going on in his head — at least not without intruding, and she had to be careful doing that. (She didn't want to give him cause to suspect she was influencing him so directly.) The stillness that had come over him, during that little speech, it... There had still been a note of regret — partly that he couldn't really remember Melanion in his prime, partly that he hadn't an experience like that either — but it was... It wasn't bad for her purposes, what was going on in there, Tamsyn was pretty sure.
(It really was very frustrating that she couldn't risk poking around in his head, damn perceptive omniglot...)
After downing a spoonful or two, Barty asked, "How had it gone wrong, anyway? From what I could tell, it seemed to proceed smoothly enough — I was hardly much of a fighter, of course, but... Senior certainly seemed to think the Ministry was a few bad days away from total defeat. If it weren't for that Hallowe'en..."
"True enough. And what a victory that would have been."
"...I don't understand." In fact, he was a little irritated — it almost sounded like she was saying that it was for the best that Lily Potter had gotten the better of Melanion that night. Only a little irritated, though, because he was pretty sure he was just reading too much into it.
Of course, Tamsyn did actually think Melanion's defeat had been a blessing in disguise — it gave them a totally unanticipated opportunity to right the ship and try again — but she knew better than to say that aloud. "It's quite straightforward if you consider the circumstances for five seconds — it was painfully foolish of us to miss it, I felt like such an idiot once I realised. Melanion was originally a character, you know. Some of it was sincere, but the particulars of the performance, his personality... Now, I know I can be a prideful little bint at times, but there was a tone of...megalomania, I suppose. It was useful for the purpose, appropriate for what Melanion was intended to represent. And, I'll admit, it can be very entertaining to play such a role, embracing the melodrama and almost silliness of it — I do understand why someone might dream of the stage, though it isn't for me I can see the appeal. Some of Melanion's behaviours were...exaggerated, part of the performance, you know? To feel larger than life, almost like a character out of a story.
"And that might have been fine, had Melanion not performed ritual while in character."
"Is there a problem with that?" Barty asked, confusion pulsing off in waves through the environment. "Ritual is itself a performance, when you think about it."
"Yes, in a way — I suspect that may be part of why you have such a talent for it. But think about it: in any ritual, the practitioner is inside the circle."
"What does that— Oh." Barty reared back in his chair, blinking, lips slightly parted. "Oh no. So..." He set his spoon down, hands limp on the table — his mind cold and shivering, lurching as connections were made one after another, memories colouring, so intense the floor almost seemed to tilt under her. "The performance was made part of the ritual."
Tamsyn nodded. "Yes, precisely."
"So, so... The products have to balance, but that intent doesn't have an output, it would reflect back on him."
"Very good. I didn't put that together until the effects started to become noticeable."
"Start to, it— You mean it was cumulative? But of course it would be," Barty answered his own question, shaking his head. "As the more...well, as you put it, megalomaniacal parts of the character, as though were reflected back on him he'd just play into that side of himself further, to be reflected back again in the next ritual. Like a self-reinforcing spiral."
Tamsyn hummed from behind her wine glass, nodding as she swallowed. "Precisely. It was gradual, subtle at first, I didn't notice in the early stages. By the time I realised the damage that had been done, Melanion was no longer listening to me — I was passed off to the Malfoys when he grew frustrated with my concerns, I only heard of developments from there second-hand. From the memories I've seen, I understand he only deteriorated further with time."
"I thought it was the stress of the war! Those last couple of years were..." He leaned forward over the table, his forehead propped against his hands, staring darkly into space. Tamsyn could feel it, simmering away in there, she was terribly tempted to peek, but she kept herself back, all but holding her breath, the tension coiled through her almost ready to snap. "When he returns, we won't... Those rituals would have altered his very soul, after the resurrection he'll be as he was, then, at the end. Not as he was before."
"Not quite."
Barty blinked, eyes flicking up to her. "What do you mean?"
"Do you recall what I said at the beginning of this conversation? Our father, even now, is not quite how he was at the end of the war. His temperament has already been improved, noticeably. And how might that have happened?"
Disappointingly, he didn't seem to put it together, just frowning vaguely at her. Oh well, she supposed that was fair enough — he hadn't been contemplating the problem nearly as long as she had.
"Think about it, Barty. You held his very soul in your hands, for hours. In that ritual to construct the automaton, his essence was both component and product. But it was not his intent that coloured what came of it — it was yours." Smiling, her voice dropping a little, "That you managed to form such a complex automaton is impressive on its own, but the clarity of intent necessary to carry through his being in one piece, and not only to preserve his sanity but to improve it... I was not exaggerating, when I praised your accomplishment, it is incredible, almost literally so. And it is reassuring in a way. If there were any doubts about your loyalty to our father, you dispelled them then — the dedication to him you demonstrated then must be sincere, or he would not be as he is now."
While she spoke, Barty's hands slowly dropped from his face, staring at her with wide eyes. He gradually straightened, by the end he was sitting up in his chair, visibly rigid, shock and uncertainty and suspicion swirling in the air around him. "That is why you're here, why you came back. To change him."
"No, Barty, not change him. Or at least, not in the way you fear. I know we're not going to get the original Tamsyn back — that ship has sailed, she's gone for good. But I..." She paused, glancing away for a moment. Pretending to fail to find the words, struggling with a depth of feeling — but not showing it on her face, keeping her expression mild, blandly thoughtful. Barty knew her well enough by now to suspect that a demonstrative outpowering of emotion might be a performance to manipulate him, but subtle he was more likely to think was legitimate. "This was not meant to be, this was not the plan. The thought of going through the changes that Melanion has, I find it horrifying. But the very nature of the process means he was incapable of feeling the same, he could not...perceive it happening, as anything other than himself, it... I tried to tell him what was happening to him, but he was already too ill to—
"That's how I think of it, that he's ill. Think of it as some ritual backlash, or a degenerative alchemical poisoning or curse of some kind, if you like. I... I've seen memories, of what he was like in the early days, with the cult, and he was..." She shook her head, letting a little smile twitch at her lips. "That's the Melanion I want back. The force of nature, one foot in our world and one somewhere else. At his most compelling, with a voice that shook you to your very bones, magic of such beauty and grace. The single visionary he could have been, at his height, before that self-reinforcing spiral began to take its toll. And there is a brief window, when it's in reach, where we can...
"Our father is ill, Barty," she said, reaching for his hand. He'd left them sitting limp on the table, Tamsyn placed her left on top of his right. He didn't respond, at first, hardly even seeming to breathe — but then, his wrist turned, bringing his palm up, accepting her hand in his. Gripping lightly, her voice low and intense, "He's unwell, and he needs our help. Barty, help me make our father whole again. Please."
He stared at her for a long moment, face blank but a disorienting swirl of feelings prickling and sparking in the air and against her hand. But, as the seconds passed, she began to feel it, incipient, hardening deep inside where she could hardly see— "How? How are we supposed to...?"
"You will hold Father's soul in your hands a second time. When that time comes, believe in him. Remember what he was, before, the promise of what he could be, gather all of your love for him and all your hope for our future, for our family and our country. At the critical moment, believe it is already so, with all of your heart — and if the gods be merciful, it will be so."
There was no immediately response, Barty still just staring at her, heavy and watchful. But she could feel it taking him over from the inside out, surprised and uncertainty and confusion coalescing bit by bit into resolve. Finally he nodded, his hand tightening around hers — a little uncomfortable, honestly, the angle they were at was awkward. "Yes, I..." Max's semi-unfamiliar eyes flicked away from hers for a blink, tongue wetting dry lips. "You're right, about the ritual, and... If it's possible, I want the old him back too. I'll do it, if I can."
She smiled, warm and soft and relieved. Not even entirely artificial, she hadn't been certain Barty would cooperate — she'd had a pretty good feeling, but sometimes it was impossible to say what someone would do until the moment came. "I have every confidence in your abilities. Thank you, Barty, truly."
Rolling his eyes a little, he let go of her hand, moving out of her reach. "Don't be getting any ideas, Tamsyn. I'll do it for Father, not for you."
"Oh, I wouldn't expect anything else."
He seemed very sceptical of that, which she guessed was fine, he could believe whatever he wanted about her opinion on the matter. Those details were irrelevant, fixing the ritual was all that mattered — whatever reservations he might have about her motivations, she would have felt a lie. "We should stop stalling and get through lunch. My absence at the Task would be noted."
"Yes, of course, and I do want to catch the event..."
While they focussed on eating, with only an occasional comment about the Tournament and Barty's 'colleagues' (so to speak), the solemn tone that'd built through the talk about Melanion gradually loosened, Barty visibly relaxing. He even got back to the occasional joking insult, rolling his eyes at the intermittent flirting or self-aggrandising exaggeration form Tamsyn, like normal. The whole while, she fought to act natural, keeping a victorious grin off of her face with what felt like physical effort.
Step three: check.