If he had bothered to think about it, perhaps it was just as well that he was feeling so detached from everything aside from the aching loss of the girl he loved. When the depths of the manipulations and actual betrayals of Dumbledore were finally revealed in all their hideous glory, he couldn't find it in himself to even be upset. That didn't stop him from authorising Ironclaw to retrieve all the "borrowed" heirlooms, gold, and property that he owned and banishing the old man and his Order of the Phoenix from his lands and houses, nor did it stop him from taking up the Potter signet ring and swearing the oath of Head of House.
Sirius' will had stipulated that not only was Harry to have a private audience before anyone else was allowed to hear the will, he was also to take up the Black signet ring and swear that family's oath of Head of House as well. This in turn would declare him legally of age, a status Sirius was already certain that Harry was entitled to bear thanks to the Ministry of Magic forcing him to compete in the "of-age contestants only" Triwizard Tournament, which would then release the sealed Potter wills. Sirius also took the opportunity as Harry's oath-sworn godfather to demand a full audit of the Potter accounts before probation of his will could continue, the execution of which prompted Gringotts to summon Harry in even sooner.
The discrepancies revealed in the audit showed that Dumbledore had been occasionally supplementing his own vault with gold from Harry's personal vault – the family vault had been sealed until the young man was officially declared of age. The gold taken from his vault had admittedly not been a ridiculous amount, and further research had revealed that it was typically removed before a major piece of legislation was passed or blocked, suggesting that the old man had used it to influence the outcome.
On top of that, each year that Molly Weasley had held his vault key, more coin disappeared than was needed for his school supplies. The goblins quickly figured out that Molly was using Harry's money to make sure that her children had all they needed for school. Again, the amount was far from exorbitant, and was only used for that purpose, but nobody had asked him about any of it. He would have happily shared his wealth if he'd been asked, but just taking it like that was theft, nothing else. The thought that Molly loudly refused to accept charity while quietly stealing from him was almost enough to make him blow his top. The sheer hypocrisy of it was nauseating.
She's gone.
Even the betrayal of a woman he'd almost begun to consider a mother was not enough to distract him from the thought that he'd never see Hermione again.
Worse than the thefts of his coin was the pillaging of the Potter heirloom vault. Countless rare books had been removed, as well as priceless art and artefacts. It seemed that Dumbledore had used his pirated status of Harry's magical guardian to gain access to countless resources. The Potter grimoire was thankfully still inside, as it could only be removed by a blood member of the Potter family, but precious few other books remained on the shelves within the vault.
Ironclaw assured him that every item could and would be tracked down and recovered.
As it turned out, the Black townhome at 12 Grimmauld Place had already been vacated by Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix out of concern that ownership would revert to the sole remaining Black sister in Voldemort's camp – Narcissa Malfoy. Ironclaw confirmed that the townhouse and all within now belonged to Harry, and that with his approval (and paying the appropriate fee) Gringotts would bring down all the old wards and reset them under his control – including a new fidelius charm. After a moment's consideration, Harry gave his assent. He really didn't feel like exploring the Potter properties just now, and the atmosphere of the townhome reflected the grim mood he was in.
The changing of the wards took less than two hours, so Harry followed another suggestion offered in his godfather's will and requested a complete physical exam by the goblin healers while he waited. The results of the exam showed three bindings on his magic that had recently been broken, as well as traces of several compulsion charms that no longer held any sway. The goblins told him that it would require more in-depth analysis of the remaining fragments of those charms to identify them and their caster or casters. There was no potion residue beyond the usual nutritional and healing potions that he'd ingested in the hospital wing, which frankly surprised him. He wouldn't have put it past Dumbledore at this point to have had Snape brew some concoction to insure loyalty or compliance or something similar.
Then again, it was no secret that he threw off the imperius curse, so perhaps magical mind control just didn't work on him. Come to think of it, he hadn't really been affected by Fleur Delacour's veela allure, either.
When the healers' scan reached the jagged curse scar of his forehead, though, their taciturn demeanour instantly shifted to one of imminent combat. "Has this scar never been examined, Mr Potter?" the senior healer inquired.
"I don't know," he said. "I've been in the hospital wing often enough that it should've been looked at, but nobody has said anything to me about it.
The healer growled. "The most cursory of examinations would have showed something was dreadfully wrong," he said. "It is criminal that such an abomination be left anchored to a child. Whoever is responsible for this travesty should be slowly disemboweled and fed to a dragon while they are yet alive."
"What is it?"
"It is a semi-existent soul fragment," the healer explained. "Not alive, as it is but a minuscule shred of the whole, yet not really dead either, as it is still capable of exerting its influence to the point that a spiritual possession could occur, especially if attempted with an animal or a particularly weak-willed individual."
Harry sighed. "It figures," he said. "Voldemort?"
"It would appear so."
"Fucking wonderful." Yet another instance of the universe shitting on him. "Can it be removed?"
"It can, though it will require you to stay in our care for about a week, depending on how fast you recover. And I dare say it won't be cheap either."
The young man waved a negligent hand. "Do it," he said. "And if I'm going to be here anyway, we may as well look into the compulsion charm residue. Will my elf be allowed access while I'm recovering?"
"Of course, so long as he does not interfere."
"Thank you," Harry nodded. "He should be the only outsider who knows that I'm here then."
***EoD***
With the demise of the Dursleys, Harry's prediction regarding the collapse of the blood wards would have earned him an O-Plus in Divination. Already weakened from his sojourn at Hogwarts, they didn't last an hour beyond the death of their anchor, Petunia Dursley. The monitors of the wards, a series of strange silver devices on a shelf in the headmaster's office at Hogwarts, immediately ceased their ticking, puffing, and whirring. As it so happened, though, there was no one in the office to take note.
Earlier, about an hour after the Hogwarts Express was scheduled to arrive at King's Cross Station, the fireplace in the headmaster's office crackled to life with green flames. A moment later the visage of a stern but attractive brunette witch in her thirties appeared in the undulating flames. "Albus," the face said.
The old man looked up from behind his desk, littered with parchment, writing implements, and desk clutter. "Ah, Hestia!" he exclaimed in a jovial tone. "Was there any trouble with young Harry and his relatives?"
"No, but Narcissa Malfoy's liable to burn the station down if she doesn't get answers. Apparently her son Draco has gone missing, him and that Parkinson girl. Her folks are fit to be tied as well. They're all yelling at Director Bones at the moment."
"Which won't help them at all," Dumbledore muttered. "By Merlin, I have never met a more stubborn witch." He rose to his feet and approached the fireplace. "Stand aside, my friend," he said. "I'll be through in a moment."
As Albus Dumbledore stepped from the floo onto Platform 9 3/4, resplendent in scarlet, purple, and royal blue robes heavily embroidered with thread-of-gold, head adorned with a scarlet crushed-velvet cap, an aura of dignified nobility preceded him, causing those still on the platform to step back with reverential deference. Hestia Jones, a loyal member of the Order of the Phoenix, faded back into the crowd, her job done for the moment. The headmaster strode through the throng, accepting their murmured accolades and greetings as his due. A few even offered clumsy bows or curtsies.
Ignoring them all beyond a few polite nods vaguely offered to no one in particular, he strode importantly across the platform to where the Widow Malfoy stood with the Parkinsons, facing Amelia Bones, the Director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The three parents of the missing students were obviously agitated, and Director Bones was just as obviously handling it with cool professional aplomb, refusing to rise to the ranting, threats, and belligerent attitudes. Her demeanour was akin to a large boulder being slapped repeatedly by relentless waves that ultimately had no effect upon it.
The headmaster nodded pleasantly to the quartet, studiously ignoring the glares from the parents and the irritated tightening of Director Bones' eyes. "Good afternoon, Amelia, Narcissa, Richard, Cassiopeia," he greeted them. All were familiar with his habit of addressing those he deemed equal or inferior to him in a familiar manner. As rude as it was, none of them said anything as they knew he would adopt his famous "hurt grandfather" attitude. None of them wanted to deal with that right now. "I understand that we have a couple of misplaced students."
"This is a missing persons case," Narcissa Malfoy snapped. "I doubt very much that you are qualified to assist in such a thing, your many titles notwithstanding."
"Perhaps, perhaps not," he said blandly. If he was insulted at her words and tone he gave no sign of it. "I do, however, possess over a century's worth of arcane experience, both research and applied, which I am sure may be useful in locating them, should you wish to avail yourselves of the knowledge I bring. Not to mention, they are my students and as such I feel a certain amount of responsibility for them."
The look Director Bones gave him could have stripped paint from a wall, but she held her tongue. Inwardly, Dumbledore frowned. It was obvious to him that she did not believe his words, and he wondered what she knew.
Apparently, Richard Parkinson was sceptical as well. "Now listen here, Headmaster…" he began.
"Enough," Bones snapped. "Albus, you have a nasty habit of meddling in things you'd be much better off leaving alone. I, for one, resent the implication that my aurors are incapable of doing their jobs. No," she said, raising a hand to stop him, "let me finish. Your assistance is neither needed nor wanted. However, since we all know that you will badger my department until you get the information that you're really after, you may come along. Mark my words though – if you interfere with my investigation in any way, I swear to Merlin I'll have you up on so many charges you'll be dead of old age long before I'm done with you, your title and influence be damned."
The headmaster nodded and gave her an indulgent smile. Inside, though, he was furious. How dare she bark at him as if he were nought but a recalcitrant schoolboy! For the moment, he could do nothing about it. He was no longer Chief Warlock or Supreme Mugwump, plus she was too entrenched, too good at her job, and too incorruptible for him to simply have her removed, or even arrange for her to have an "accident."
The director turned back to the irate parents. "As I was saying before we were interrupted," she resumed, "we have found no evidence that your children ever left the express, save for the fact that they're not there. Come with me and see for yourself. You might as well come along too, Albus."
With that, she turned and led the four to the passenger car just to the rear of the gleaming scarlet locomotive.
Dumbledore frowned as he watched Director Bones stride up the narrow corridor of the passenger car and fling open the door at the forward end of the corridor. The compartment to which she led the others occupied the entire forward third of the car and was more lavishly furnished than the others, including a private lavatory. It could easily accommodate over two dozen students, and was indeed one of the perks that came with a student becoming a prefect. Granted, most of them preferred to enjoy the train ride with their friends rather than stay in the prefects' compartment, but they all attended the mandatory fifteen-minute meeting of at the beginning of each trip where they would receive their patrol assignments. The Head Boy and Head Girl would remain in the compartment for the entire trip so that they could be easily found in case they were needed.
Above the blackboard that still bore the patrol schedules for today's trip written in white chalk, a series of framed parchments were hung end to end, each one with a detailed drawing of a train car on it, including the locomotive and several baggage cars interspersed amongst the passenger cars. The parchments were clearly a comprehensive layout of the Hogwarts Express. To the left of the blackboard was another framed parchment, though this one was completely blank.
Bones approached the blank parchment and tapped a rune engraved upon the frame. The parchment flashed with a pale blue light as several lines of script appeared. The director tapped one of the lines, causing a few more lines to appear underneath it, from which she selected another. All the lines disappeared only to be replaced with a list of names.
Dumbledore scowled at the director. He knew that she'd never been a prefect, let alone Head Girl. He'd personally blocked her appointment as prefect, as even back then she was much too headstrong and independent for his taste. Not to mention that she'd always looked askance at him, and he did not appreciate her scepticism or suspicion. "My dear Amelia," he said, his eyes devoid of their usual twinkle, "just how is it you know of this?"
He'd taken extra care to ensure that this feature of the Hogwarts Express remained unknown and unused for the past six years. It was a security measure to allow the Head Boy, Head Girl, and prefects to keep track of the students' movement on the train, thereby enabling them to quickly respond to any trouble that might occur. It had required the careful obliviation of the previous year's prefects, but when the First of September 1991 came around, not a one of them knew about the tracking feature, including the Head Students.
It was a necessary step, unfortunately, in the honing of young Harry Potter into the weapon he needed the boy to be. The antagonistic compulsion he'd lain upon the young Malfoy scion during the summer of 1991 had borne much fruit. Malfoy was constantly baiting Harry, even in school, and the young Gryffindor inevitably responded in a way that landed him in trouble. In the school, it was because Severus was usually somewhere nearby, just waiting to dock house points and assign detentions. Malfoy would instantly make outlandish accusations against Harry which would be accepted by Severus – not because he actually believed his lying, snivelling coward of a godson, but because it gave him yet another opportunity to persecute the son of his nemesis, James Charlus Potter.
On the train, where there was no supervision, Malfoy would undoubtedly stop by Harry's compartment to taunt and ridicule him and his friends, backed up by his own friends Crabbe and Goyle. Neither of them were exceptional spellcasters, but they both enjoyed hitting things.
It was grossly unfair, it was unjust, but Dumbledore needed Harry broken so that he could rebuild the boy into the martyr that his destiny required him to be.
Between keeping young Harry isolated during the summer; the abuse at the hands of the Dursleys during that same time; the constant torment from Malfoy, his cronies, and Severus; and his own comments about noble sacrifice and death being but the next great adventure, the young man should nearly be ready to lay down his life for the Greater Good of Magical Britain. Dumbledore was positive that this last adventure in the Department of Mysteries and the loss of his friends would be enough to send him over the edge, exactly where the headmaster needed him to be.
"Because it's my bloody job, Albus," Director Bones acidly responded as she highlighted the names of Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson. Two points of light appeared on the drawing of the first passenger car and moved to the prefects' compartment. Ignoring the headmaster's glare, she gestured towards the drawing.
"Malfoy and Parkinson boarded the Express at 7.46 this morning. The express left promptly at 8.00, and they left the prefects' compartment at 8.17." The two glowing dots moved through the drawings to the fifth car, where they entered another compartment. "We confirmed that they shared a compartment with Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, Millicent Bulstrode, and Theodore Nott until they began their scheduled patrol at 9.00." The dots left the compartment again where the two had checked in before beginning their patrol. The dots then began moving slowly through the train, stopping at each compartment for a brief period of time before continuing to the next. "At 9.38 they entered the final compartment on the train." The dots suddenly shot across the compartment and disappeared. "We have the times they passed through each and every door on the train," she continued. "The did not exit through any of the doors, and according to the tracker disappeared from this compartment."
"Well, who else was in the compartment?" Richard Parkinson demanded.
Bones tapped the compartment in question to bring up the list of passengers at that point in time. Besides Malfoy and Parkinson, not a single name showed up.
"What does that mean?" Cassiopeia hesitantly asked.
"It means," the director responded, "that according to the tracker, they were alone in the compartment when they disappeared. Or at least there were no other witches or wizards present. Do either of them have access to a house elf?"
"Yes…" Missus Parkinson said.
"It's possible that they asked a house elf to take them somewhere. Alternatively, they could have apparated somewhere. It wouldn't surprise me to learn that they eloped to Gretna Green, since they're both sixteen. I have no evidence of foul play, no spell residue, and no magical signature of any kind. There is nothing to suggest violence or kidnapping. Therefore, the DMLE is forced to view this as a missing persons case, and most likely involving a pair of runaways. If evidence is uncovered to suggest otherwise, we will of course make the appropriate adjustments to our investigation."
Lady Malfoy and the Parkinsons reluctantly left once they realised that there was nothing more to be done at the moment, grumbling all the while. Once they were gone, Madam Bones turned to Dumbledore.
"I took the liberty of reviewing the student manifest," she said, affixing the headmaster with a piercing gaze. "I find it interesting that there is another student who was supposed to be on the express that apparently never even got aboard."
"Oh?" he said, his voice neutral.
"That's correct," she went on, never breaking eye contact. "Harry Potter's name was not on the manifest. He was not one of those unfortunate souls who lost their lives in that debacle at the Ministry a few weeks ago, so he should have been on the train. If he was not, then where was he? And if he was, why did he not appear on the manifest, and did he have anything to do with the disappearance of Malfoy and Parkinson?"
Dumbledore was annoyed, but he did not allow his exasperation to show. He preferred not to divulge any information at all if he could help it, as he didn't trust anyone else to use it properly for the Greater Good of magical Britain. The people as a whole were, in his personal opinion, regretfully shortsighted when it came to the good of the nation. Everyone was self-serving, unwilling to sacrifice for the bigger picture, and so he had learned decades ago that the masses were better off not knowing the critical pieces of information that he gathered to himself. He had been playing the game for so long now that everyone, including the current directors of the Ministry departments, were assigned to that group, at least in his own head. He knew better, though, than to resort to his usual methods of containing information – namely, obliviations conducted with surgical precision and subtle compulsions to deflect interest – as Madam Bones undoubtedly was protected against such. As loath as he was to share what he knew, and as much as he disliked the stubborn woman, he knew that she was not one to betray trust.
"Young Harry's wand was destroyed at the Department of Mysteries," he finally admitted.
She gave him another hard look. "And I assume that he was taken straight to Ollivander's to get a replacement?"
He winced at her tone. It was barely perceptible, but it was enough for her to notice. Her glare intensified as he continued. "I thought it best if the boy spend some time away from magic while he grieves the loss of his friends," he said piously. "There will be time enough for him to get a new wand when he collects his school supplies for next year."
"Oh for Merlin's sake, Albus!" the director exploded. "Are you trying to get the boy killed? What do you think the dark lord will do once he finds out?"
He almost said that Harry was safe with his relatives – that safety being, of course, a… well… relative term. Instead, he gave Madam Bones a shrewd look and attempted to change the subject. "I thought official Ministry policy was that the dark lord has not returned," he remarked.
"Cut the tosh, Albus!" she snapped. "That's Fudge's position, and you know as well as I that he'd prefer to bury his head in the sand than face an unpleasant truth – especially one that could cost him votes or gold. He will keep denying until the dark lord is standing before him demanding the keys to the Ministry. And you're telling me that the boy who saved us all has been sent home for the summer without the means to protect himself. Just what the hell are you up to, Albus?"
The headmaster sighed. "I assure you, Amelia, everything I do is to fight the Dark and to ensure the Greater Good of our society and way of life. I ask that you trust me as the people have for years."
Director Bones shook her head, giving him a hawk-like glare. "Albus, I don't give a tinker's damn what you do on your own time, until it interferes with people's lives, well-being, and freedom. Harry Potter needs a wand. Get it done this week. Am I understood?"
"Amelia, I really wish you…"
"Am. I. Understood?"
He growled under his breath but felt it was better to back down for the moment. "Of course, Amelia," he said, adopting his disappointed grandfather expression.
"Good. It is criminal to deprive a young witch or wizard of their means of defending themselves, especially when known murderers are still at large. Now if you will excuse me, I have a missing persons investigation to conduct."
No sooner had a grumbling Albus Dumbledore returned to his office when his fireplace flared green and the face of Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, appeared in the flames. "Albus! Good, you're back in. I've been trying to reach you for fifteen minutes."
Suppressing a curse, the headmaster turned back to the fireplace. "Good afternoon, Cornelius. How might I be of service?"
"Ah, yes. Do be a good chap and step over here, Albus old bean. We have some serious things to discuss about your, ah, protégé."
Grumbling to himself, Dumbledore pasted a smile across his face. "Of course, of course. Step aside, I'll be right over."
The minister's face disappeared from the fire and Dumbledore stepped through again mere seconds after his arrival, a scowl prominent on his face. At no time did he notice the cessation of all function of the devices monitoring the health, status, and whereabouts of Harry Potter.
It wasn't until hours later that a weary Albus Dumbledore staggered back through the floo, exhausted after dealing with Minister Fudge and Undersecretary Umbridge. He fervently wished, and not for the first time, that Voldemort had shown up at the Ministry with the rest of his minions that fateful night. If Fudge had actually seen the Dark Lord make an appearance then he would not be so reluctant to acknowledge his return.
Fortunately, the corpse of Bellatrix Lestrange (easily recognisable despite having an arm and leg torn off), along with those of her husband, brother-in-law, and three other known escapees from Azkaban, was enough to convince Fudge that Dumbledore's experience and expertise were desperately needed. There was also blood and tissue fragments belonging to another escapee, Antonin Dolohov, but not enough to determine if he was alive or dead. The bodies of Lucius Malfoy, Walden Macnair, and three other "upstanding pureblood citizens" were more problematic to explain, but Fudge appeared to be building a narrative that suggested that those same citizens were on-hand to thwart the Azkaban escapees from whatever nefarious deed they were up to. Harry Potter and his friends, obviously in an effort to sow dissent within the Ministry, interfered in the defence of the Ministry, resulting in the deaths of the criminals, the defenders, and most of the children. The minister wanted Harry charged for everything and sentenced to Azkaban at the very least, but Dumbledore finally persuaded him to hold off until after the Death Eater crisis was over, as he still had plans for the boy, but after that it wouldn't matter. Left unsaid was Dumbledore's belief that Voldemort would make his presence known and that Harry would die facing him, hopefully weakening him enough in the process that the old headmaster could take him out with ease.
Umbridge also wanted Harry charged with subjecting her to the indignities of the centaurs, and again Dumbledore had to negotiate for a trial after the Death Eater crisis was over. In exchange, Fudge wanted her to remain at Hogwarts in her current capacities as instructor for Defence Against the Dark Arts and High Inquisitor. He was able to insist that she would be better off remaining as Fudge's Senior Undersecretary and made oath that he had no intention of usurping Fudge's position, thereby eliminating any need for her to continue at Hogwarts.
After reassuring Fudge that Harry didn't even have a wand at the moment (implying that that would be the case until the end of August, his order from Bones notwithstanding) and would remain under strict control from now on, Dumbledore took his leave and returned to his office. Mentally exhausted, he shuffled past the desk and entered his private chambers without looking at the lifeless silver trinkets.
His explosion the next morning when he finally noticed the instruments' utter lack of movement was the stuff of legends.
***EoD***
A roaring fire was the room's sole source of illumination, and although it was the middle of summer, the fire did little to dispel the unnatural chill in the air. Despite the oppressive atmosphere, a casual observer couldn't help but to be impressed with the grandeur of the room. The vaulted ceiling was hidden in the shadows thirty feet overhead, almost giving the appearance that the two cast-iron gas chandeliers, currently unlit as they hung over a long mahogany table capable of seating a full score of people, were hanging from nothingness.
A pipe organ rested against the back wall of the rectangular room, behind the head of the table and nestled between two Corinthian-style columns, the tops of which were barely discernible in the overhead gloom, as were the tops of the organ's pipes. The columns were flanked in turn by tall, diamond-paned windows reaching almost the height of the columns, overlooking the sprawling gardens behind the manor.
Though it was currently mid-afternoon, heavy dark violet draperies of thick velvet were drawn over the windows, preventing the light outside from coming in. Had they been open, that same observer would have seen that the tops of the walls were covered with wallpaper of that same dark violet, almost black, as the draperies, and embossed with gilt vine-work. The lower fifteen feet or so were covered with varnished mahogany panelling that matched the enormous table in the centre of the room.
Hanging from walls were a number of portraits, each depicting a pale-skinned male with long blond hair. Though each portrait was undoubtedly of a different man, it was just as obvious that they were all related. The progression of years could be seen depicted by the styles of clothing worn by each portrait. The paintings were evenly spread around the room, each separated from its neighbours by an unlit gas lamp.
The only spaces devoid of portraits were the entire back wall, as it was completely taken up by the pipe organ, twin columns, and windows; the double doors leading into the room on the opposite side from the pipe organ, though the doors were flanked by several portraits on each side; and the large ornate gilt-framed mirror above the carved marble mantle of the fireplace.
Above the mahogany doors at the foot of the table hung a large family crest. A black and green shield emblazoned with an ornate silver M in the centre was flanked on each side by a black winged serpent. Four other green serpentine creatures adorned the top of the shield, two of which were coiled around the centre arrow protruding from the top of the shield. A silver banner at the shield's bottom held the inscription, Sanctimonia Vincet Sempur.
The chairs around the table, all unoccupied, were also carved from mahogany in the Jacobean style, and upholstered with dark violet velvet in a damask pattern. The chair at the foot of the table was identical to those on the sides, but the one at the head was larger and more ornate, including arms with upholstered cushions on top. It was not at all unlike a throne, in fact.
Another chair was pushed back into the shadowy corner between the fireplace and the door opening into the room. This chair was carved in a Victorian wingback design and upholstered in smooth dark brown leather with just a touch of red. Unlike the other chairs in the room, this one was occupied.
A gaunt, almost emaciated figure sat in the chair, elbows on the armrests and too-long, spider-like fingers steepled in front of its face. Its pale, parchment-thin skin utterly devoid of hair was stretched tight across its skull, and made the wan faces in the surrounding portraits appear healthy and robust. Feverish red eyes with reptilian vertical slits for irises stared off into space from sunken eye sockets. Instead of an actual nose, thin diagonal gashes under a slight bulge centred below the eyes served as the creature's nostrils. As an incongruous counterpoint to the luxurious surroundings, the figure wore a black threadbare, tattered robe that draped across its skeletal frame like an afterthought.
The figure did not move so much as a muscle until the flames in the fireplace suddenly turned emerald-green, and even then it moved nothing more than its predatory gaze. A moment later, a tall, stately woman stepped from the flames with the grace of a queen before casting a whispered tergeo on herself to remove the fine dusting of soot and ash from her hair, face, and elegant robe.
The seated figure waited for her to finish cleaning herself off before it spoke. "Report, Narcissa." Its voice was little more than a hiss.
The woman started but instantly composed herself, even when a movement behind the figure's chair revealed the presence of an enormous hooded green snake a full twelve feet in length. "Yes, milord," she replied, respectfully dipping her head. Her voice did not betray the slightest emotion, even though her brilliant blue eyes were somewhat bloodshot, as if she had been recently weeping. "The DMLE has no evidence to indicate what may have happened to my son and Miss Parkinson. Director Bones seems to think that they may have eloped, but she did not appear to be that interested in finding them."
The twisted being once known as Tom Marvolo Riddle nodded but otherwise did not shift his position. "Bones was a problem when she was nought but an auror, learning at the feet of Moody," he mused. "Now that she is director, the problem is much worse." His fetid breath escaped his thin, bloodless lips in a faint hiss as he exhaled. "The… incident at the Department of Mysteries was an unmitigated disaster. We lost people we could ill afford to lose, and nothing was done to ensure justice was done. And now this flimsy excuse about your son eloping? Please. Bones is easily the most competent and intuitive person in the entire Ministry. If our people, our families even, cannot receive justice then that means that she is actively opposing us. This cannot be allowed to continue."
"As you say, milord," Narcissa Malfoy acknowledged with a respectful dip of her head. "I do have more news, though, that may be of more immediate import, if you please."
"Go on," came the reply.
"Since trying to learn anything else from Director Bones was pointless, my next stop was Gringotts. Though dealing with the goblins is… unpleasant, their magics can track the status of the account holders."
"I am aware of this," Riddle said. "Continue."
"Y-yes, milord," she replied, showing the first instance of her nerves since entering the dark lord's presence. Taking a deep breath, she continued. "After Lucius was killed, ownership of the Malfoy accounts would have been partially released to our son, with the stipulation that he spend the intervening years between then and the time he takes up the mantle of Lord Malfoy learning how to manage the portfolio, with myself as acting steward until he comes of age."
"As is the custom," he agreed.
"Our account manager said that the vaults are currently locked down until such time as the ownership can be verified, and that my position as steward has been suspended." Her eyes suddenly glistened but she refused to allow a single teardrop to fall in front of the dark wizard in her home. "The only way this could happen is if Draco is… d-dead," she finished in a whisper. After a moment to compose herself, she continued. "I of course asked for further details, but the manager said that I was no longer entitled to that information. The only details that I could learn were that first, the status of the account was awaiting the decision of Lord Black; and second, it is his decision due to a clause in the betrothal contract Lucius signed with my grandfather. The clause activates if the Malfoy line ends, subsuming all properties and assets into the House of Black. The goblins would not say who Lord Black is, only that I would be provided an adequate stipend on which to live, as stated in the contract, and that I was to await his pleasure to resolve my ultimate status and any other remuneration, if any."
Riddle's eyes narrowed in anger, but he did not lash out at the woman. Besides the utter pointlessness of such infantile behaviour, harming or torturing those who brought bad news would inevitably result in critical lack of knowledge, a situation he was unwilling to endure. Only fools behaved so, and Lord Voldemort was no fool. He had to admit, but only in the privacy of his thoughts, that many if not most of his followers could not say the same. "We cannot count on the new Lord Black being sympathetic to our cause," he said at length, "whoever he is. As he will control the wards of your manor, prudence dictates that we relocate my headquarters. Damnation," he growled. Malfoy Manor really was quite comfortable, but needs must.
"Very well," he continued, rising to his feet. "Narcissa, send Wormtail to me, then arrange meat and wine. Leave me now."
"Yes, milord." She inclined her head again and hurried out of the room as quickly as her dignity allowed.
***EoD***
"You have your assignments," the self-styled Lord Voldemort said, making eye contact with each remaining member of his inner circle seated around the table. "Go, and do not disappoint me." He suppressed a sigh as they acknowledged their subservience to him and pushed their chairs away. Not a one of them was useless, really, but they just couldn't replace the ones he'd lost at the Department of Mysteries. To think it was due to the Potter brat's burst of raw magic was unbelievable. Severus had been as forthcoming as possible, despite not having actually seen the events in question. The dour potion master's distaste was palpable as he reported what he'd learned from Dumbledore. He obviously didn't believe that the son of James Potter was capable of such a feat, but to his credit he faithfully recounted what the aged headmaster had told him without embellishment.
Wormtail had collected the Parkinsons, the Lees, and the Snydes, and under his direction the three couples should even now be starting the move from Malfoy Manor. Maps, timetables, dossiers, potions, potion supplies, ward stones, ward taps, a bottomless chest of gold (more depleted than he was comfortable with), and more had to be collected, packed, and moved.
It still irritated him that his headquarters had to be moved, and even more so that not a one of his remaining Death Eaters had a home approaching the luxury to which he had become accustomed. He would be returning to Riddle Manor in Little Hangleton, which although old and needed a little work done on it, was still in decent repair thanks to that old muggle groundskeeper – at least until Nagini ate him. While not as stately as the Malfoy ancestral home (not to mention being a muggle construction), Riddle Manor was nonetheless more spacious than any of the alternatives, and the furnishings, while old and worn, were still in excellent condition due to the high-quality craftsmanship and the care given by the groundskeeper.
He took a sip of his wine, an excellent 1846 Burgundy, while he awaited word from the teams he'd dispatched. After the defeat of his Death Eaters at the Department of Mysteries, not to mention the ignominy of having to evacuate the place he'd lived comfortably over the past year, Riddle was not feeling in a generous mood towards Britain. His entire organisation operated on fear – as severely outnumbered as his Death Eaters were, they would be annihilated with little effort if the populace as one stood against them. Action had to be taken to ensure the fear remained.
He reviewed his list of targets, each of them a dangerous opponent, either politically, magically, or both. He was realistic enough to know that some of his targets were too well protected – Albus Dumbledore, for example – but removing any of them would benefit his organisation.
Though he utterly despised the muggle world, he was not averse to learning from them. He well remembered the Troubles in Ireland during the '70s, and even used the chaos generated in Great Britain as cover for many of his activities. After 1977, he noticed that the tactics of the Irish Republican Army grew even more effective, and it was then that he learned of the Active Service Units the IRA began to use that year. Each unit was an independent cell consisting of five to ten members with the leader answering to the IRA Northern Command. None of the ASU members knew who was in any of the others, nor did they have any knowledge of the missions of the others. It was such an effective organisational model that Voldemort wound up restructuring his Death Eaters in a similar manner.
Under his new model, each member of his inner circle led a handful of unmarked Death Eaters, none of whom knew of any other cell. Only the inner circle members received the Dark Mark tattoo, allowing the dark lord to communicate directly with each member as well as ensuring their absolute loyalty. The new structure proved to be just as effective as it had been for the IRA, allowing him to come within weeks if not days of toppling the Ministry of Magic.
And then came that fateful night that he chose to attack the Potters.
Thankfully he'd taken measures, but it was still thirteen long and tortuous years before he was resurrected.
After his resurrection, his organisation effectively picked up where it left off. The inner circle, minus those still incarcerated in Azkaban, witnessed his resurrection and reactivated their old cells no later than the following night. Over the next six months, activity was kept down to minor raids, mostly against known mudbloods and random muggles but not enough for the Ministry to really take serious notice. The only times he'd deviated from his usual tactics was in January of 1996, when he led his inner circle to Azkaban to free ten of his most loyal, and in June of that same year when he sent a full dozen of his inner circle to the Department of Mysteries to lay a trap for the Potter brat.
He brought only inner circle members to Azkaban because he wanted to maintain the anonymity and autonomy of the individual Death Eater cells, and also because he didn't fully trust the capabilities or loyalties of the unmarked. The raid on the magical prison island was a resounding success – not only did they successfully break his followers out from their captivity, but the dementors, the nightmare guardians of the prison, as one joined his forces.
The trap at the Department of Mysteries could likely have been handled by a single Death Eater cell, and in retrospect Riddle truly wished that he had used that option instead. The presence of the all-important prophecy, though, prevented that option from being a possibility. Only his inner circle members, those whose loyalty was assured, could be trusted with something so important. He couldn't take the chance that any of the unmarked might overhear those words. The loss of every single one of the dozen inner circle at that battle was a cataclysmic blow to his campaign, and though he couldn't really see any other alternative short of entering the Hall of Prophecy and taking the damn sphere himself, he felt that it had been a mistake to send so many of his most valuable people.
With the prophecy lost and nothing as important likely to ever be at risk like that, it was a mistake he'd never make again.
Tonight, he'd given four of his top-priority targets to his people. Of the four, only Dirk Gibbon was tasked with bringing his target back alive – he had questions for Garrick Ollivander regarding the unusual interaction between his wand and the Potter brat's on the night of his resurrection.
Augusta Longbottom, regent for the effectively extinct House of Longbottom, was one of the most influential members of the Wizengamot and an unceasing opponent to any measure the Dark faction (most of whom were in Riddle's pocket if not active Death Eaters themselves) put forth. Thorfinn Rowle, a tall, powerfully built blond man of Scandinavian ancestry was given the task of eliminating her. Regent Longbottom was known for her stubbornness and magical prowess alike, but Rowle's viciousness and brutality should be more than a match for her.
Alastor Moody was easily the most dangerous fighter on the list, and so Riddle dispatched the werewolf Fenrir Greyback to unleash his pack upon the paranoid former auror. Greyback was an unusual addition to his inner circle, as the other members, all champions of the pureblood agenda, looked down on the werewolf's animalistic nature. Their disgust for him was barely hidden at the gatherings, and Riddle knew that tattooing the Dark Mark on Greyback's arm would cause trouble amongst his loyalists. Unknown to them, though, was the fact that Greyback was the only person that Riddle trusted without question. He and Greyback both laughed to themselves each time the purebloods in his inner circle sneered and made veiled insults in the werewolf's general direction, considering themselves privileged to wear their master's tattoo, unknowing that it actually branded them as his slaves. While the rest of the inner circle ran cells comparable in size to the IRA's, Greyback's pack was at least a score of the most savage werewolves he'd ever turned – and Greyback himself was the most savage of the lot.
The final name on Riddle's hit list for tonight was by far the most important. Amelia Bones was the most competent of all the players arrayed against him. She was a highly-skilled fighter personally trained and mentored by Moody, her political savvy was worthy of Salazar Slytherin himself, and she was the very embodiment of Hufflepuff loyalty and tenacity, all of which made her one of his most formidable foes. Even Dumbledore, as powerful as he was, was less of a problem thanks to his reluctance to cast lethal magic as well as his never-ending second-chance policy. Fortunately, though Bones was never far from her protection detail, the former auror Corban Yaxley still had contacts in both the auror and hit wizard forces, both of which were the pools from where he recruited most of his cell. To date, they had done nothing but pass information along and manoeuvre themselves into key positions within the auror and hit wizard forces, and by extension gaining access to key locations within the Ministry itself. The value of Bones as a target, though, was definitely worth the possibility of them blowing their cover.
There were other names on his list, many of them in Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix, but none of them took priority – most could be taken out at leisure. Several others were hidden behind the walls of Hogwarts, which wouldn't be a worthwhile target until school started again. It was, for all intents and purposes, a veritable fortress, capable of withstanding a frontal assault as well as siege for many weeks. Fortunately, Wormtail knew the secret passages in and out of the school. Once the Ministry was neutralised, capturing Hogwarts while the students were there would give his forces hundreds of hostages, which in turn would help keep the parents in line, and by extension the rest of the populace.
He took another sip of wine as he patiently awaited word from his teams. And from Severus. The old headmaster was so sure that his Potions professor was on his side, serving as a spy in the enemy camp. Did the fool not remember that it was a matter of public record that he had proclaimed Snape's supposed innocence and status as an agent of espionage in the Wizengamot chambers, before men and women who were known to be allied to Voldemort? Not for the first time, the dark lord wondered what Dumbledore's game was. The only reason he allowed Severus Snape to live, much less attend to him, was that the old man never used any of the information Snape brought to him. He obviously considered Snape's position more important than literally anything the "spy" brought to him. At the same time he allowed the potion master to bring information that Voldemort wanted, just to maintain the man's cover. The old man was either just as inept a spymaster as he was a general, or he was secretly trying to help Voldemort succeed in ruling magical Britain.
***EoD***
"Ah, come in, Severus," Albus Dumbledore greeted his subordinate as the potion master stepped into the office. As classes were not in session and most of the professors had left for the summer as well, the headmaster tended to leave his door open while he was in his office.
"Headmaster," Snape greeted, giving the old man a nod as he took a seat in one of the chairs arrayed before Dumbledore's oaken Empire-style desk.
"What news do you bring?" the old man asked next.
Snape sighed to himself, wondering not for the first time at the game played between Dumbledore and Voldemort. It was well-known how the Chief Warlock had vouched for him at the end of the first Blood War, keeping him free from Azkaban. The dark lord certainly knew that Dumbledore had some kind of hold over him, yet did not seem concerned about the possibility of him feeding the headmaster critical information. The only rationale Snape could think of was that the old man never actually did anything with the information, just collected it and demanded more. Combined with his "nonlethal spells only" rules of engagement (not just for the Order of the Phoenix but for the aurors and hit wizards as well) and the Wizengamot's reluctance to prosecute "upstanding pureblood citizens," Voldemort truly had little with which to be concerned. Dumbledore, on the other hand, constantly fed Snape little pieces of information to share with Voldemort so as to maintain his cover as a spy, for whatever it was worth. With the old man's refusal to act upon the information he brought in addition to the information taken to Voldemort, Snape couldn't help but to wonder if Dumbledore was actually doing more harm than good. Was he a spy, a double-agent? For whom did he actually work? He honestly didn't know anymore, and it frustrated the hell out of him. All he knew was that he intended to still be standing when it was all over.
"The status of the Malfoy family is… uncertain," he said. "Narcissa is unable to access the vaults, and with Draco missing has begun to fear the worst."
The headmaster shook his head in sorrow. "Tragic," he said, his voice filled with regret. "I truly wish that Amelia took the disappearance more seriously."
"With ownership of the Malfoy assets in question," the Potions professor continued, his voice carefully neutral, "the dark lord felt it would be prudent to relocate his headquarters. He was, however, quite put out to have to do so and has planned retaliation."
"Indeed?"
"Yes, there are four targets under observation as we speak: Amelia Bones, Augusta Longbottom, Mad-Eye Moody, and Garrick Ollivander. The wandsmith is to be brought in alive, the others are to be terminated." He went on to share the details of the raids, giving the headmaster the names of the inner circle members tasked with the missions.
Dumbledore stared off into space as he considered what his subordinate told him. Amelia and Augusta being removed would certainly quell much of the opposition in the Ministry and Wizengamot – both were formidable women. Their removal would make it even easier for Tom to seize control, something that Dumbledore felt was not only inevitable but necessary. The people of Britain had to feel the yoke of oppression for a time before they could fully appreciate liberation – or more specifically, their liberator. It was young Harry's destiny to face Tom in battle and die, thereby fulfilling the prophecy and allowing Dumbledore to strike the final blow in Harry's name. The national joy of liberation combined with the grief of losing their precious icon would certainly allow him to rebuild the country into his ideal vision with minimal interference from the populace. The fact that neither woman gave him the respect he felt he deserve further disinclined him to send warning.
Alastor, though, had been a close friend for decades. Allowing him to be attacked would be a betrayal of the highest order, but on the other hand warning him would compromise Severus' cover as surely as warning Amelia or Augusta. Besides, Alastor had not really forgiven him since being freed from young Barty's clutches last summer. It was quite disappointing, really. Surely the grizzled old auror would have understood the necessity of flushing out all those responsible for entering young Harry's name into the Triwizard Tournament. But no, Alastor had been gruff and distant ever since. It was sad that people just refused to understand that sacrifices had to be made for the Greater Good. No, he too would have to be sacrificed, unfortunately. Given his behaviour this past year, he doubted that Alastor would appreciate the necessity of what he had to do, nor the burden of making those terrible hard decisions.
Given that Tom had ordered Garrick to be brought to him alive, he wasn't really concerned about the old wandsmith's safety. Tom obviously wanted to talk to him, probably about the reaction his wand had had with young Harry's a year ago. Garrick was a smart man; surely he'd cooperate and be released.
"Thank you, Severus," Dumbledore said at length. "I think it is best if we allow things to play out for now. You are too valuable an asset to risk compromising your position in Tom's organisation. Plus, several victories now will certainly placate him and may prevent him from seeking any further damage."
Snape barely refrained from rolling his eyes. The old man either didn't know Voldemort very well or was pretending that he didn't. He wasn't sure which possibility bothered him more. And once more, the old man sat by with all the information and did nothing. Snape sometimes wondered why he even bothered.
"One more thing," the reluctant spy advised. "The dark lord is adamant that I supply him with Potter's truename."
Dumbledore's eyebrows lifted. "Indeed," he said after a moment. This was not good news. Truename magic was as obscure (and reviled) as soul magic. It was even considered by some of the ancient loremasters to actually be a derivative of soul magic. The headmaster had not come across any works that studied the art in depth, but from the little he'd come across in a small handful of volumes that had since been removed from the Restricted section of the library to his personal bookshelves, this branch of magic was for the sole purpose of utterly subjecting someone to the caster's will. Even those who could throw off the imperius curse were unable to resist the invocation of their truename. Fortunately, using someone's truename required a blood sacrifice. Not by slaughtering someone on an altar to dark gods, but an actual sacrifice. The caster had to give of his own blood, and the more control the caster wished to exert over the victim, the more blood was required. And that was why some other loremasters insisted that it was a derivative of blood magic, yet another forbidden topic. "I… am not certain that is a wise idea, my friend."
"I understand," Snape replied. "The dark lord was most insistent, though. I may have indicated that it would take quite some time to secure that information for him. He was understanding, though he made it clear he would not tolerate endless delay."
The old headmaster sighed. "I shall have to think on this. I will let you know when I have made my decision."
"Please. I fear that my status within his inner circle if not my life may well depend upon it."