Monday, 1st August

Tom flicked his wand with a casual "Incendio" and couldn't help but grin in delight as the magic coursed through his wand and burst the fireplace into flames. He'd had his trusted friend returned to him for over a month now but he still relished the feeling of power that it gave him.

At least Wormtail had proven some bit of use before his untimely demise - and, really, what a great tragedy that had been. He'd only meant the best, after all, unlocking his cell door like that. If only he hadn't mysteriously forgotten to ask Theodore to somehow, impossibly, wait on the prison's roof for him… Yes. It was a great tragedy indeed.

And yet, how convenient that he should remove a cowardly traitor from his midst without breaking his no-murder spree. And how convenient that Pettigrew's death looked like an accident. And how convenient that even if the Ministry had suspected something and questioned Randolph about his visit, Auror Dawlish couldn't prove which cell he'd actually visited. And how convenient that at the time of Wormtail's escape, Lord Lestrange was firmly situated in London hosting a spur-of-the-moment dinner party and therefore had an ironclad alibi at nightfall.

How very, very convenient.

The Ministry, as predicted, labelled the entire affair as an accident. They didn't want to think of the alternative being true - that someone had successfully broken into Azkaban, that their security measures weren't as foolproof as they thought, that the dementors weren't as under their control as they'd like. It wasn't Tom's fault that the dementors had gotten to Pettigrew. How on earth could he have predicted it? As far as he was concerned, it was a misfortunate event that he had nothing at all to do with - hence how his no-murder streak was still firmly intact.

Well.

Technically.

But it was all just semantics at the end of the day, though, wasn't it?

He glanced up as the flames in his study suddenly roared and a familiar face appeared.

"Tom. May I step through?"

"Of course" he replied, standing, "Is something wrong?"

The head disappeared, but a moment later, Randolph's entire body stepped out of the fireplace.

"Nothing at all. I merely received a, uh… package that I believe was meant for you".

Lestrange took his time removing the soot from his clothes, waiting just until Tom's impatience was about to peak, before reaching into his pocket, pulling out a tiny basket, and then tapping it with his wand. Almost immediately, it expanded to ten times its size and Tom was both amused and bewildered to find his friend holding onto a rather large gift hamper.

"... You believe that that was meant for me?"

Randolph's blue eyes were sparkling with mischief.

"Yes. It's from a… serious admirer".

Frowning, Tom reached forward, ripped off the card, ignored the pleasantries and skipped right down to the signature at the bottom.

Sirius Black

Duke of London

He gave Randolph a flat look.

"You're not funny".

"Really? I think I'm quite hilarious, myself… but then again, you always did have a rather black sense of humour".

"Get out".

"As my lord commands".

He gave him a mock bow, but instead of turning back to the fireplace, Randolph took a seat in one of the armchairs in front of it, depositing the gift basket on the small side table next to them. Tom scowled at him but he simply smiled in return. If it had been anyone else…

Instead of pulling out his wand and cursing the man, which was still, regretfully, his first instinct, he took a seat in the opposite chair and turned his attention back to the brief letter.

Lord Lestrange,

I trust this note finds you in good health. I wanted to take a moment to express my sincere gratitude for the recent resolution of a matter that had long weighed heavily on my mind. It is no small thing to find oneself relieved of an old burden, particularly one that has lingered for so many years.

Your skilful handling of such delicate affairs is, as always, most impressive. One might say it takes a special talent to tie up loose ends with such precision. Rest assured, the matter in question will no longer trouble me.

Please know that your efforts have not gone unnoticed, nor unappreciated, and I sincerely hope that you'll accept this gift basket as a token of my gratitude. Should the occasion arise for future collaborations, I would be most open to discussing them further.

With my kindest regards,

Sirius Black

Duke of London

At least Black was smart enough not to mention anything outright - and even smarter to wait this long before sending the gift at all, just in case. It was also rather Slytherin of him, although Tom supposed that you couldn't be raised in a snake den without picking up some of their traits.

Nevertheless, it was obvious what he was referring to, and Tom found it rather amusing at how much glee one of Dumbledore's most trusted clearly received from finding out about the rat's death. The Headmaster was as blind as he was foolish if he believed a Black could ever, truly, be on his side - and Tom would bet more than a few galleons on the old man's obsession with slotting people into nice neat little boxes being the eventual cause of his downfall.

There are more things in Heaven and Earth…

"He's intelligent, I'll give him that much" Randolph said, lightly tapping his cane on the wooden floor, "Smart enough to work out that it was me, at least".

"And yet not smart enough to work out that it was actually me".

The man gave him a dry look.

"Lord Black hasn't heard a single whisper about your return, Tom. How in Merlin's name could he know that you were actually using Polyjuice to look like me? The fact he realised that I was even involved has already raised my esteem of the boy far higher than anyone in the Ministry!"

"The Ministry only sees what it wants to see" he replied, refolding the note before leaning back in his armchair, "... What do you think of him?"

"I think that he'll be impossible to convert, if that's what you're asking" Randolph said knowingly, "There's far too much history between his side and ours for that - not to mind blood… Sirius Black is intelligent, cunning, and although he occasionally acts like a fool, he is always watching… Do you remember Orion Black?"

Tom frowned and thought, casting his mind back to their Hogwarts days - memories that were still blurry and more than a little fuzzy at the edges. He'd need to reabsorb another Horcrux soon.

"Dark-haired, quiet boy?" he finally replied, "One- no, two years below us? Excelled at charmwork?"

"That's the one". Randolph leaned forward with a sly smirk. "Sirius Black is his heir".

Oh.

Well now.

That put a new spin on things.

Orion had, admittedly, been rather tame in his blood superiority views - for a pure-blood, that was - but he had been a remarkably powerful wizard, even as a student, and Tom had never known anyone as good at casting protection wards as he'd been. For Sirius to be his son, and his eldest at that…

"Are you certain we cannot sway him?"

"Absolutely. Although I do believe that he could be convinced to… take a step back from Dumbledore, even if that step is not necessarily in our direction".

"And turn him neutral? He's a Black! They haven't been neutral since before the Normans invaded!"

Randolph inclined his head in acknowledgement but still looked thoughtful.

"And if we were talking about anyone else, then I'd agree, but this boy isn't your typical Black. The fact he was sorted into Gryffindor proves that much! But you read the letter he sent - he's not as pure and golden as Albus Dumbledore would like to believe either".

There was that.

"Is he out of St Mungo's yet?"

"Bought an old Georgian townhouse in Soho last week".

"And he's living there? Alone?"

"Yes and no. Rumour has it, his partner moved in with him". Randolph's face was doing that irritating knowing thing again. "Rumour also has it, that his partner is a werewolf".

Tom stared at him.

"... A werewolf?"

"Yes".

"... Lord Black is dating a werewolf?"

"Yes".

"... Lord Black is dating a notoriously repressed and condemned Dark creature and you still don't believe that we could convince him to turn Dark?!"

"Oh, he's a Dark wizard, alright; there's no doubt about that!" Randolph replied cheerfully, "I'd like you to show me a single witch or wizard with Black blood who isn't Dark - he just doesn't agree with the Dark faction's beliefs".

"The Dark's beliefs?" Tom asked, forcibly calm, "Or Lord Voldemort's beliefs?"

Lestrange flinched at the name and immediately lowered his gaze, but he nodded all the same and his voice was still thankfully level when he replied.

"Your… previous self's beliefs. He's not a blood supremacist, and he has nothing against muggle-borns or muggles, but unfortunately… well… towards the end of the previous war, the loudest among us did hold those beliefs".

"So that's all he heard" he finished quietly, staring at the burning flames of the fire, "That's what he believes we stand for. Nothing to do with protecting Dark creatures or defending ourselves against muggles, just blood supremacy and bigotry".

Once again, he vowed to eviscerate Lucius Malfoy.

"The Potters were his family, Tom. No matter how much you improve the world for Sirius Black or his werewolf partner, he is never going to forgive you for killing his family".

Unbidden, an image of Regulus Black flashed through his mind. Of course Sirius Black would never join his side - Lord Voldemort had killed every brother he had.

"... He doesn't have to join us to stay out of our way" he finally decided, "He's the rightful Duke of London and chances are, he's going to be the new Progressive Party's leader. A political rival, nothing more. In fact, he might even agree with a few of our proposals".

"So, don't kill him, is what you're saying?"

Tom gave Lestrange a sharp look only to find his friend grinning back at him in amusement, both hands already pre-emptively raised as a gesture of peace.

"I know, I know, we have to protect that murderless streak of yours! Although, back in my day, wizards weren't afraid to get their hands dirty".

He stared at him in disbelief. "We're the same age!"

"Hmm. Yes. Well". Randolph sighed and inspected his nails. "At least I look it, pretty boy".

"Don't make me curse you!"

"You wouldn't dare - I'd tell Theodore on you".

"Now who isn't acting their age?"

"Oh, come now, Tom. Respect your elders".

"Respect me or I'll break my no-killing streak just for you!"

"I should be so lucky".

Monday, 22nd August

Tom took another sip of tea, humming in appreciation. He'd finally been able to hire two house-elves; one to take care of the housekeeping and the other to look after his meals and laundry, and they truly knew how to make a damn good cup of tea.

It had been three weeks since he'd received the gift basket - although he didn't doubt for one moment that if Sirius Black had known who'd really led Pettigrew to his death then he wouldn't have received one at all - and he was still contemplating on how to handle the situation in such a way that would benefit him and his goals the most.

Randolph, of course, had replied to Black's note, thanking him for such a generous gift and subtly suggesting in his own way that he would be amenable to future discussions, but they had yet to receive a response.

He was also thinking about where the younger Black brother could have stored his locket. The most likely place was his own home, especially if his suspicions about the Black house-elf were true. But how to get in…

If the Duke of London was more sympathetic, as such, to his cause then he'd have no problem requesting a meeting at the Black ancestral home, but Randolph had been certain that that would never happen, which meant he needed to find an alternative solution. From what he remembered, Grimmauld Place was essentially a fortress - heavily charmed and warded against all outside attacks by none other than Orion Black, whose defensive spellwork, Tom was reluctant to admit, he could never break through.

So if he couldn't go in himself, then he needed someone else to retrieve the locket for him.

If Black truly had moved into another property in the West End, then that meant Grimmauld Place was currently empty. And if Theodore's informants, who had recently informed him that Dumbledore was already suspicious of Lord Slytherin, were also true then that meant Dumbledore would no doubt be re-enacting whatever little vigilante group he'd created during the last war to "defeat" him.

He'd need a base of operations for that.

And what better place than the abandoned yet heavily protected townhouse of one of his most trusted followers?

It was the most obvious place if Dumbledore wanted to keep his group a secret, which Tom knew that he would, and he already had a spy on the inside, just waiting to be contacted… Yes. He'd have his locket returned to him eventually. He was sure of it - And in the meantime, he would focus on finding a way of getting into Hogwarts.

"My lord!"

Tom was far too proud to admit that he jumped at the sudden exclamation, but his tea did slosh dangerously close to the edge of his cup, and he turned an irritated, narrow-eyed gaze on the intrusion.

"My lord, please forgive me for the interruption but- but this is incredibly important, I swear!"

He sighed. To be fair, the man had never bothered him without a just reason before…

"Very well, Quirinus. What is it?"

He immediately held out a semi-crushed newspaper.

"It's The Daily Prophet, my lord. You- You need to see it".

Putting down his cup, Tom took the paper and flipped it over to read the headlines.

SCENES OF TERROR AT THE QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP

By Rita Skeeter

He frowned. He'd known that the World Cup was happening sometime this week - Theodore was a not-so-secret fan of the game and had been beyond disappointed when his only child had shown no interest in the sport growing up. But what was this "scenes of terror" part about? He quickly scanned the article.

Ministry blunders... culprits not apprehended... lax security... Dark wizards running unchecked... national disgrace…

Dark wizards? Tom's frown deepened, and he skipped to the very last paragraph of the article, knowing that that was where Skeeter tended to put her worthwhile information - if she had any at all.

If the terrified wizards and witches who waited breathlessly for news at the edge of the wood expected reassurance from the Ministry of Magic, they were sadly disappointed. A Ministry official emerged sometime after the appearance of the Dark Mark alleging that nobody had been hurt but refusing to give any more information. Wherever this statement will be enough to quash the rumours that several bodies were removed from the woods an hour later remains to be seen.

The Dark Mark.

His hands tightened around the newspaper, and it crinkled warningly.

Someone had used the Dark Mark.

His Mark!

He returned to the top of the article and read it from start to finish, growing more and more furious by the second.

Someone had dared to use his Mark as- as an excuse! A bloody excuse, using him and his name to torture some innocent fools to- what? To feel like everyone was scared of them again? To feel powerful again, if only for one night? To relive the final years of the war?! They were a bunch of lying cowardly hypocrites! They had betrayed him, turned their backs on him the very second he'd fallen, and now here they were, using their once-revered positions to torment some oblivious muggles instead of furthering the Dark side's goals!

Tom wasn't surprised that they'd all scattered at the sight of the Dark Mark, the spineless bootlickers that they were, but he was surprised that the Dark Mark had been cast at all.

Very few of his followers even knew the incantation for that spell, and none of these turncoats would dare cast it. The fact that they had all immediately apparated away was proof enough of that - the last thing they expected, after all, was a sign that Lord Voldemort really had returned, especially since every last one of them had done nothing but save their own necks after he was vanquished.

But someone had cast the spell - someone who was still very loyal to him indeed. Someone who despised the other Death Eaters who had betrayed his name and legacy, someone who had remained faithful even after all these years, someone who had… also not done anything to find Voldemort or return him to power.

Huh.

Tom frowned.

Something didn't add up there.

Thursday, 25th August

It took a long few days before he got any semblance of an explanation. After calling for Randolph and Theodore - both of whom had already been on their way after reading the headlines themselves - they put a plan together to figure out who had dared to cast his Mark.

Quirrell, unfortunately, couldn't do much, being a wanted man and all, but Randolph had thrown a few dinner parties with his most loose-lipped acquaintances and Theodore had smiled and made small talk at the Ministry until finally, finally, they had an answer… or, at least, half an answer… or maybe just the possibility of an answer…

It really wasn't much of an answer at all.

Theodore had been chatting with Ludo Bagman in a Ministry elevator - which had coincidentally broken down only a few moments before - and they had bonded over the shared experience of being stuck.

Bagman, who'd partly organised the Quidditch World Cup, had apparently run afoul of a few goblins and was thinking of packing the job in for a while. Theodore had made all the necessary "oh"s,"ah"s, and "I'm sorry to hear that"s but had been smart enough, cunning enough, not to question the man about the game directly. Instead, he asked about the Department of Magical Games and Sports, knowing that someone working there would be more than happy to spill everything they knew without needing any such prompting and eventually, he'd been given a name.

Bertha Jorkins.

According to Randolph, she wasn't even on the radar of people who could be considered a threat. She was a ditzy, forgetful woman who had been shunted from department to department, gaining a reputation for being very gossiping and not very bright - but that alone made her someone worth talking to because if anyone would know who had cast the Dark Mark, it would likely be her - but what made it all the more interesting, was the fact that she had just put in a request for a leave of absence so that she could go on holiday.

To Albania.

It was the last known place of Lord Voldemort, a fact that hadn't escaped any of their minds, and that fact that Voldemort's Mark had only been cast a few days ago for the first time in over thirteen years…

The timing was suspicious, to say the least.

And Tom wanted to know why.

"It's surely just a coincidence!" Quirinus protested, sweating nervously at being in the same room as three lords, "From what I've heard about Jorkins, she's an absolute fool!"

"Us Slytherins don't believe in coincidence, Mr Quirrell" Theodore replied diplomatically, while Randolph continued to stare impassively at the man in silence - Tom knew that he got great enjoyment out of making him squirm.

"It's far too coincidental to be a coincidence" he agreed, "I must speak with her".

"In Albania?!"

"Why not?" Tom gave an elegant shrug. "You forget my backstory, Quirinus. I'm the long-lost Duke of Lincoln born to an Albanian witch and only recently returned to London… If anything, requesting an international portkey for Albania will only further solidify my supposed past".

"Lord Slytherin returning to the homeland, as it were" Theodore said with a smirk, "Care for some company?"

"No". He shook his head decisively. "It would look suspicious if you or Randolph accompanied me - according to the Ministry, we've only recently met, after all".

"Ah". He nodded, sagely. "Still too soon to meet the parents. I understand".

Quirrell looked between them, clearly terrified that anyone would dare speak to his lord in such a way, and even more terrified about what Tom was going to do in retaliation. He was a good servant, Tom had to admit, and still far too nervous around him to tease him in the way that his old friends did. Although…

"Quirinus can come with me" he said, "I don't need to declare how many people will be using the portkey, and two heads are better than one… And besides, I'm sure you'll be ever so grateful to get out of this house for a while, won't you, Quirinus?"

The pale man immediately blushed a bright red.

"Oh! Uh, you mean- you mean you and- and me together on- on holiday? Just- Just us? Alone?! That's- I mean, uh, yes! Yes, my lord, that would be- I would be most grateful!"

Thoroughly embarrassed, he turned his flustered gaze to the floor, and Tom rolled his eyes at his antics. At the start, Quirrell's crush on him had been kind of cute in that fascinating, innocent sort of way - like a golden retriever following its master everywhere with a wagging tail. After two years of it, however, it was starting to get on his nerves.

Randolph, now that Quirinus couldn't see him, had let a wide grin spread across his face, clearly terribly amused by the blatantly obvious puppy love, and Theodore had started to waggle his bushy eyebrows at him in a frankly ridiculous manner. Tom bared his teeth at them in response.

"It's decided!" he said firmly, "Quirinus and I will track down Jorkins in Albania while you two keep an ear out at the Ministry. It shouldn't take us too long to find her if all goes well, and then hopefully, we'll finally have some answers".

Saturday, 27th August

Thankfully, things did go well, and on their third day in Theth, a small village at the foot of the Accursed Mountains in Albania, they found out where she was staying and Tom ordered Quirrell to invite her back to their hotel rooms for a chat.

They had already explored the mountains themselves during the previous two days, which had caused a series of decidedly mixed emotions for both of them. This was where Lord Voldemort had spent ten long years as a wraith, after all, and where Quirinus had found him too.

It was on their second day there that Tom had found her.

"Not-food, I need food".

"I jussst gave you food" he replied calmly, flipping a page in his tourist guide. Next to him, the twelve-foot-long snake rose her head from where she had rested it on top of her curled-up dark green body.

"Hungry now. Need food".

Tom sighed, closed the book, and turned to face her.

"I already gave you three mice and I know for a fact that you do not need to eat again for at leassst a week!"

Curious green eyes stared at him for a moment. "... What isss fact?"

"SSSomething that isss true".

"Hunger isss true".

He briefly closed his eyes, wondering not for the first time if deciding to take her with him had been a good idea after all. They'd come across the snake deep in the forests of the mountain - when she'd tried unsuccessfully to eat them both - and Tom had known immediately that she was… different.

To begin with, she reeked of magic, and he'd yet to figure out what species she was. She was also far more intelligent than any other snake he'd ever conversed with and there was also the fact she'd managed to successfully digest all three mice in the span of half an hour when it would've taken any other snake her size at least two or three days.

The only conclusion he could come to was that an Albanian witch or wizard had messed around with magic that they shouldn't have, and she was the result.

"... One more moussse" he finally relented, pulling out his wand, "But no more! We mussst travel by portkey later today and I don't want you getting sssick".

"Portkey?"

"A thing that will move usss to a different place very quickly" he explained, conjuring a small white furry rodent.

"SSSick?"

"Unwell. Unhealthy. Not good".

She slowly lifted her head up and down - a move she'd seen him and Quirrell do when saying "yes" and, rather adorably, had started to copy - before striking the wriggling creature where he'd dropped it on the couch cushions in between them, swallowing it whole.

"We travel where?"

"London. England. It'sss…. It'sss far away from here. Different".

"Warm?"

Tom winced. To a snake, heat was everything, and although England had far milder winters than Albania, it had colder summers.

"I will make it warm" he promised, "Like before, when I cassst a warming charm on you".

"With your ssstick?"

He sighed again. "Yesss, with my ssstick".

She tried to nod once more and this time, mostly succeeded, a small bulge about a foot down her neck clearly visible as she started to digest the mouse.

"Other not-food isss coming too?"

"Other not-food?"

"The one who sssmellsss of fear".

"Ah. Quirrell. Yesss, he will be joining usss, and there will be othersss for you to meet asss well".

"Can I eat them?"

"No".

She hissed in irritation and lowered her head to her coiled-up body once more, and Tom found that he had to agree. He was rather proud of his no-murder streak, of course, but… well, he couldn't deny the fact that some idiots should simply be put out of their misery - it would surely be the humane thing to do.

"Other not-food isss here again".

Tom blinked and turned to the door just as there came a hesitant knock. The snake was already proving her usefulness. He'd have to give her a name if he planned on keeping her.

"Come".

The hotel room door slowly opened with a creak, and Quirrell, as predicted, stood there looking as nervous as ever when he caught sight of the snake. Standing directly behind him, was a rather foolish-looking plump woman. Standing up, Tom gave her his most charismatic smile.

"Ah, Ms Jorkins, thank you for agreeing to meet with me".

The woman simply stared straight ahead, unblinking and silent, and Tom frowned at her vacant expression until it finally clicked.

"Is she under the Imperius?"

"... Yes?"

Tom gave him a disappointed look. "Quirrell".

"Forgive me, my lord, but I didn't think that asking her to accompany a complete stranger to an unknown location to talk to the Dark Lord would get a very positive response".

"And you couldn't have asked for a moment of her time to speak with Lord Slytherin?"

"... It honestly just didn't occur to me".

"Quirrell". He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath before gesturing impatiently at a chair. "Well, have her sit down, for Merlin's sake! And you better be skilled at casting Obliviate, Quirinus, because I am not going to fix your mistake!"

"Yes, my lord".

With a flick of his wand, he had Jorkins take the armchair opposite the couch, and Tom sat back down himself with a huff before pulling out his own wand, looking into her dazed eyes, and whispering, "Legilimens".

Bertha's mind was, put simply, destroyed.

It was immediately obvious that someone incredibly un-skilled had cast a memory charm on her at some point, but they had overpowered the spell and caused never-ending damage instead. It didn't take him long to find the memory they'd tried to conceal - and five minutes later, Tom gently left her mind feeling absolutely furious.

Barty Crouch Junior was still alive.

Barty Crouch Junior, one of his youngest, most idealistic, and most devout followers was still alive, imprisoned not in Azkaban but under his very own father's spell, trapped underneath an invisibility cloak with no one but a house-elf to talk to!

When Tom had regained some of his sanity and all of his body, he'd spent a few weeks catching up on everything that had happened while he'd been… indisposed. He'd felt genuine grief upon learning of the untimely deaths of some of his original Inner Circle members, and he'd felt… something when he'd found out about this boy's untimely demise as well.

Now, however, he'd learned the truth and he felt an overwhelming rush of relief.

But also.

A burning rage.

Next to him, the snake raised her head once more, her tongue flickering out to scent the air around him.

"You sssmell of… anger" she said, causing Quirrell to squeak in terror, "Also… hunger. Hunt. You mussst hunt?"

Tom felt a slow, feral smile spread across his face, and this time Quirrell visibly trembled.

"Yesss" he replied simply, "I mussst hunt".

Sunday, 28th August

They returned to England immediately.

After Quirrell obediently obliviated Jorkins of their encounter, Tom took over the Imperius curse and, with a few carefully buried suggestions, ordered the woman to return to London ahead of schedule and check herself into St Mungo's. Crouch Senior's obliviate had potentially damaged her mind beyond repair, but perhaps, with enough time and skilled enough healers, she'd make a partial recovery - her memories had served him well, after all, and Tom disliked seeing capable witches and wizards suffer through no fault of their own.

He'd left the snake at Slytherin Manor. On the journey back, in an effort to calm himself, he'd asked her what she'd like to be called. She hadn't understood the need for a name, of course - snakes were primarily solitary creatures and spoke in terms of "the big one", "the dangerous one", "the tasty one" when necessary, but after suggesting a few appropriate names - Echidna, Hydra, Nirah, Vritra, Aapep - she'd finally decided on Nagini.

It was a mythological name, originating from a half-snake, half-woman creature, and seemed fitting given that she was definitely a snake, but also definitely… not. He'd heard of animals living longer than they should by living in magical areas, or even having strange abilities that their muggle-raised compatriots did not, but he'd never met an animal as magic-infused as this snake before.

Nagini, of course, hadn't realised that she was so different from other snakes - she told him that she'd simply thought others of her species were stupid, and he could empathise with the sentiment.

Nevertheless, after casting a warming charm on his study and firmly telling her that the house-elves were also not-food, he promised to return later with more mice and then Floo called Randolph and Theodore to explain what he'd learned.

It went without saying that they agreed to meet him at Crouch's house immediately, and so, less than an hour later the four of them stood outside the old wooden door, covered by a Disillusionment charm as a stern-faced Randolph reached up and knocked.

A small, sad-looking creature answered but before she could get a word in edgeways, Tom cast a Body-Bind curse and then slipped into her mind.

The house-elf's name was Winky and she'd been ordered to take care of Barty by his father ever since he'd been smuggled out of Azkaban. It was clear that she cared for the boy deeply and hated what Crouch Senior had done to him, even going so far as to convince the man to reward his son for his good behaviour and-

Oh.

Oh, now wasn't this interesting?

The house-elf had successfully convinced Crouch to let her take Barty to the Quidditch World Cup - where Barty had promptly stolen a wand, fought off the Imperius curse, and cast the Dark Mark. His father had managed to Imperio him again before anyone found out, and had threatened to fire the poor elf for her "negligence" before evidently deciding against it but-

But Barty Crouch Junior, having found the first and only moment he ever had in over ten years to escape, had stolen a wand and cast the Dark Mark instead of taking that moment to run… all because of his loyalty to the Dark Lord.

Because of his loyalty to him.

Tom carefully, ever-so-carefully left Winky's mind and, ignoring the curious looks his companions were giving him, he crouched down in front of the elf so that they could look at each other eye-to-eye.

"I'm going to release you now" he told her, quietly, "And I promise that I won't raise my wand against you again except in self-defence. I know about Barty. I know about your master, and what he's ordered you to do… And I'm here to put an end to it".

Releasing the binding, he was pleased when she continued to stand there instead of fighting back or calling for help, her large mournful eyes full of fear and anxiety but also hope and relief.

"I'm going to help Barty" he continued, "I'm going to free him of his father's curse and heal him. I'm going to give him his freedom again, and a life where he'll never want for anything… Will you take me to him?"

He hadn't even finished his sentence before a tiny hand was gripping his and hauling him into the house with surprising strength. Tom allowed himself to be dragged, casting warning looks at Randolph and Theodore both as they started to protest.

They were led into the depths of the house and to a small living room which, upon first glance, had no one inside. Once Winky let go of Tom's hand and hurried over to the armchair in front of the fire, however, they all caught sight of the tell-tale shimmer of a cheap, overused invisibility cloak.

Tom took three strides forward and yanked it off.

Sitting there, looking dazed and confused and far, far older than he remembered him being, sat Barty Crouch Junior. His face was lined prematurely, his fair hair straw-like and bedraggled, his skin pale and eyes dull, not registering anything happening around him.

Ten years under the Imperius…

Tom would have preferred ten years in Azkaban.

"When does your master typically return home?" he asked the elf, his voice forcibly calm.

"Master is returning soon, sir" Winky squeaked, wringing her hands together in front of herself nervously, "Master is being here in no later than one hour".

"Good". Tom gave a dark smirk and found matching expressions on each of his friend's faces. "Then it would only be rude not to wait, now wouldn't it?"