"ɪ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʀᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ᴅɪᴇ ᴏɴ ᴍʏ ꜰᴇᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴀɴ ʟɪᴠᴇ ᴏɴ ᴍʏ ᴋɴᴇᴇꜱ."
― ᴇᴜʀɪᴘɪᴅᴇꜱ
Chapter Two: Authoritarian Government for 400
August first.
The castle felt more like a prison that ever.
It was exactly three months, to the day, that Ruby Potter had last been seen by anyone who had known her; including Harry Potter.
It was also, incidentally, her birthday.
Ron, Hermione, and Anthony's letters has stopped including the phrase, "And have you heard anything from Ruby?"
And every time, in case Hedwig was intercepted as Dumbledore warned, he'd written back, "No, she's been moved for her safety and I haven't heard anything, which means she's alright."
They were convinced that she was gone. They might not have liked it, but regardless, they'd grown hollow around the empty, cold space, unlike Harry, refusing to let go.
She would have left clues, he thought, but the Slytherin Dungeon was off-limits to Gryffindors. I don't like the thought of her out there with Voldemort quite literally on the loose. But the only good thing is, she knows how to disappear. We both do.
And him. Tom Riddle. Tom Marvolo Riddle, who was real, and a spectre inside Harry's head, all at the same time.
Harry had tried to ask, but Dumbledore was busy these days, and McGonagall and Hagrid had odd reactions to the name. Odd enough to know that Harry should be worried.
It was odd without her, like half of his brain was missing. Strange not to have someone to talk to, who always knew exactly what he meant.
"Afternoon, Professor Snape," said Harry, his back against the wall as he absentmindedly fiddled with a broken Golden Snitch.
Snape stopped in his tracks, and looked Harry up and down, looking for an excuse to berate him. When one did not miraculously appear, he ground out, "Afternoon, Potter," and wrapped his cloak around him as he strode off, like a giant bat preparing to nest.
At least it wasn't term-time anymore. For the last bit of it, since Potions never intersected with Defence, Snape had been assigned to Lockhart duty while Lockhart's corpse was rotting in the Chamber of Secrets. It had been, Harry reflected, more of a mocking performance than an actual impersonation of him, but it seemed to do the trick, even if Snape went occasionally (often) overboard with it.
"And now, Professor Lockhart will leave on sabbatical," Dumbledore had said at breakfast the morning after all of the other students had left, with a casual ruthlessness that Harry was unused to.
The 'never to be seen again' was implied.
This is the wizard who took down Grindelwald, not just our Headmaster, Harry reminded himself. He can be scary, too.
He remembered Dumbledore's expression, when he'd told him that he had a strange dream again; this time, a black castle on a black rock, in the middle of a churning black sea.
Azkaban. The place had a name now. Harry had seen faces; faces important to Voldemort, all gaunt and starving and angry. He'd drawn them in a trance-like state, charcoal on parchment, black-stained fingers, cross-legged on the bed.
A woman who had wept tears of joy, her skeletal arms wrapped around Voldemort's ankles. The mouse-like man who followed Voldemort like a shadow.
They had names, too. He'd dug through old newspapers to find their matches. Bellatrix Lestrange. Barty Crouch Junior. Antonin Dolohov. Sirius Black.
They were real. He'd drawn their hungry eyes and sharp noses and cruel mouths.
They were coming for him.
Search your feelings, thought Harry, you know it to be true.
"No one will tell me anything," he groused. "They just think I'm some stupid kid."
"I am sure they do not think that, Harry," said a quiet voice.
Slowly, he turned, the Snitch slipping out of his grasp and onto the floor, where it rolled to stop at the foot of the speaker. He bent down, and straightened up again, holding the Snitch gingerly, as its clipped wings fluttered.
Harry put his hand in his pocket, his fingers brushing his wand.
The man was unfamiliar. He was dressed in the shabbiest robes that Harry had ever seen, patched in several places. His face was marked with premature creases around his eyes and mouth, and his hair with grey streaks that seemed too old for him, but the single strangest thing about his appearance was the large scar that stretched from one cheek, across his nose, to the other, like a slash from an animal's claws.
He had an earnest, anxious, slightly-nervous way about him that reminded Harry of a grown-up Neville.
"Know my name from the papers, do you?" Harry spat.
"No," said the shabby stranger. "I recognised your eyes. You look just like your father when you were his age, but your eyes... they're your mother, Lily's."
A strange sort of thrill went through Harry. Yes, he had looked at the pictures many times, and observed that for himself. But for someone to point it out, for it not to just be his imagination... to obviously belong to someone...
"We went to school together," he continued. "Your parents and I."
Harry had a sudden thought, and reached in his pocket for the photo album that Hagrid had given him.
My dad. Sirius Black, the betrayer. Peter Pettigrew, the Death Eater.
"You must be Remus Lupin, then," he said, his gaze sliding to the monogram on the man's shabby suitcase (RJL). "The werewolf."
Lupin shuddered as if someone had dumped a tray of ice down the back of his robes.
"How do you know that, Harry?" he whispered.
He shrugged. "Voldemort mentioned it."
"Voldemort talks to you?"
"He doesn't mean to show me things, at least I don't think he does. But he does it sometimes. Maybe I show him things, too."
He gave Lupin a hard look. Perhaps he shouldn't have said anything. Who might he tell?
Harry drew himself up to his full height.
"Are you the next Defence Professor? You're too early."
"No," said Lupin. "I'm the new librarian, actually." He made an awkward gesture with his shoulder. "Dumbledore coaxed me out of my hiding place with the offer of Wolfsbane. It'll be nice to be myself again. You already know I'm a werewolf," he said bitterly, "what harm will the truth do?"
"You never came for us," said Harry, surprised at his own bitterness.
"Perhaps you should be grateful for that. Werewolves eat children. Make no mistake about it; I am a monster, Harry."
He reached out to the Obscurus, felt his twisted, chained shadow grow tangible under his urging.
"Me too."
For a brief moment, Lupin looked frightened. And then, he looked incredibly sad.
"I didn't know, I-I— we all knew Lily and Petunia weren't on the best of terms, but I never imagined in my darkest of nightmares that this would be the result! None of us did!"
"You never bothered to check if we were alright. And don't even try to say it was because you were a werewolf — I know you're not transformed all the time, I'm speaking to you right now! And you were the one who had Ruby that night!"
"It's true," said Lupin. "I was alone with her in the safehouse. It was Peter's responsibility, because of my condition, but he was gone that night, and it was the last night of the full moon. She was locked inside, and no one but Voldemort or Fenrir Greyback would have dared to approach the house with me outside, without James or Sirius to keep me at least partially sane. When I came back to my senses at sunrise, my friends were dead, Voldemort had been defeated, and there was a screaming child inside."
"But you could have checked on us," said Harry quietly. "At least once."
"I did, alright!" Lupin lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. "I had a look around the house a few times. I knocked on the door once, but Petunia slammed it in my face, and I feared it wasn't my place to intrude on your lives. It wasn't enough. I should have demanded to see you. Insisted. I was a coward. It wasn't nearly enough, and I'm sorry, Harry. To both of you."
He sighed. "To tell the truth, I was sure Severus would do what I could not."
"Professor Snape? He hates us!"
A strange expression came over Lupin's face.
"He and your mother were childhood friends. He knew Petunia; I thought, or hoped, that he would have influenced her. He would have been harder to turn away. Look, I appreciate if you will not forgive me. I just want you to know, that, should you have any need of me, I will be here for the time being."
He started to reach out to Harry; but, seeming to think better of it, nodded his head and began on his way to the library.
"Wait!" Harry called out, and Lupin turned, regarding him with a quizzical expression. "If you're not the Defence Professor, then who is?"
Lupin shrugged.
"Your guess is as good as mine, Harry." And then he strode off.
"He's lying," suggested a grass snake from the damp under the stairs.
"I know," said Harry. "It's no good bothering him about it, though. He won't tell me. And as long as it's not another would-be murderer, I don't really care if Binns takes over."
He paused.
"I just don't know if I can just trust him. It's not like my father's friends have the best track record when it comes to Voldemort."
The snake did not respond.
Harry wondered who he should ask about Lupin. Probably, no one.
He sat down heavily on the steps and unfolded the three letters he'd received that morning.
Dear Harry
Dear Harry:
Dear Harry,
Hope you had a nice birthday.
Hope you had a lovely birthday!
Happy birthday! I'm hoping you get this on the thirty-first, but Dad's owl is a really slow flier.
Dad says everything at the Ministry's gone haywire.
Admittedly, the Prophet is a questionable source, but from what I gather, things aren't looking good.
Aunt Sarah says the Azkaban ledger's been tampered with. I know our owls can be intercepted, but if the Ministry's trying to cover something up, it's not exactly news to them.
Of course, Percy says it's a load of bollocks but Dad just shakes his head and sighs.
Hogwarts is the safest place, obviously, so you'll be fine.
Dad doesn't realise this, but I've grown a bit over the summer and I can reach the shelves in the office now. There are these creatures who guard Azkaban, Harry — Dementors. The department — that's the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures has been called to work on a special project.
The Undersecretary — that's this horrible woman, Dolores Umbridge — she wrote this agenda recently about 'bringing Hogwarts to heel.'
There are all these articles in the Prophet recently making Dumbledore out to be some kind of unhinged old man. Which are obviously all horrendous lies. What kind of people do this, Harry? They're all quoting Nott Senior and Lucius Malfoy and that lot — and we know what they are!
We almost know Voldemort's hiding with one of the pardoned Death Eaters, but the Ministry's not doing anything, not even recon! Something about property taxes and income brackets, I think.
The Dementors used to only care about protecting their home. But now, they're different. They're indifferent. Yeah, they'll still attack you if you get too close, but they seem like they're travelling out to sea now. They might leave. What if they come here?
Anyway, not much else going on here.
It's been quiet otherwise. We went on holiday for a bit but we're back now.
If this situation ever lets up, you should come visit us. I want to show you the library.
Don't let Snape get you down.
Be careful.
Give Filch a hug.
Ron
Hermione
Anthony
Theodore Nott was invisible.
No, better yet. Theodore Nott was the master of invisibility. Small for his age, mousy, unremarkable-looking. Easily hidden between Draco or Blaise or Pansy or Daphne, who was nearly half-a-head taller than him.
He was a born spy. An eavesdropper by nature.
Hidden between the bookcase and the shadows, he'd hidden from his father and watched the man and woman come into the room; the woman who Father had called 'My Lord,' and the man who he knew was dead Peter Pettigrew.
Awed, he'd watched, his muscles aching from the uncomfortable position, his cheek pressed against the dusty shelf, palms against the shiny mahogany floor, breathing wood polish that the Nott family's peculiar and perfectionist house elf, Miffy, had applied no more than a week ago.
Theodore had never craved to be worth noticing before, content to remain in the darkness, silent but effective. But now, now that Draco was home from Durmstrang for the summer and Lord Voldemort was noticing him, Theodore wanted to be noticed, too.
He imagined Voldemort was watching him. Seeing how well he hid. The Dark Lord saw all. His mother had told him so, before she died, with her whispering voice and her cold hands.
There was something about Lord Voldemort that made you want to be noticed by the scarlet gaze. Be praised by him.
Even Father, cold, emotionally-stunted, heartless Father, felt it too.
Does he fear him? Yes, but I think he loves him, too.
Voldemort. He whispered it under his breath, as the Dark Lord and Pettigrew reappeared in his father's office, in their true appearances. Vaguely French.
Voldemort had been in Slytherin, or at least, that was the story. No one remembered him. No one knew how old he was.
Theodore, for one, found it hard to picture Voldemort as a child. Voldemort doing homework. Voldemort being scolded by teachers. It was impossible.
Father and the other Death Eaters who had escaped Azkaban would lounge in the sitting-room, exchanging stories of when they had met Voldemort for the first time. The awe that they had each felt. How they had been inspired, stirred to action to defend what our ancestors have built.
You are my only son and your blood runs pure, Theodore, his father told him, over and over again. You come from an unbroken line of witches and wizards, as far as written records of our kind stretch. You will defend our way of life. No Muggle filth has tainted the male line, nor shall they ever.
He thought of his father's bastard child, Geneva, twenty years his elder, but held his tongue always. The first and only time he had brought her up, he had been rewarded with his father's hand connecting with his cheek, the topaz on his signet ring drawing a line of blood across it.
And Theodore stayed ever still, his wand safe in his pocket, as he crouched in the shadow of the bookcase in the same position months later.
His father rose from the desk slowly, languidly.
Make them wait, Theodore. It shows dominance. It establishes the tone for the interaction. It causes your opponent to question himself, his purpose. A Nott should never grovel nor snap to attention.
"I have received your message, Minister." Father's deep, rumbling voice seemed to shake the room. "As you remember, mine is only a courtesy position."
"But one with access to Ministry records," said Fudge uneasily. The people behind him, a cluster of aides and interns, seemed uneasy, too.
Father stepped towards Fudge, his broad frame casting an equally large shadow over the Minister.
"Are you accusing me of something, Cornelius? I take my fair share, yes, as a landholder!"
"We do not live in feudal times, Mister Nott," said Fudge, though he cowered, and his assistants cowered, too. "And yes... as you are a pillar of our community, I do turn a blind eye to certain movements, but this cannot go un-investigated!"
What has he done now? But Theodore did not allow his curiosity to overwhelm him, lest he be discovered.
A mocking, cruel look came over Father's face. It reminded Theodore of the expression he had when he ordered Miffy to iron her ears.
"Have these people leave us, and let us talk. Man to man."
Fudge sucked in a deep breath, and let it go with a shaky sigh. Theodore could see the defeat in the set of his shoulders.
"Leave us," he said warily. "I will discuss with Mr. Nott."
A brief flicker of triumph passed over Father's face, made his pale eyes glitter with malice, especially the one with the broken pupil, but he hid it quickly. He strode over to the cabinet between his school Beater's bat and a twelfth-century sword, with the gait and air of an enormous snow leopard.
"Will you have some firewhiskey, Minister? The '04, I remember, is your favourite?"
Fudge scrunched his face up nervously. Theodore could tell he half-wanted to refuse, but he would have to acquiesce if he wanted to negotiate with Father.
"Well... I suppose a little couldn't hurt, could it?"
Another little flash of triumph. The glug glug of amber liquid being poured into crystal glass.
"So, Mister Nott," Fudge endeavoured to continue as Father sat back down opposite him, "the ledgers."
"The ledgers," Father repeated, refusing to give an inch. "The ledgers, the ledgers, Minister. What to do about the ledgers, eh?" He downed the contents of his glass. "What about Harry Potter?"
"Harry Potter, Mister Nott?"
"Oh, don't play coy with me, Minister. The entire castle of Hogwarts has been a most irritating problem in the past year, due in main to four agents: the monster of Slytherin, Nicholas Flamel, Dumbledore, and Potter. The monster is dead, Flamel has returned to his retirement in France, but two obstructions remain."
The Minister stroked his chin in a thoughtful expression. "Yes," he said hesitantly. "But Dumbledore has never before craved power. In fact, he has turned down the highest office when it was offered."
"That was before the old man went completely senile," snapped Father.
Theodore knew Father did not believe Dumbledore senile. Perhaps it would have been easier for their purposes if the Headmaster was really just a dotty old man obsessed with sweets.
"Harry Potter has been miraculously cured, I hear."
"But how? The boy should have been dead before he arrived at Hogwarts! Do you have no wish to investigate this, Minister? And when the Dark Lord returns—" Fudge paled "— Dumbledore will certainly use the boy as leverage. Leverage against us."
"Yes?" asked Fudge.
"Do you not see, Minister?" asked Father, and Theodore could see he itched to slam a meaty fist on the table. "Why should Hogwarts wield this power? Will they fight for us? They are a private entity!"
The Minister was quite foolish, thought Theodore, if he could not see that he was being misdirected. He had forgotten all about Azkaban.
"And what do you suggest I do about the... Potter problem?"
"We take possession of Hogwarts, Minister Fudge," came a saccharine voice from the doorway. Father looked furious at the interruption, but Fudge looked relieved.
"I apologise for the intrusion, Mister Nott," said Dolores Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister, or, as the staff referred to her, Ms. Toad of Toad Hall. "But what an excellent idea. I agree completely. Curbing Dumbledore's overreach. Too many exceptions have been made, too many hidden variables. In two years, Hogwarts has been plagued by two monsters — three untimely deaths—"
She strode towards them, her pink kitten heels clicking peevishly on the wooden floors.
"Two untimely deaths, not three," interrupted Fudge. "Gilderoy Lockhart is on sabbatical — why, he's even done a press conference in Egypt! But I agree that the boy, in particular, is dangerous. Why, he destroyed an entire floor of the school in his first year!"
"Of course, Minister," said Umbridge, the massive pink bow in her head wobbling, but she did not seem at all in agreement. "The fact remains that we must regain control somehow. The students maintain a rabid loyalty to him; even many Ministry employees still hold Dumbledore in highest regard."
Father interrupted, in a diplomatic voice that did not become him: "We must remember that he defeated Grindelwald."
Umbridge pursed her lips. "But for how long? How long can Dumbledore expect to coast on his one moment of glory? What has he done since then but meddle and indoctrinate children? He did not rise up against You-Know-Who, for example! It is time for a new era. One in which the dictates of the past do not guide our choices. Dumbledore simply stirs up trouble for the mere sake of it. For all we know, You-Know-Who is still dead. Ignore the paranoid old fool."
Theodore tensed.
Going up against the Dark Lord?
He quaked internally. He had been in his presence. He had felt his power.
If magic was beyond the natural, then the Dark Lord was beyond the supernatural. If Dumbledore was a prince amongst wizards, Theodore could imagine Voldemort was no less than a god. Like Hades, they all feared to speak his name.
And so, having met Voldemort unlike Umbridge, Theodore knew the answer as to why Dumbledore had not challenged him directly: What's a king to a god?
But he had not known Grindelwald at the height of his power, nor Dumbledore before he was Headmaster.
If he had, his answer might have changed.
He might have quaked at the memory, too.
He should leave and return home before Father found him. If he did, he would be angry; not that he had eavesdropped and learnt something he should not have, because Theodore was his father's chiefest weapon and they both knew it, but because he might have risked the ire of the Dark Lord.
Theodore got to his feet, slipped into the shadows, and out the door.
If the Ministry officials milling about outside the office noticed a thirteen-year-old boy wandering the halls by himself, they did not seem to care. As it were, he made his way to the nearest fireplace, grabbed a handful of Floo powder, and said, clearly and carefully, "Malfoy Manor," and then the password, "Pavo cristatus."
The emerald flames that reminded him so much of the fireplace in Slytherin Dungeon swallowed him for a second, and then the austere interiors of the Malfoy Manor receiving room were burning and blurring into existence.
He locked eyes with Dobby, the Malfoy's house elf, a creature equally as strange as Miffy but in a totally different way.
Dobby regarded Theodore with large, clever, mournful green eyes.
"Sir is expected," he prattled on, his gaze fixed on Theodore. "Mistress Cissy has said to tell sir that Master Draco is waiting for Master Theodore."
Theodore always got the distinct feeling that Dobby did not approve of him. Nor did he approve of the Malfoys, or Father, as if he did not think them good enough wizards.
What's it to a house-elf? thought Theodore as he left the receiving room. They only exist to serve. Not to evaluate us.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Malfoy," he said, just as she came around the corner with Pettigrew.
Narcissa Malfoy was as impressive as Pettigrew was ordinary. She had the infamous Black features —sharp cheekbones, a statuesque nose, and a penetrating gaze, but framed instead by long, white-blonde hair that looked like silk threads.
"Afternoon, Theo," she said coldly, as usual. "Draco is waiting upstairs for you, as usual. Will you come and meet my sister, first? She is curious to know who Draco associates with these days."
"Of course, Mrs. Malfoy," said Theodore sweetly. You did not refuse Narcissa Malfoy.
She nearly reached for his hand, then remembered he was not a child anymore.
"Come," she said instead, and turned with a swish of her dove-grey robes.
He followed her into the sitting room, with its grandiose furniture, and the baroque pipe organ soaring above, flanked by large, diamond-paned windows that brought the faint, fast-fading late afternoon light into the room.
The witch was a silhouette, a shadow in the seat furthest from the door.
"This is Theodore Nott, Bella. One of Draco's closest friends."
Narcissa nudged him forward, and his heart in his stomach, he began to walk towards her.
"It's an honour to meet you, Mrs. Lestrange," he said politely, and bowed slightly for good measure, as Father taught him.
Her sudden, joyless laugh nearly made him stumble back in shock. He heard a faint hiss, and the room grew lighter. Narcissa was lighting candles.
"This one has manners, Cissy," said Bellatrix Lestrange, her tone more gravelly and strained than Theodore had expected. He had had in his mind the image of her in the Prophet at her trial; her proud, young, and beautiful face, so like Narcissa's, framed by her mane of glossy dark hair.
He could still see the image, behind the starvation and the years of imprisonment, behind her gaunt, skull-like, waxy, nightmarish face, out from which gazed dull dark eyes.
Theodore swallowed, and tried to hide his fright.
"What about me, eh?" This time, a male voice, from the doorway.
He was younger than Bellatrix, by about ten years, but otherwise her exact match besides his grey eyes: clearly a Black, emaciated and skull-faced.
He must have been very, very young before Azkaban, Theodore realised, as he gazed at the third Black.
"Prisoner ᛈᛉ390, little Nott," he said as he stepped into the light, pronouncing the runes easily. The 'pz' sound rolled off his tongue as if he had been familiar with Elder Futhark from childhood. "Remember my front-page story? Killed twelve Muggles and three of my best friends, I'm supposed to have done."
"Sirius Black," said Theodore, his voice sounding pale as it escaped his vocal cords.
"But you know who we are, cousins," Sirius went on. "Once we choose a side, we tend to stick with it."
"No cousin of mine, blood-traitor!" spat Bellatrix.
Narcissa stepped forward.
"What are you doing here, Sirius?"
"Who let the dog out of his cage, do you mean, Cissy? Afraid I'll strangle Wormtail when I get my hands on him?"
Why, oh why had he come here to indulge his curiosity? Why couldn't insufferable Draco come down and rescue him?
"The Dark Lord has use for Pettigrew."
"All the more reason to snap the traitor's neck."
"B-But I thought he was one of us," started Theodore. "He betrayed the Potters and blew up those Muggles."
"Of course he didn't," said Bellatrix haughtily. "Wormtail double-crossed them all. He's a loyal blood-traitor to the end, my filthy cousin is. Oh, if only Regulus hadn't disappeared and you'd perished in Azkaban!"
"Oh, no," said Sirius. "I had too much to live for, cousin."
"What?" growled Bellatrix.
"Take your pick. Revenge. Knowing I was innocent. Knowing Voldemort hadn't won."
"How dare you say his name!"
And with that, he turned and walked out of the room. Narcissa started, but Bellatrix placed a hand on her arm.
"Let him go, Cissy. Wormtail knows how to evade capture."
A knock resounded at the door.
"Mother, Aunt Bellatrix, isn't Theo here?"