"ɴᴏ ᴘʀᴇꜱꜱᴜʀᴇ, ɴᴏ ᴅɪᴀᴍᴏɴᴅꜱ."― ᴛʜᴏᴍᴀꜱ ᴄᴀʀʟʏʟᴇ
Chapter Seventeen: Close To The Chest
"Did you," said the witch in the doorway, shaking with fury, "send me this?"
Tee glanced at her, squinting through the noxious fumes of his latest attempt at Felix Felicis, a rare, dangerous, and powerful potion. It was supposed to be turning emerald about now, and this was a crucial moment. Now, he must carefully titrate the Occamy eggshell.
"As you can see, I'm busy at the moment."
Something little, hard, and pointy smacked him in the face, but Tee ignored it. He wouldn't cave to her childish behaviour when he had never gotten this close before. He started with the conservative estimate of half a milligram of eggshell — expensive even at these tiny amounts, but it was doubtful the Potions Master would trace the theft to him — and then started to add more speck by speck. The moment the potion turned the right shade of green, he must stop. Too much, and the potion would be ruined.
A foot hovered beside the cauldron. Expected, but that didn't make it any less irritating.
"Not if you value your life, Potter."
He did not spare her another glance; it wasn't worth taking his eyes off the cauldron even for a second.
The foot retreated — just as well, for his brew had just reached the proper colour, and Tee breathed out a sigh of relief. Now, it must simmer for a month, undisturbed.
"What is it this time?" asked Tee, leaning his head against the wall and stretching out his legs despite the fact that he knew precisely why she had come.
Ruby Potter's face contorted into something between a snarl and a scowl. Mrs. Cole was always warning them off making such faces; she always used to say the expressions might stick.
But playing along, he reached for the small projectile she'd chucked at him, straightening out the now-creased card paper. It still read 𝙷𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚢 𝚅𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚎'𝚜 𝙳𝚊𝚢!
"Of all the twisted, sick things to do—"
Oh, if only she'd stop with the histrionics. They both knew they were entirely performative — though the performance was at least convincing, with the wild hair and the dark thing around her eyes that had gotten smudged, perhaps on purpose.
"Send you well wishes on a holiday?" asked Tee, offering her back the card.
The scowl grew deeper. She should be careful. She wouldn't want her face to get stuck like that.
"You know exactly what you wrote on that," said Ruby, still trembling with anger, the floorboards creaking under her feet as she shifted from side to side.
When he only tilted his head and looked askance, she recited it: "Everything you've foreseen will come to pass. Accept it. If you keep running from it, you will never control it."
Good. So the true message, despite only appearing briefly, had sunken in.
"Why would you send me something like that?"
Her voice was shaking, too.
"Because I don't believe your power is useless," said Tee, without hesitation. "And I don't think you believe it either. Why would magic create True Seers, like you, if they were only mirrors on which to inscribe an inevitable future? Why manifest this power into a human mind?" Unable to help himself, he leaned forward. Her eyes widened. She must see it now, the possibility, be as captivated as he was. "What if you see not what is fate, but what you need to see?"
"But I haven't been able to stop anything bad from happening," said Ruby, her voice whisper-light, eyes moving, searching his face as if looking for duplicity.
"You haven't tried!"
"I don't know how what I See is going to happen, or when!"
"If you bothered to learn to control your visions," said Tee, sweeping to his feet, "then maybe you would. Now, why don't you go to the library and study for your O.W.L.s?"
Now, that got her back up. In a blink of an eye, she was standing right before the cauldron, glowering at him with her permanently red-rimmed eyes.
"Don't speak to me like that."
It was more of a growl than actual language, with her teeth pressed together. But Tee got the message.
"Like what?" he asked, as if he didn't know.
"Like I'm a stupid little girl," she ground out, glaring at him still. It was as if she was trying to light him on fire with her eyes.
Tee turned away, glancing out of the window. The temperature was starting to reliably get sufficiently above freezing, and now the snow looked a little unsure of itself.
"Well, aren't you? You have to decide. Are you a stupid little girl who can't control her visions or a True Seer who has access to information from beyond the veil that separates this world and the next?"
Her gaze had turned murderous. Tee mulled over his own words. He found it disturbing that he seemed to be picking up some of Dumbledore's cadences — but Dumbledore would never be so blunt.
"I Saw," said Ruby, stepping closer yet, but thankfully avoiding his precious cauldron. Tee's fingers wrapped around the windowsill, but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to look but those eyes, bloodshot and red-rimmed. "I did. I Saw. All of it." Her voice shook. "He made me."
A slow exhale left him, and Tee turned his head away again. That was as much as he suspected had happened in the dungeons with Mordred, but would she tell him something he didn't know?
"Everyone thinks it's a joke, that it's all fun, like tea leaves and crystal balls," Ruby spat, turning away, too. "Even that hack Trelawney — she had me meditating or something. But it's not like that. It's life and death. It's always life and death."
Tee remembered words whispered in what felt like another life, in Ollivander's shop, before he understood anything of real importance.
The wand of yew is reputed to endow its possessor with the power of life and death, destruction and creation…
But he no longer carried the yew wand. He doubted it would choose him now, should they meet again. In that other lifetime, he had struggled against the inevitable, swore he could defeat Death, and now… now he wasn't sure if such a thing was possible. He had already paid the ultimate price.
"No one can help me," said Ruby, her voice low and full of horror. She shivered again, looking across the room — from the simmering cauldron at her feet to the neatly-made bed to the cluttered desk. "Never mind. I shouldn't've come."
With not another word or glance to spare, she walked out of the room and shut the door behind her; something about the sound rang with a certain finality, and Tee was not sure if she would ever come back.
He didn't know quite how to feel about that; he sat down heavily on his bed, rubbing his hands together to warm them. There was a draft coming from the window. He should probably fix that.
No one can help me.
His own fifth year, which felt so long ago, sprang to mind.
Desperation, Tom, desperation. You know that it drives the human mind to the most destructive of places.
What was her secret? What had Mordred forced her to scry that had so disturbed her? Even with Legilimency on his side, it would be impossible for him to discover it against her will. Extreme self-denial, after all, was a core tenet of Occlumency.
Then again, he had never much enjoyed the idea of destiny as an unstoppable and unchangeable force — but he had been resigned to it, up until the oft-repeated observation that he was not supposed to exist, or at least not in this form, the result of a string of improbabilities.
There had to be some method to the madness, some underlying structure.
He had better go — no use ruminating — or else he'd be late for Dumbledore's meeting.
They say there is always help in Hogwarts for those who look, he considered as he laced his shoes*.* And for most, that was true.
What would have happened if someone had been able to help him?
No, Tee realised, if I'd asked for help from anyone but Salazar, because to him, I was just a means to an end. If I'd known who to turn to.
The image from the Mirror of Erised seared into the back of his brain as he left the room. He could have been great, his life could have been meaningful. But he hadn't left well enough alone, had he? He knew the risks. He knew the price, or at least he'd thought he did: Tamper with the deepest mysteries ― the source of life, the essence of self ― only if prepared for consequences of the most extreme and dangerous kind.
All he had to show for it was fifty years in the diary and the ghost on the second floor.
If he'd had the gift she did — foreknowledge — he would have been able to think of a way out of this. He wouldn't have squandered it like she was right now. He would have treated it with the reverence and dedication that it deserved.
Oh, just like how you treated Tom Riddle's soul with reverence? asked a small, peevish voice, and Tee clamped down on it, hard.
It's not the same thing, he told himself. But the denial sounded hollow.
"Why is he here?" asked the Potions Master, Severus Snape, as Tee made his way into the Headmaster's office.
He ignored the aspersion — expected, really, at this point — and breezed past Snape to his usual spot. Everyone looked up, and Tee catalogued the rest of the attendees.
There was Bill Weasley, his one-time collaborator on decoding the Slash Curse, the only person here who didn't know who Tee really was, and so he nodded by way of greeting; the passive-aggressive librarian, Lupin, who pretended not to have noticed him coming in; Minerva, who, on the contrary, made a point of glaring; and of course, Dumbledore himself, behind the desk.
"Professor Dumbledore asked me to be here," said Tee, selecting his most polite voice, one befitting of Slytherin Prefect Tom Riddle.
Snape's dark eyes narrowed to slits, and Tee returned it with a smile. Obviously, the man was a Legilimens, but Tee trusted his own skill, and his worst secret was already out. The likelihood of Snape discovering Tee was the Occamy eggshell thief was unlikely. He probably didn't know it was missing yet, and if he did, there were surely other suspects.
Snape's gaze swung towards Dumbledore, and Minerva's followed.
"If you are about to attempt to defuse the situation with some monstrous variety of sweets," said Snape, "please desist."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with amusement. "My dear Severus, you know me so well. Ah, I will skip past the subterfuge then, if I must."
"Please do," said Minerva, crossing her arms.
This, thought Tee, at the very least, will be interesting. He settled into his chair and stretched out his legs. A heavy silence had come over the room, and Dumbledore took off his half-moon glasses and folded them before clearing his throat. Somehow, he looked older without them.
"Despite our best attempts at influencing the Wizengamot," said Dumbledore, casting that piercing look over the whole room, each member of his audience hanging on the edge of the unfinished sentence, "the Blood Purity Bill has passed, as I am sure you are all aware."
The silence went from heavy to tense. Minerva and Snape exchanged a look.
"Now," said Dumbledore. "We cannot push back directly against Section Two, but we must against Section One. It is none of Narcissa Malfoy's concern — or, shall I say, Voldemort's — what names the Quill of Acceptance chooses to write in the Book of Admittance. If she wishes to talk of tradition — well, that has been tradition for a thousand years."
"They must be made to see sense," said Minerva.
"They won't," said Tee, and everyone turned to look at him, Dumbledore with a raised eyebrow. "It's what they've always wanted."
And, he thought, that's why Voldemort is giving it to them. Dumbledore's stare seemed to grow particularly penetrating, and again, Tee was hit with that same suspicion that the main reason Dumbledore kept him around was for his unique insight into Voldemort's perspective.
"He's right," said Lupin heavily; he looked uncomfortable, and not just from the awkward, slouched way he was sitting. "I'm afraid anything we say against it is preaching to the converted."
"But most people think all of this is a step too far—" Bill started, but not before Minerva silenced him with a look.
"You'd say so, Mr— Professor Weasley, but you weren't here to see how many supported Grindelwald, how many still think everything since Nobby Leach was a mistake."
Her words hung in the air like an indictment. Unsettling the calm by stating the unpleasant truth had always been amongst the chiefest of her skills, Tee reflected.
Nobby Leach was a name that lived in the fifty-year gap; but Tee remembered, too well, exactly how many people had supported Grindelwald, no less than the entirety of the old pureblood families and probably more. It wasn't surprising. He had promised them everything they'd ever wanted, protection from the things they believed threatened their way of life. Of course Voldemort would execute the very same playbook.
He had, after all, sat in that theatre balcony at the Sign of the Rooks with Lestrange, Mulciber, Nott, and Avery, oh-so-long ago…
"...Oh, and what a world we could make for all humanity, we who live for truth, for freedom... and for love. It is not we who are violent. It is not we who inspire senseless wars and leave behind orphaned children. We only wish to defend ourselves—"
Grindelwald had been a great orator, a trait Tee never had possessed. No wonder Voldemort had hundreds of mouthpieces to speak for him instead.
It all made terrible, logical sense. Except for one thing:
So, he gives them everything they ever wanted. To what end?
"This," said Minerva, through her teeth, "is why Narcissa had Crouch Senior killed. There is no one senior enough now to challenge her."
"What about Scrimgeour?" asked Bill, who was jiggling his knee up and down. "He's Head of the Auror Office."
"Jobsworth, like the majority of those employed by the Ministry," said Minerva. "I should know. They select for the trait."
Why had Dumbledore called them all here? He was not talking much — and Tee knew firsthand how much Dumbledore loved the sound of his own voice.
It was not to inform them of anything. They all, as he said, knew of the Blood Purity Bill's existence.
So it must be to study their responses.
"We can certainly count on the Ministry to be impotent," said Lupin, lifting his gaze from the floor. "Well — not least because it has been intentionally knee-capped. That means that our only recourse is the International Confederation."
Now, Dumbledore smiled, as if Lupin had raised his hand in class and given the correct answer.
"I see we come to the same conclusion, Remus. And serendipitously, the next conference is to be held in Hemel Hempstead."
"But the International Confederation of Wizards only concerns itself with international matters," said Minerva, ever the stickler for details. "He is a domestic matter."
Amusement (ill-placed, really, Tee thought) pulled at the corners of Dumbledore's mouth. "Then, we must convince them that Voldemort is a threat to international stability."
He had always had the habit of making the enormous sound simple. The whole room seemed stunned.
"All the International Confederation cares for is maintaining the International Statute of Secrecy," said Snape disdainfully. "You are more likely to rouse them with tales of Muggle sightings of the Loch Ness Monster."
Subtle as a bull in a china shop, isn't he? Tee rested his head on his arm, studying the man. Dumbledore seemed to like him, though. Had Snape been his successor? The next lost boy to sit across the desk from Dumbledore, evading probing questions? Had Dumbledore taken a firmer hand this time, with the fall of Tom Riddle fresh in his memory?
He glanced over at everyone else again. Lupin was dragging a hand over his scarred face, wincing with irritation.
"There's always spillover," he said, gesturing vaguely. "There are surely those overseas who support him, who might behave like copycats."
"However, Lupin, that would require finding evidence of terrorist groups running amok on the seven continents," said Snape. "Have you any evidence of such a thing?"
Lupin shook his head, and Snape harrumphed in response, sweeping his long hair out of his face.
The air in the office had grown yet more stifling. Tee studied the Muggle chessboard lying on Dumbledore's desk, which was a strange implement and one he didn't recall. His fingers traced the cool, smooth surface of the black pieces sitting in front of him, tracing the knight's mane, the king's cross, the queen's crown.
"So what if you have no evidence?" He barely realised he was speaking, but everyone turned to look at him, so he continued. "There's bound to be riots, unrest, whispers. Any of which could lead back to Voldemort."
Tee picked up the king, hefting it in his hand. It was cold and surprisingly heavy. His grip closed around it, the points of the cross pressing into his palm.
"You don't have to prove guilt," he said, meeting Dumbledore's piercing gaze. Look all you want. I'm handing you the truth on a silver platter. "You just need to convince them that you have a common adversary."
He opened his hand and let the king fall to the floor with a heavy thunk, rolling between his feet. Minerva muttered something derogatory under her breath. But he just kept talking, for some reason, the words tumbling out of his mouth like water gushing out from a collapsed dam.
"Voldemort doesn't care about blood purity, or at least, not down to the bone, like say, Narcissa Malfoy."
It was all falling into place in his head like puzzle pieces. After all, what was it he had told Harry Potter on the night of the Siege of Hogwarts? Lord Voldemort wasalwayswith me.
"If the politics look like children's games, that's because they are."
Bill's eyes were wide, his mouth slightly agape. Snape was pretending not to pay attention. Minerva looked half-enraged, half-convinced. Dumbledore was nodding along, with that infuriating half-smile plastered on his face.
"He wants Umbridge and Narcissa to run the country into the ground. It's— it's all pantomime. The name — everything. He's always hated it. I always thought all the rules and the bureaucracy were stupid, because they are. It's so obvious. All he wants to do now is see this world burn."
"That doesn't make sense," said Bill, shaking his head. Clearly, he had not heard Tee's Freudian slip.
"No, he told me himself, Bill," said Dumbledore. "His foolish dream is to remake this world in his own image. No matter if he has to damn us all to Tartarus — in fact, that would be preferable."
No one knew how to fill the pause, so Dumbledore, unsurprisingly, offered himself as tribute. "Thank you all for your… contributions. I will do my best to do them justice."
That was another one of his carefully-veiled, polite ways of dismissing them. Tee was out of his chair first, and on his way out, he saw that Dumbledore had asked Snape to linger. What could they possibly be discussing in secret?
Unfortunately, his curiosity led to him being cornered on the stairs by Minerva.
"I don't know what game you think you are playing, Riddle," she hissed, her pointed finger hovering inches from his face.
She had only grown more formidable with age; and in his recollection, everyone in Hogwarts had received a tongue-lashing from Minerva McGonagall, even her seniors, and maintained a healthy fear of her.
"But?" asked Tee.
Everyone but him.
The scowl, too, was ever so familiar.
"But, you will find I am much less forgiving than Professor Dumbledore!"
"Oh, Minerva, I didn't need a threat from you to be aware of that," said Tee sweetly. "Though, if you give it to me in writing, I could pin it up on the wall, just to be safe."
She turned towards him, and Tee had the impression of a cat with all its hairs standing on end.
"I know what you are."
Each word was like a shard of ice in his veins. He stilled, hand gripping the bannister. This should not be a surprise. If Dumbledore knew, why should it be a complete secret? Of course, with the discovery of Mordred, to a quick mind like Minerva's, it should be more or less confirmed.
"I felt sorry for you," said Minerva, as she had before, and it stung, perhaps exactly as intended, but Tee forced himself not to flinch. "All fifth year — I thought something was wrong with you!"
It was fifty years ago, and they were standing in an abandoned corridor.
"Well, you've not been yourself all year and especially this term, Tom. At first, I thought it might have been O.W.L.s, but I know a few people are doing ten or eleven, and they don't look nearly as stressed as you do. You've been so upset, and just ― justoffsomehow. Poppy thinks so too... And then Lestrange, of all people, told me you've been mumbling in your sleep, and I couldn't help―"
"My first instinct was completely right. It turned out I should have listened to my head, instead of being distracted by—" Minerva made a dismissive gesture, looking him up and down with disgust.
"I couldn't help but think you might have a guilty conscience! You've just been so odd and irritable, and I simplycan'tunderstand why you looked so guilty and secretive that day in Gryffindor Tower. There's nothing you have to be ashamed of, is there? You'd better just tell the truth and have it come out quickly instead of dragging it out because things whispered in the dark always come to light anyway."
"All that time, you were terrorising students with Slytherin's monster and making Horcruxes, right under all of our noses! It shows how foolish we all were to trust you and I fear Professor Dumbledore is making the same mistake again! His logic fails around you! He believes you the son he never had!"
Something in him stilled. Minerva had always had the ability to see him clearly — or at least, clearer than everyone else around him. Was she right again? She could not be. Dumbledore had never been particularly lenient. Just watchful.
Guilt. Was that what that had been?
No, perhaps not. He'd been stupid, though. Running from fear like a headless chicken, with nothing but concepts of a plan which could only go terribly wrong. There'd been a bad feeling about the whole thing from start to finish. Part of him wished he'd never discovered the Chamber of Secrets or spoken to Salazar all those years ago, been forced to spend all those years slowly losing every shred of sanity in the diary. Someone had reaped the hard-won rewards, but not him. Tee knew he was still as mortal as the day he was born. And worst of all, he was a mistake.
Minerva was still glaring at him, holding him to a response to his crimes, past and future.
"I swore an Unbreakable Vow. You sealed it," he said coldly. "Besides, I have no incentive to lie to you now."
"Ah." Minerva lifted her chin, eyes sparkling with scorn and triumph. "I know that look. You think you've won whatever game you're playing."
"I'm not the boy you remember, Minerva," said Tee. "Tom Riddle is dead. And me — I've grown out of playing games."
With that, he swept past her down the stone staircase.
Living the lie was, indeed, the hard part. No sooner had Mafalda had her Mental Preparedness module stamped with a glossy black '10/10' in her handbook than the summons had come, and delivered by her dear cousin Percy of all people.
Fortunately, he still didn't know about that time she'd Polyjuiced herself as him to sneak around Lockhart's office. Otherwise, he probably wouldn't be puffing up his chest to announce that she was being assigned to Narcissa Malfoy and how it was an honour, especially at this early point in her career.
She did derive some dregs of amusement from how incongruous he looked in the scarlet-streaked chaos of Auror Headquarters; dressed in drab colours with his hair gelled out of his face in an immovable coif, looking around at everything condescendingly through his horn-rimmed glasses.
"I think you ought to come now," said Percy, but Mafalda did not heed him at first. She needed to check that the listening device from Diggle was secure and hidden under the collar of her undershirt.
All of a sudden, Percy seized her by the arm, and the air left Mafalda's lungs. He had never been particularly tactile, especially compared to his siblings, and even eschewed transport by broom most of the time.
What's going on with him?
"We're being watched—" Percy hissed into her ear, words tainted with the acid scent of coffee.
"I know. I know a lot more than you do, trust me," said Mafalda under her breath, and then they started moving into the corridor.
Junior Assistant to the Minister for Magic was an unbelievably good job for someone not yet two years out of Hogwarts, thought Mafalda, though it suited someone who took himself so seriously and in hindsight, was likely for the purpose of spying on the Weasleys and thus the Order.
Whose side was Percy really on, Mafalda wondered, as they stood side-by-side in the lift. Can I trust him?
It was a disturbing way to think. They'd always been at odds since the day they'd met. But he'd been her annoying, pompous little cousin. Not a turncoat. Not a traitor.
Isn't that the role you're playing, too?
Things were already starting to get confusing. The necessary evils were already taking a toll. The Order had decided she should give Narcissa the Tonks' location, but it still ate at her.
Everything is real now — the risks — they're all real.
"Level One," came the now-dreaded announcement. "Minister for Magic and Support Staff."
They moved off the lift and into the decadent surroundings of Level One, the plush purple carpet swallowing their footsteps. Percy was checking a shining pocket-watch, and muttering, "Best not to be late."
This time, voices emanated from behind the door of Narcissa's office, but they went straight in, to bothering to knock. Someone was sitting in front of the desk, a man whom Mafalda did not recognise.
"—do you really think that necessary?"
Narcissa rose from her chair, hands clasped before. "Apologies for the interruption. Miss Prewett — who will be responsible for our safety- and Mr. Weasley — who reports directly to the Minister herself. May I present Babajide Akingbade, Supreme Mugwumpof theInternational Confederation of Wizards?"
A chill ran down Mafalda's spine. She did recognise him now — she remembered that issue of the Daily Prophet, now, from two years ago, a young man with an earnest face and close-cropped hair on the front page. He did not look so young now, though Mafalda wasn't sure if it was the stress of the job or it had simply been an old picture.
More to the point, what was he doing here? Narcissa, officially, was only the Special Advisor to the Minister for Magic.
Unless Voldemort has global ambitions.
"Pleasure to meet you, Mugwump Akingbade," said Percy with the greatest formality, extending his hand. "I, too, apologise for the interruption; I thought Mrs. Malfoy was alone."
"Oh, it is no bother," said Akingbade warmly, shaking his hand. "She has informed me that I would be meeting some of the best and brightest during my visit."
Mafalda worried that Percy would burst with pride. Meanwhile, Narcissa had sidled up to the Supreme Mugwump on her way to the door with a wan smile.
"Yes, indeed… And from some of our oldest and greatest families — the Prewetts, the Weasleys, and the Selwyns. They are proof the value we place on tradition is warranted."
There was an uncomfortable pause.
"Yes, yes," said Akingbade, as if to fill the silence, but he seemed as uncomfortable as Mafalda felt. "But as pleasant as this visit has been, I am not here on leisure, Mrs. Malfoy, you must understand."
Narcissa stopped halfway to the door, the smile hardening on her face like a crystal forming.
"I am afraid I do not know what you mean," she said.
Of course she does.
"What I mean," said Akingbade, looking ashen, "is that the international magical community is concerned, as is their full right, about the rumours that Lord Voldemort exerts influence over the British Ministry of Magic. After the passing of the Blood Purity Bill in January, a majority of the delegates compelled me to make an appearance."
All the while that he spoke, Narcissa's eyes had been growing colder and colder. Percy looked nervously between them, completely blindsided.
Ah, thought Mafalda, with a touch of schadenfreude, so Narcissa didn't plan this and something isn't going her way, for once. She must be trying to keep him away from Umbridge, so he can't get anything out of her.
How would Narcissa manage to wriggle out of this one? After all, her favourite method — assassination — would only dig herself deeper.
"For example," said Akingbade, "I have here noted that Section One requires that no more, as you call them, Muggle-born students are to be admitted to Hogwarts. As a nation home to one of the eleven foundational schools, I hope you are aware that you are held to certain international requirements."
"Durmstrang Institute reserves the right to include lineage as a criterion for acceptance," said Narcissa, her voice cold and slippery as a bolt of silk.
Irritation flickered across Akingbade's face. "Every year, Durmstrang Institute dances closer and closer to losing its accreditation status. And besides, their district is also covered by Koldovstoretz."
"Well," Narcissa shrugged, easing the door open and placing a pointed foot onto the downy, purple carpeting outside, "Koldovstoretz is also an option for British Muggle-borns if they so wish to be educated in a formal setting. Or, perhaps — Beauxbatons — an excellent institution, with Flamel himself as an alumnus."
Percy rushed to hold the door open for Akingbade, who paid him no mind as he breezed out of the office, following Narcissa's slow promenade to the lifts.
"So you would like me to report to the International Confederation that a significant part of the wizarding population in Britain is being pushed out of their own country's school system?" asked Akingbade, the warm sapped from his voice and replaced with a chilly haughtiness that rivalled Narcissa's.
Mafalda watched, entranced, as Narcissa turned to look over her shoulder to meet the challenge. Her smile was pained, and it seemed more a baring of teeth than an expression of joy.
Beside her, Percy's eyes widened behind his horn-rimmed glasses, his mouth propped slightly open as they moved into the lift.
So now you finally see the truth of the matter, my perfect, idiot cousin, thought Mafalda, as the ground dropped away. The silence in the lift was near-suffocating, and Mafalda felt sweat streaking under her heavy, wool over-robes. She glanced to her right. Percy was pulling at his collar as if trying to cool himself, and when he realised Mafalda was looking at him, his eyes snapped away.
She was glad to hear the lift chime, "Atrium."
The second the grilles slid open, Mafalda slipped out, glad to be free of that suffocating air. Akingbade followed, brushing nonexistent dust off of his robes. Somehow, Narcissa had regained her composure, smiling perfunctorily at the Ministry employees drifting across the Atrium.
Absent-mindedly, Mafalda ran her fingers over her collar and then realised she was tracing the listening device, and snatched her hand away. But Narcissa and Akingbade were not paying any attention to her.
Akingbade had finally caught sight of Umbridge. Or, at least, that was what Mafalda surmised, for she had seen Hassan Shafiq first — caught sight of a head of dark curls and a swathe of scarlet robes, his Designated Security Detail badge, just like the one Mafalda was now wearing, sparkling in the bright lights of the Atrium and then he'd nodded at her in greeting, and her blood ran cold. Only then did she notice Umbridge's squat form beside him, and Akingbade started to stride towards her.
"Minister!" he called. "Just the person whom I wanted to see!"
Umbridge glanced up at him, and the blood seemed to drain from her face. Turning, she tried to make an escape, but the clock had just struck twelve and the crowd was now far too thick to disappear. Akingbade was beginning to close the distance, Percy hurrying after him.
Well, I hope Akingbade brought security because Narcissa looks murderous.
That was to say, her face was as placid as ever, but her left hand was crumpling the silk fabric of her dove-grey robes.
"Come," said Narcissa sharply, with a hand on Mafalda's shoulder. "We shall go back to my office."
A sinking feeling was coming over Mafalda. Being in the office with Akingbade and Percy was one thing — being alone with her was another matter altogether.
"Yes," said Mafalda, swallowing hard. I suppose there's something she wants to tell me in private. With one last, longing glance at the hustle and bustle of the Atrium, she followed Narcissa back towards the lifts. Their descent was just as silent as their ascent, but this time, Mafalda could feel Narcissa's rage ready to boil over. It was impressive that she managed to keep her composure on the way back to her office. Mid-levels scurried out of her way as she charged down the corridor, robes streaming behind her and Mafalda in her wake.
The door to her office had not even shut fully before Narcissa snarled, "Now, who in the International Confederation is kicking up such a fuss? This — this is a conspiracy! They did nothing in the seventies. They've done nothing since Grindelwald. They're impotent. All they care for is maintaining the International Statute of Secrecy. Why meddle in domestic matters?"
As she ranted, she poured herself a glass of whatever horrible liquid resided in the crystal decanter. It started to overflow and pool around the glass in an amber puddle, but Mafalda thought it wise to hold her tongue.
"This means—" Narcissa swung around, her pale hair whipping like an arrow "—this means our very own delegate instigated this 'investigation.'"
"Who?" asked Mafalda, wishing she was anywhere but here.
Narcissa's cold, calculating demeanour had turned nearly rabid. Her mouth glistened, her eyes wide and livid. Instinctively, Mafalda took a step back, her skin prickling with goosebumps.
"Albus Dumbledore."