"ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟᴜɴᴅᴇʀꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏᴀʀᴅ, ᴡᴀɪᴛɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ." — ꜱᴀᴠɪᴇʟʟʏ ᴛᴀʀᴛᴀᴋᴏᴡᴇʀ

Chapter Four: Counter Attacks

Headquarters at the Lestranges' home was far different from Malfoy Manor, which had been sufficiently remote that many Death Eaters congregating there was an easy situation to manage.

However, Dover was far, far busier than it had been in the time of the Norman Conquest when the head of the family at the time had taken a fancy to the particular ambiance of the stark white cliffs.

For one, there were all of those irritating tourists.

Voldemort had never quite decided whether he admired or loathed the practice of naming one's home. Whitehaven (he was certain the fact that it could be misheard as 'white raven' was intentional), in addition, had the irritating property of being close enough to the white cliffs (which were really quite beautiful) to always having a Muggle or two lingering around the vicinity, gawking at everything with their cameras. Despite the beauty of the location, Voldemort was certain it was not worth the headache. However, he could not think of a suitable alternative. Rabastan Lestrange, after all, had been killed (by Harry Potter, to add insult to injury), and the family would need some sort of recognition in return for their sacrifice.

At least the whole assembly had gotten here without incident — and at the very least, as long as enough Memory Charms were performed, what could the International Confederation of Wizards say? They were little more than a ceremonial body, after all.

Right now, Voldemort sat at the head of the table, Rodolphus to his left, a position selected so as not to cause insult but to remind them all of who ought to receive the ultimate respect. Lucius was evidently experiencing a measure of schadenfreude at seeing his brother-in-law in the same discomforting position which he had been in a year ago.

Voldemort wondered if it was sweet enough to wash away the bitter aftertaste of what Harry Potter had done to Malfoy Manor. Despite the ignominy of the circumstances of the incident, Voldemort could not help but find it somewhat of a fitting end to the legacy of the Malfoy ancestral home. Good riddance, in fact.

His latest failure to dispose of his greatest and his prophesied enemy, however… he had been so irritatingly close to victory! Even when Dumbledore arrived with the Order, the situation was still under control. If only that bottle had not broken at that exact moment, and all because of a stray curse!

…the kingdom was lost, and all for the loss of a horseshoe nail…

Clearly, the details were lacking. A position of power was always precarious, and it only took one grain of sand to tip the scales.

"You all know why you are here, I expect?"

Silence rang throughout the room. Bella, sitting to his right, preened and tried to look knowing. Perhaps she had guessed, thought Voldemort. Perhaps they all had guessed, but were too afraid to voice it.

As they ought to be.

"Albus Dumbledore must be immediately dealt with," said Voldemort, his eyes gliding over the table as every face turned towards him. "That we all understand to be imperative."

Now, they must all be thinking of his continued failures to dispose of Dumbledore. They must. He should move on.

"He hides in Hogwarts, behind his Order and the children he uses as shields."

Yes. That sounded a suitable rebuke. It drew the attention away from his own shortcomings and towards Dumbledore's. After all, it was true, was it not?

"How, My Lord, if I may ask, would that be accomplished?"

Dolohov. Voldemort had never much liked how everything that came out of that man's mouth sounded like a taunt. Still, he knew how to make himself useful, and he had been loyal enough not to attempt to lie himself out of Azkaban… unlike slippery Lucius.

And to his question… Voldemort had attempted an attack on Hogwarts; he had staged an assassination by Inferi; he had tried luring him into a trap at Malfoy Manor. He should have succeeded at least once. As with Harry Potter, fate always conspired against him. It was ultimately not his fault. He had done everything right. Accounted for every reasonable eventuality. And yet, the repeated failure stung. It put his position into question. How again, irritating.

The sounds of shuffling feet and whispers reverberated through the high-ceiling dining room, and about thirty pairs of eyes gazed at him.

Oh. They were waiting for him to answer Dolohov's question.

Perhaps it was best to delegate. A good leader knew when to delegate.

"Severus," said Voldemort, lingering on the final syllable. Severus's eyes flicked up from the table to Voldemort, holding his gaze. He did not look surprised.

Bellatrix, however, leaned over the table, unable to suppress her reaction. Voldemort did so enjoy the feeling of suspense strung 'round a dinner table and, furthermore, to sit in the middle of all the strings. In the corner of his vision, he saw Lucius bend to whisper something to Narcissa. Thaddeus Nott's mouth thinned, etching wrinkles around his nose.

"Severus, I expect you have been fulfilling your important duty with the utmost diligence?"

Not a falter. Not a beat of hesitation.

"Yes, My Lord. He is very careful these days. I do not think an assassination by poison would be successful."

"But he trusts you, does he not?"

It was indeed a loaded question. Barty Crouch eyed Severus like a hyena waiting for a lion to move away from its kill. Silly boy, you could never take his place.

"I— I believe so, My Lord."

"Then you are the best poised to carry it out. Sooner rather than later," said Voldemort in an offhand manner. Now, they would all wonder why he did not deal with the problem himself. Bellatrix certainly would.

Come to think of it, he seemed a little strange as of late. Oddly… quiet. The boy's appearance unsettled her. He knew it. Truth be told, the boy unsettled him, too. The locket, the diary… this trend must not continue. The diadem, as with the others, he was sure was safe. The cup remained in Bellatrix's own vault.

Besides, there was no indication that Dumbledore knew of the Horcruxes, and even if he did, well… he would not be around long enough for it to be a problem. Or, at least, Voldemort did not intend him to be. There was no room left now for mistakes. Enough had been made. He was in danger of a precarious drop from the high throne if he did not succeed.

After dinner, they moved to the basement. It was the only place in Whitehaven that had the right sort of ambience for the night's proceedings — and presentation was oh-so-important. That, after all, was the point of the masks and the robes and the flickering candlelight throwing twisted shadows across the echoing, arched ceiling.

Of course, Voldemort had made up the 'ritual,' loosely based on some unsubstantiated passage written by Pliny the Elder. But it did make the Death Eaters feel important. It also was a nice opportunity to show off his skill at Transfiguration.

A conjured oak tree erupted from a gouge in the stone floor, its green boughs waving in an unseen, unfelt breeze, and mistletoe curled around the thick trunk studded with white berries. Clusters of Death Eaters in full regalia stood on either side of the tree — except for Bellatrix, Mistress of Ceremonies, wearing white and holding two red strings bound around the necks of two snow-white bulls. Voldemort could not help but note that she still looked distracted, gaze darting back and forth under the mask, shuffling her feet. Perhaps he should say something about the boy. He knew very well what strange thoughts could fill the dark void of ignorance. Nature abhors a vacuum.

But what to say? Voldemort pressed the bridge of his nose as one of the bulls shook its head. That was a problem for tomorrow.

The initiates approached, like Bellatrix, wearing white robes. Even if Voldemort did not know each of his inner circle by mannerism and silhouette, it would be impossible not to notice Lucius Malfoy and Thaddeus Nott standing to attention and craning their necks to watch, not only their own son, but the other, perhaps hoping the latter would fail the test. At least Narcissa had enough self-control not to rubber-neck. This parenting business seemed to be an undue amount of labour. That was likely what Merope had thought, before she—

Never mind that. Voldemort quickly schooled his face into an expression of watchful neutrality. After all, he was the only unmasked one — apart from the boys.

He had to admit that Draco looked more the part, not that appearances mattered. Still, Voldemort marvelled that he reminded him so of Regulus; he had not thought the boy capable of the dignified seriousness that the Blacks so valued — and he, in fact, looked more Black than Malfoy now. The time he had spent around his aunt must have done him good.

On his right, Theodore Nott sized up his fellow initiate, and then the bull. Voldemort hoped Thaddeus had said nothing of the 'secret ritual,' but the boy seemed to have an idea of what he was meant to do.

And now came his part.

"You have shown great promise."

Well, that was up for debate. Nevertheless, the Malfoys preened, and so did Thaddeus. The boys seemed too frightened to do anything but stand stock-still.

Then again, Voldemort supposed, they wouldn't be here if they hadn't passed the bar of competence — low though it was, if Wormtail could manage to bumble his way over it.

"You have done our cause a service."

One of the bulls flicked its horned head again, but Bellatrix didn't even stir.

Better get a move on.

"You have…" Now, what was possibly unique and compelling about two, snivelling pubescent boys? "…been most effective in your roles at Hogwarts…"

He regarded Draco Malfoy again, the firelight cast over his expressionless face. Could that be the assassin? Dumbledore's Achilles' heel was his devotion and utter trust in his beloved students, including an erstwhile Slytherin prefect, after all. Even if the boy was incapable of the killing blow, surely he could play a role in Dumbledore's demise…

"…and we look forward to your progress."

That must be sufficient praise. Voldemort sat down again. The assembly of Death Eaters stirred, like Voldemort, sizing up the initiates, whispering amongst themselves.

"This should be good," Avery muttered.

"Oh, I don't know. I hear little Malfoy got up to quite the exploits at Durmstrang," Dolohov whispered back.

Voldemort's fingers clenched around the arm of his chair. They were disrespecting the (made-up) ritual. He glared at them, and the whispers stopped immediately.

To Avery's point, Draco practically jumped out of his skin when Bellatrix directed him to pick up one of the golden sickles lying at her feet and looked visibly relieved when he was told to cut a length of mistletoe. Theodore, by contrast, smirked the whole way. So perhaps Nott Senior's lips hadn't been sealed as tight as they should have been. Shame, really. Someone would have to be disciplined.

"Allow me to reveal to you the source of our mysteries," said Bellatrix, her voice echoing off the ceiling and far into the shadowy depths of the dungeon. The boys squinted at her, shifting nervously, unsure if it was over or not. "There is one final step before the Mark. One last test. To be worthy, you must face your last enemy."

She gripped the reins tighter, higher up, holding the bulls fast. They backed away. Did they know? It was said cows knew they were waiting to be slaughtered. Voldemort had always thought them dumb animals, but then, he had never lived in the countryside — aside from his excursions in Albania — he would not know firsthand.

But yes. He could feel Death's dark presence in the room — but yet — even in its shadow, he feared no evil. It was not his soul that would be freed tonight.

A ripple of surprise moved through the crowd as Theodore stepped up first. It was as Voldemort had predicted. He ducked under the bull's waving head, and the sharp sickle was drawn in a flash — but not before a bellowing scream filled the room, the bull thrashing as red blood gushed into the bowl lying before it. The other bull spooked, trying to escape, but it could not step out of the pre-drawn bounds. Of course, they could have been spelled quiet and calm, but that wouldn't have been as good a performance now, would it?

Theodore stepped back, looking pleased with himself as the bull slumped to the ground, landing on its side with a loud thump. A splash of red stuck to one side of his face, clumping his hair.

It is still not over. Don't smile yet.

Draco looked positively horrified, hand trembling around the sickle. Voldemort didn't need Occlumency to notice the Malfoys' panic. They were whispering to each other, now, unsure he would be able to do it.

If he can't, he's worthless.

It seemed the boy knew that, too, for he took a slow, shaky breath before approaching the sacrificial animal. The hand holding the sickle edged closer… and closer…

So easy with a wand, Voldemort reflected. There was a sense of separation to it and also of control. It was always neat. Clean. Measured. In fact, he found himself suspicious of those who found this test too easy. Like Barty Crouch Junior, for one. They were always difficult variables. Loose cannons.

The boy had managed to get close enough; Bellatrix pulled harder on the rein to keep the bull still, clearly trying to help him get the job done. Draco shut his eyes, cringing, and swung wildly.

Of course, he missed.

"Just do it, Draco," hissed Bellatrix, barely audible.

Draco paused, his head cast up to the arched ceiling as if hoping for a miracle to descend from the heavens. When nothing came, he turned back to the bull. Both Theodore and his father seemed to be enjoying his struggle immensely. It was possible they were even betting on the likelihood of Draco throwing down the sickle and walking out.

"Quicker is better," Bellatrix was instructing under her breath. "Now!"

Voldemort imagined her eyes flashing, her teeth gritted.

"Imagine it is the thing you hate most."

Draco's face coloured a little, and he nodded, hand tightening around the sickle. Then, the sickle glinted in the light — slashing down, a horrid, jagged cut — and the air filled with bellowing and the scent of iron.

Lucius released his grip on Narcissa's shoulder. Even Bellatrix let out a sigh of relief. A flicker of disappointment passed over Theodore's face.

"Now—drink."

Theodore was already stooping to retrieve the bowl — yes, Thaddeus had most definitely coached him — while Draco looked askance.

"All of it?" he asked in a pale voice.

"No— just—"

Already, Theodore was setting the bowl down, a little of the blood having already dried brown on his white robes. With a sidelong glance, Draco copied him, his face contorting in distaste.

Voldemort looked out over the crowd again, taking note of Thaddeus Nott and the Malfoys once more. It was always interesting to watch their behaviour in full regalia. He did not even need Legilimency to see their innermost thoughts. There was something about being masked and standing amongst a faceless crowd that made people particularly… truthful. Nott Senior glowed with pride, legs planted wide, chin in the air, and the Malfoys were conferring again, shoulders together, shaking a little with relief.

As entertaining as it would be to catalogue the reactions of the rest of his followers, his full attention was now required. The boys had knelt at Bellatrix's instruction, and Voldemort stood up, his robes trailing past the bull carcasses. With a wave of his hand, they vanished, along with the oak tree. A chill seemed to come over the room.

"A great honour is about to be bestowed upon you," he murmured, and two reverent, fearful pairs of eyes gazed up at him. Bellatrix lurked behind him in that insistent, hovering manner she was so prone to.

The tip of his phoenix-feather wand glowed red.

Now, here was a conundrum — which to Mark first? It ought to be Theodore Nott, going by his performance, but he was not sure if Thaddeus Nott deserved the elevation. But if he Marked Draco first, it would be seen as mere favouritism towards the Malfoys.

"Theodore Nott," Voldemort murmured, "extend to me your left hand."

The arm rose shakily, proffered palm up. Draco had at least resisted swivelling his head, though he was glaring daggers at Theodore out of the corners of his eyes. Voldemort imagined Bellatrix's mouth had pressed into a thin line. Behind her in the crowd, the Malfoys were whispering again. Dolohov clapped Thaddeus Nott on the shoulder.

Theodore's composure (and smugness) finally wavered as Voldemort clasped his cold fingers around the boy's hand, wrapped around the pulse in his wrist. There was no attempt at gentleness.

So frail, so fragile.

"This will hurt," said the Dark Lord, lowering his wand to the flesh. The skin parted like butter under a hot knife, seeping with red, and the boy sucked in a breath.

Adding an analgesic spell, again, would have been simple, but not so memorable. After all, the message needed to sink in.

Voldemort considered this after the Marking was over, the newly initiated Death Eaters milling about in the crowd.

"…I think I will retire early, My Lord." Bellatrix glanced up at him through the eye-slits of her mask. It was difficult to tell whether or not she was angry at him. But her tone was strangely measured. Voldemort was not sure if her words were a demand, a request, an invitation or a mere statement. Something was certainly off about her. But he could not quite put his finger on it. It was like a song he knew well but had forgotten one note of.

Tomorrow's problem, he thought.

And out loud: "Very well, then."

Harry knew he was supposed to be pretending that he hadn't heard anything about the spy in the Order, but his curiosity was getting to be too much to bear at this point. All of August had been slow and quiet after Hermione left 12 Grimmauld Place, the visitors slowing to a trickle. The few that did come discussed things in low tones with Sirius, conversation slowing whenever they caught sight of him.

First the cipher. Then the Snatchers. Now 'Redacted.'

"Are we seriously pretending this is normal?"

"Pretending what is normal?" Ruby looked up from the copy of Advanced Rune Translation propped open in her lap.

Harry said nothing but looked at her pointedly while she turned the page.

"Oh, what are we supposed to do about it? Even Sirius won't say anything—"

"That's how you know it's bad."

Ruby pressed her lips together. Evidently, she was having a hard time disagreeing, because she even dog-eared the page with great reluctance and shut Advanced Rune Translation.

"Did you get a look at the notes?" It sounded like she really wanted to know but was trying equally hard not to let it on that she did.

"No," said Harry. He thought about it for a second. "I don't think it would matter if I did, would it? That's the point of a cypher."

"Maybe—" Now, she was fiddling with the corner of the book, swinging her feet under the table "—maybe there's some kind of blood activation, I don't know."

It sounded like a nice solution, but far, far too simple. And Harry didn't like the idea that Lily's notebook was with Snape right now, as far as he could tell — because Snape seemed the likeliest suspect for 'Redacted'. Not only had he never much liked Harry and Ruby (and, in fact, gone out of his way to be as horrible as possible to them from the beginning save a precious few occasions), but he seemed to have access to far more information than anyone else in the Order except Dumbledore and McGonagall.

"Why would Voldemort need more spies?" asked Ruby, drumming her fingers on the table, which startled Harry out of his thoughts. "He's got Malfoy and Nott."

"Maybe he wants an actual adult doing his work for him now." Something occurred to Harry. "Malfoy and Nott can't handle the Order. Maybe he's got a big job this time. Like Pettigrew," he finished in a bitter tone.

Ruby held his gaze for a minute. "Or maybe he found out Malfoy helped us."

Harry had to admit that he'd forgotten about that wrinkle. Of course, he hadn't been there. Now, Malfoy was probably going to hold it over his head — even though all he had done was to fix the mess he'd made in the first place. And knowing how things usually went, Malfoy was probably the least of his worries.

I have a bad feeling about this, he thought, fiddling with the ouroboros ring. Sirius had just been telling them at regular intervals to keep their eyes open and their noses clean when they got to Hogwarts, but his nervous energy betrayed him. Is it just the spy, or mole, or whatever bothering him, or something else?

At that very moment, Sirius put his head around Ruby's bedroom door and asked if they were coming down for dinner.

Last supper, thought Harry, feeling very macabre all of a sudden as he trailed out of the room. He looked back over his shoulder. Hephaestus was lying on the seat of the bay window, which was open just a little bit to let the last of the summer breeze in. The lace-edged, yellowing lace curtain fluttered weakly, and the copy of Advanced Rune Translation was balanced precariously on the edge. Ruby's almost-packed trunk lay next to the dresser, and a dry petal floated down from the vase filled with long-dead roses…

"Coming?"

"Yeah!" Harry shut the door, maybe a little too hard, and hurried to catch up. The scornful faces of Black ancestors glared down at him; wry-mouthed Apollonia, pompous Pollux, Araminta shaking a copy of her Muggle-hunting bill in her fist.

The cold, grand dining room, once they reached it, was set for three. As was usual, they all bunched up near one end, which made it at least feel a little less austere. Sirius was clearly not happy about them leaving but doing his best to paper over his bad mood.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, looking at both of them, but Harry most of all. "Ready to go back?"

When neither answered, Sirius continued on. "School goes fast, now. You'll blink, and it'll be the end of seventh year," he said, in a tone that was supposed to be reassuring."

If I manage to stay alive that long. Harry's stomach turned, and he tried to pay attention to what was on his plate.

"Did Lupin say who Defence was?" asked Ruby, playing with her fork.

Harry wished she would ask about the important stuff, if she was going to ask questions. As it were, Sirius merely looked pensive and said:

"No, come to think of it. Don't worry, I'm sure Dumbledore will have sorted something out."

Right now, Harry wasn't particularly concerned about Defence. He couldn't remember anything he had discussed with Professor McGonagall last year about careers. There hardly seemed to be a point. Why were they being forced to pretend everything was alright and the biggest thing they had to worry about was N.E.W.T.s? Nothing had been alright since — well, he didn't know exactly — since Quirrell? The Chamber? Umbridge? The siege? Mordred? Malfoy Manor, for certain, had felt like some kind of turning point. Maybe that was it. Maybe everyone had decided to give up, move on, and accept that the wizarding world was turning into a nightmare. Maybe it had been a nightmare all along, just covered up with wonder and whimsy that had been slowly and surely stripped away from Harry's eyes.

"Listen," said Sirius, letting a little sourness leak into his voice now, "there's been reports about the Snatchers, about who's leading them—"

Harry's head snapped up. Finally!

"—you need to stay as far as possible away. I don't think they'll come into the grounds, but anything's possible. One of the leaders—" Sirius held his gaze, and then Ruby's "—is Fenrir Greyback."

Sirius said it as if it were a name Harry was supposed to know, but it only rang the vaguest of bells.

"A werewolf — a dangerous one. He gave himself completely over to the beast and became—" Sirius's face twisted "—savage. Including while he's in his so-called-sane, human form. He's not like the Death Eaters you've encountered. He has no sense of self-preservation, and very little logic. Do you understand?"

Harry couldn't say he wholly did. He'd never seen Lupin transformed, for instance. Moreover, he didn't know what exactly seemed to worry Sirius about Greyback. It was almost how he spoke about Pettigrew.

"Did you know him?" asked Ruby, having beaten Harry to the natural conclusion.

Sirius's face twisted again. "It's not my story to tell."

So that was a yes, then. Harry noticed that the room had gone cold all of a sudden. So whose is it?

"Harry," said Sirius, returning to his earlier, more controlled demeanour, "Dumbledore wants to see you tomorrow after dinner."

Not Ruby? "Why me?"

Harry's heart sank. It had to be about the Obscurus… about something bad…

Sirius's voice betrayed no hint. "He hasn't said, only that he needs to speak with you as soon as possible."

"He's had all summer to talk to me, and he hasn't told us anything. You haven't told us anything."

"Harry," said Sirius, and he reached across the table, but Harry snatched his hand away. He frowned. "There isn't anything I can tell you, because we don't know anything for certain."

"What good is that?" asked Harry. Ruby was glaring at him to shut up, but he didn't care.

"Not much good," said Sirius, "but I'm sorry to say, it just is what it is."

All of a sudden, a billion burning questions filled his head — the Snatchers and the cypher and the Obscurus and Dumbledore and the Ministry — but then it dawned on him that he was in the process of ruining what would be their last evening together in a long time by dragging this out into an argument that he clearly wasn't going to get anything useful out of.

"—and you," Sirius was saying to Ruby, "need to be very careful."

Ruby looked startled.

"Why?"

Harry noticed that she had mostly been pushing the food around on her plate and eating very little. Was she really that anxious about going back?

"You're in Slytherin, for one — I don't think Malfoy or Nott would try anything stupid right under Dumbledore's nose, but you never know," said Sirius staunchly. "Don't provoke them."

Ruby scoffed in a very good imitation of righteous indignation. "When have I ever—"

Sirius did not look impressed. "The lady doth protest too much, I think. I know about your little 'excursion' in the dungeons; *Professor McGonagall told me."

At that, Harry felt a little embarrassed, and then annoyed.

"That being said, your dad and I got up to much worse. If you ever have the misfortune of winding up in Filch's office, there's a lovely little collection of our various crimes in the left-most drawer. Worth a perusal."

"Like what?" asked Harry, despite himself.

Sirius tapped a finger to his mouth. "I have to confess that a decent share of them are Snape-related. Not that he didn't deserve it — he was up to his eyeballs in Dark magic — probably still is — and followed us around to see if he could get us in trouble — well, more than usual — that is, until he started following baby Death Eaters around instead."

And that's who's got the ciphered notes Mum left for us, thought Harry. Well, to be exact, she hadn't left the notes for them in particular. Or had she? Maybe that was what Dumbledore wanted to speak about.

He'd be so lucky.

"Snape wanted to be a Death Eater?" asked Ruby, in that high, straining tone of voice that Harry knew to be indicative of a leading question.

Sirius's controlled expression flickered. "The gang he was in certainly did."

"You don't think—" She exchanged a look with Harry, then leaned eagerly over the table "—you don't think he could be Redacted, do you?"

A beat passed, and Sirius frowned. Harry cringed internally. Well, now he knew that they'd overheard an Order meeting, somehow.

"It can't be ruled out," he said heavily. "But you know how much Dumbledore likes his reformed scoundrels."

At that very moment, Hogwarts was in the throes of preparation for the pandemonium of September first. Filch had doused the entirety of the main hallways in soap and water and glowered at anyone who walked past him for fear they would leave tracks.

Tee wondered why someone didn't simply spell the floors clean, but who was he to question Hogwarts' inefficiencies? Besides, the only thing in particular that bothered him was the question of the Defence professor. When he'd asked in passing, Dumbledore had only said (in a deliberately airy tone that in his experience, boded ill), You'll see, Tom, you'll see.

Short of the new hire being Bellatrix Lestrange herself, Tee really could not see what amused Dumbledore so. There was always the off-chance it had nothing to do with him in the first place and Dumbledore was merely being irritating, as usual.

That odious cat, Mrs. Norris, watched him from her perch in an alcove and hissed. Tee hissed back (in Parseltongue, which the cat, of course, did not understand, but what he said was very insulting).

"I thought I might find you lurking in the hallway," said Minerva McGonagall, planting herself right in front of him.

I don't 'lurk', thought Tee with great irritation, but that sounded childish, so instead he smiled and said: "Evening, Minerva."

Unsurprisingly, she did not smile back, and a few seconds of silence passed.

"I assume you need my help?"

"I'm afraid you assumed incorrectly, Riddle," she said in a curt tone.

Tee bristled but did his best not to show it, falling in step with her.

"Don't think that I don't know you've been through Severus's desk."

Oh, so that was what it was about!

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Tee, crossing his hands (but not his fingers) behind his back as he strolled ahead of her.

"Please," Minerva scoffed. "You and I both know you've been looking for a way to get your hands on Lily's notes for weeks."

There was no use in lying about it at this point. Tee paused. "Can you blame me for taking an interest?"

Minerva said nothing, but gave him a dark and foreboding look.

"Besides," Tee continued, "you've let Snape have free rein, and he's not only a former — but an active Death Eater—"

"That's your guess, is it?" asked Minerva sharply, but her defensiveness betrayed the game even if he didn't already know the truth.

"Don't try to lie," said Tee, turning to face her, blocking her path. "You're not very good at it."

There had been, after all, an abundance of clues — his strange absences, always followed by Dumbledore having some new revelation about Voldemort, Snape's status and access as Head of Slytherin House, the way he sometimes clutched at his left arm, the fact that Dumbledore wouldn't let someone who was a powerful Occlumens go to waste as 'no more than' a professor. No. When Dumbledore came into possession of a piece like Severus Snape, he'd know how and when to play him for maximum destructive capability. That, after all, was the reason Tee was still alive. He was a strategic indulgence, and so was Snape. Dumbledore had done the calculations and determined they were worth the risk.

If that was the case, why did Minerva defend Snape and loathe him?

"He made a mistake when he was a boy," said Minerva, stepping closer, "but he's paid his dues, more than you could ever understand."

It was Tee's turn to scoff. "I'm no saint, but what do you think he is? What he's done, who he's killed, tortured, what Voldemort might have him doing at this very moment? I know you're not that naïve."

"Do not try to twist the situation," said Minerva through gritted teeth. "Even Dumbledore doesn't want you getting your hands on those notes."

"Doesn't he?" asked Tee coolly, though the thought was already beginning to unsettle him.

"As I understand it," said Minerva, now with poorly masked glee, "he has no qualms asking for your opinion when he wants it, to the detriment of your already-inflated head. With your so-called 'talents' I would think he might be interested in your input on Lily's cipher. The fact that he hasn't—" Minerva lowered her voice; now she was no more than a foot away from him, and Tee almost took a step back "—implies you've lost his trust, Riddle. With what I hear happened at Malfoy Manor, I can't say I am surprised. Perhaps Dumbledore has finally come back to his senses."

With that, she brushed past Tee, leaving him stunned and silent in the echoing corridor as he tried to get his thoughts in order.

You've lost his trust.

Did that matter? Even if it were true, the Unbreakable Vow said nothing about their feelings towards each other. As long as he didn't act against the Order, he was safe. Non-action was not damning. So why did that suggestion leave him feeling strangely hollow?

With what I hear happened at Malfoy Manor, I can't say I am surprised.

Please. He had been helping the Order. Putting his own life at risk. If anything, people should be thanking him. Besides, who else had experienced being torn in two, the nearly inexorable pull, the sense of emptiness it had left behind? He very much understood how Ruby Potter must have felt that night, running into the midst of the deadly storm of the Obscurus to bring her brother back from the brink. She had brought him back alive, but there was no way for Tee to scrape together the splintered, jagged shards of Tom Riddle's soul and make him whole again — and furthermore, he wasn't sure that he wanted to.

I know of your 'choices.' Is it true? Have you chosen him?

Perhaps he had, Tee reflected, and it was a strange thought, slippery and reflective and cold as albedo. He was the one who had said it to Salazar Slytherin's statue, after all — 'I want to live. But I want to live more than I fear to die.' There was a choice in that. He had decided in the Chamber, the very place of his rebirth — or just birth, depending on your point of view — that he wasn't going kill Harry Potter for the Dark Lord. But he had also promised himself that he wasn't going to be a chess piece — for Voldemort or Dumbledore. Yet Dumbledore had twisted his arm and practically forced him onto a square.

Then you are a fool,Tom Riddle, Salazar had said.And you will lose.

Tee's hand clenched into a fist. Despite it all, Salazar was right. He didn't want to be on the losing side. So, by pure logic, he needed to do anything he could to survive the moment when the Order decided to turn on him. Funnily, even though he was a Horcrux or at least Horcrux-ish, he didn't know quite what that entailed.

It was time to see what Dumbledore hadn't removed from the Restricted Section. And he'd get his hands on those notes… later.

So yeah, I took 'death eater' literally...