I will admit that, in finishing this story, I am primarily trying to wrap up a loose end in my writing career (so to speak). This isn't to say that I'm not proud of this story, or that I regret writing it. All I mean to say is that, yes, things do resolve quickly once they get moving.

It's a common thread in a lot of my work, I think, because of the way I used to go about building stories. I would start with the most basic of premises, and I'd just play around for as long as I could. Eventually I would lose the thread, or get bored, or distracted, and things would just lay there, languishing.

Then, upon picking things up again, I would feel the need to wrap things up.

It makes for weird pacing, at least it does to me, so if you feel the same way, just know that I understand, and I'm sorry. All the same, I hope that you enjoy the ride.


One.


The only thing keeping Thomas Gaunt from leaping over Dumbledore's desk and throttling him was the fact that Sirius had such a strong grip on his shoulders. "You can all keep glaring at me for allowing a child to attend this meeting," the young professor said, "but in my defense, you try and lock him out. Go ahead and see how long that works."

"You promised my mama that she would be safe here," Thomas seethed, glaring daggers into Dumbledore's heart. "You promised."

Dumbledore closed his eyes. "I did," he murmured solemnly. "That promise has not been kept. I can only hope that I am able to rectify that grievous mistake." He turned to the other professors currently standing in his office. "I have called you all here to determine where Miss Gaunt was last seen."

"Professor Quirrell has her," Thomas growled. "I know it. He must."

"He is the only one of us yet to arrive," Severus said, gravely. "I won't pretend to know where Mister Gaunt's certainty comes from, but Quirrell has been rather cagey this year."

Dumbledore nodded. He gestured. "All of you, seek out Professor Quirrell. It may be that he has been waylaid, or perhaps he is involved in Miss Gaunt's disappearance. Either way, I would have you bring him to me." He glanced at Sirius. "Professor Black," he said, "if you and young Mister Gaunt could remain here, please." He waited for the others to leave; the door shut behind the last of them before the headmaster spoke again. "I do not doubt that there is some measure of Lord Voldemort's influence at work here. I can think of no other reason for Miss Gaunt to have been targeted. He is the only person who would recognize her."

"What about his followers?" Thomas asked. "These . . . Death Eaters?"

"None of his current retinue, such as they are, know of Voldemort's history as a student here," Dumbledore said. "Recall, if you will, that the current year is 1991. Your mother will have died some sixty-five years ago, if not for Sirius's intervention."

"Even so," Thomas pressed, "they would know her name, wouldn't they? Doesn't the Gaunt name mean something to them? Aren't they blood purists?"

"It likely does," Dumbledore admitted, "but I still believe it safest to assume Voldemort's involvement. Which is to say, he would make for the most dangerous, and time-sensitive, answer to this mystery. It would be best to move forward with the assumption that he is responsible for your mother having vanished. Just in case."

"He won't think she's really his mother," Sirius said. "He'll think she's an imposter, some kind of trick. He knows she's dead. Either that, or he'll assume she's some kind of immortal and he'll want to know how."

"If Miss Gaunt is able to convince Voldemort of her identity," Dumbledore said, "then I imagine he will attempt to use her in some capacity. I dare not guess how. Best if we do not let this matter reach that point. Thomas, you say that you have felt a pull to Professor Quirrell, not unlike the pull you felt toward your grandfather's ring. Is that correct?"

"It's more than not unlike that," Thomas corrected. "It's the same thing."

Dumbledore nodded. "Well," he said, snatching up the horcrux on his desk with several layers of thick cloth, "it sounds like it's high time that you explored this castle in earnest, my boy."


Two.


When Quirinus Quirrell cornered Merope Gaunt, she didn't have any reason to suspect him of wishing her harm. Unlike her son, she felt no connection to him, no arcane pull; when he called upon her to follow him, she did so without question or complaint. Merope Gaunt loved being a student, she loved this castle, she loved learning the ins and outs of the gifts she'd been born with but never had control over before.

Merope loved her housemates, these children who all flocked to her because it was so novel to have a grown adult among them. They asked her questions, they sought out her advice, they helped her learn spells and anything else she didn't understand; Merope knew how important it was to feel wanted, to feel useful, and so she was unafraid to ask for help.

It made her fellow Hufflepuffs proud, that they would have answers that an adult didn't.

"What is this about, Professor?" Merope asked, as she followed Quirrell down the winding hallways of the castle, down stairwells and across corridors in seemingly random directions on the second floor of the castle; she wondered what one of her teachers could possibly need her help with.

Quirrell did not answer her.

Merope heard the voice all the same, echoing, whispering.

"Did you think that you could use that name and not be noticed, pretender?"

Back in a world that no longer existed, Harry Potter would wonder for many months why he kept hearing a voice all throughout the castle, even though no one else did; he would not recognize that old language, the one that meant nothing to anyone except for those who belonged to that most mysterious of bloodlines.

Merope Gaunt, though, was not Harry Potter.

Merope Gaunt knew that language better than she knew English.

She straightened, pulled back her shoulders, and said:

"Who are you to call me pretender?"

Quirrell stopped dead, turned, his mouth falling open as he looked at her.

Merope felt, just for a fleeting moment, her son's confidence.


Three.


One couldn't grow up in a house with Marvolo Gaunt and not learn every legend, every story, every power, every so-called great deed of Salazar Slytherin. Merope could recite every one of the man's noteworthy achievements from memory, though she had no way of telling how many of them were true. All she knew was that her father worshipped the man, and he'd always viewed their family's connection to him—however distant it might be—as the highest honor it was possible to possess.

It offered them nothing; the family fortune had long since been spent.

Squandered.

But that never mattered to Marvolo. It was a matter of principle.

Merope Gaunt didn't recognize the Chamber of Secrets; she'd never seen it, she'd never had cause to see it, and she never would have known it from looking upon it. It wasn't the physical space that told her where she was; it was something else entirely. It was something that felt connected to her ancestor. She would understand later what that was, but upon entering that sacred space, all she knew was that it was best to be quiet.

Best to listen.

Best to wait.

Quirinus Quirrell, looking twice as petrified to be standing in this chamber than Merope ever would, whirled around and gripped his student by the collar of her robe; he pulled her up so that she was forced to look him in the eye. He had a manic look about him, like he was just moments away from total mental collapse. "Who are you?!" he demanded, and this time it was his voice, not the other.

Merope, eyes wide, frowned at her instructor. "My name is Merope Gaunt, Professor," she said. "You know that."

"That can't be your name!" Quirrell snarled through his teeth, shaking her. "You're lying! You must be lying!"

"I'm sorry, Professor. I'm not lying. My name is Mero—"

"Stop speaking that name!"

"What are you afraid of, Professor?" Merope asked, so gently, so softly, that it seemed to catch the man off-guard. He spasmed, his eyes bugged out of his head, and he looked like he would combust before he ever found the words to answer her question.

". . . I'm pretty sure I know the answer to that question, Mama."