72.A Perilous Encounter

24th of November 1994, Thursday (5 days later)

Harry Potter

He ignored the crowd’s thunderous cheer and focused on the arena below as the first contestant emerged. The Quidditch Stadium had been completely remade and expanded. The seats had tripled, and wizards and witches filled them to watch the Tournament. The grassy ground below was replaced by rocky terrain, dotted with miniature ridges, hills, and small chasms; a great spiked dragon coiled protectively at the centre, its gigantic tail lashing out in warning as it reared up and glared at the crowd.

“Krum is really unlucky,” Padma sighed loudly from his left.

The famous Bulgarian Seeker had drawn the Hungarian Horntail this time. He was the first to compete, too. The task was exactly as Harry remembered it—retrieving the golden egg guarded by the broodmother.  

“How can they make them face bloody dragons?” Diana asked from his right, voice laden with worry. The curse on her tongue spoke loudly of her agitation as she kept shuffling in her seat.

It was a rare thing for Harry to sit in the stands and spectate, completely uninvolved in the event below. But even so, there was a danger in the air that kept him on edge. His fingers clenched around his yew wand, then loosened. Perhaps the Muggle-born girl was right to worry.

“The greater the danger, the greater the spectacle,” he uttered coldly, glancing at the top box where Dumbledore, the other judges, and the Ministers of England, France, and Sweden sat along with other important dignitaries. “But it is indeed part of the tradition. I’ve read through the history of the tournament—the first task always tests bravery by involving Magical Creatures of rank four or five.”

He had been excited about the idea of the Triwizard Tournament a lifetime ago—until his name was drawn and he was forced to participate, or lose his magic. Even then, even though the veneer of danger had been torn off right in front of his face, something solemn, something… exceptional, about taking part in such a grand event. A dream come true.

Now, though…

He took another glance at the top box and scoffed.

At the arena, Krum tried the same tactic as last time, but it didn’t work out. His Conjunctivitis Curse missed the eyes as the Hungarian Horntail kept spewing streaks of white-hot flames at him, impairing his vision and forcing him to dodge and hide behind the rocks.

“Very daring!” Bagman was yelling, but Harry ignored his commentary just as he ignored the roars and yells of the crowd. 

The failure did not stump the Bulgarian Seeker in the slightest. As the bursts of flame stopped, his wand blurred into motion as he conjured a flock of vicious falcons, one after the other. They surrounded the Horntail’s head and fearlessly pecked at the eyes of the rearing dragon. Meanwhile, Krum swiftly ran his wand over himself, turning transparent. 

Once the dragon was sufficiently distracted, he darted forward.

“Krum has got the egg!” Bagman announced gleefully, as if he were the one to succeed. But just as he slipped away unnoticed, the dragon perked at the man’s loud shout and spun, her bony tail whipping out. Krum hastily swept out his wand, conjuring a block of granite. It crumpled like paper as the tail smacked the seeker like an enormous beater’s bat, knocking Krum away like a Quaffle. “Ouch! That must have hurt.”

The crowd shrieked and gasped as a dozen Dragonhandlers burst into the arena, launching spells to pacify the dragon.

Hagrid picked up Krum like a small child and rushed him into the medical tent. 

Anthony’s face was ghostly pale. “Do you reckon Krum is fine after this?” 

“He’ll live,” Padma chuckled. “I read that the contestants were allowed enchanted battle robes. At most, your precious Krum will have some bones broken—something Madam Pomfrey can fix in a night.”

“Foul play!” some spectator from the international stands roared. “Bagman must have known the dragon would understand him!”

Harry ignored the outrage; even if Bagman did do it on purpose, he didn’t care. Commenting on the match was his job. 

After a few moments, the scores were given in absentia, as the Bulgarian Seeker did not come out of the tent. Dumbledore gave Krum a seven, Barty Crouch a six, Madame Maxime shot out a silver seven from her wand, Bagman was eight, and Madame Zagorska launched a bright ten.

“A ten?” Padma huffed, face indignant. “Krum’s performance was good but hardly worth a full score!”

“Blatant favouritism.” Diana nodded, face pale as she glanced at the medical tent. “Although, if the dragon really understood Bagman…”

Harry’s mouth twitched. It seemed that some things never changed. Zagorska was made from the same mould as Karkaroff.  

“How do you think the French tart will fare?” It was Morag asking this time.  

Why were his friends all looking at him like he was some sort of seer? Never mind; he did know certain things, and even the champions’ strengths better than most.

“She should do well enough,” Harry said with a shrug. This Fleur was less haughty and more capable than the one he remembered.

After they ushered out the Horntail and brought in the crimson Chinese Fireball, it was Fleur’s turn. The veela enchanted the great beast with her ethereal voice, lulling it into a deep sleep in less than three minutes—far faster than he remembered. She kept singing as she glided forward with grace, and Harry found his eyes drawn to her silver-gold hair that almost seemed to glow. The golden egg was retrieved without issue, and the crowd erupted. 

He vigorously shook his head, inspecting his inner mind. This charm was unlike anything he had met before—even Ashwing seemed lulled to sleep, though not very deeply.

The favouritism did not end with Krum, of course. Zagorska gave Fleur a five while Madam Maxime’s wand burst out with a ten. Dumbledore and Bagman awarded a nine, while Crouch Sr’s face was particularly stony when he cast a seven.

Was he of the sort that disliked half-breeds?  

It certainly wouldn’t surprise Harry. His son must have picked up all the prejudice from somewhere.

“Juno is next,” Padma said, hands nervously gripping the back of the seat in front.  

Dianna’s eyes narrowed. “Neither Krum nor Fleur seemed surprised at the sight of the dragons.”

Harry’s mouth twisted. “How can they be surprised when their teachers told them in advance?”

“That doesn’t sound very fair,” said Morag, warily eyeing the dragon keepers as they ushered the Swedish Short-Snout into the arena.

If it hadn’t been for Hagrid that time, he would have been completely in the dark when facing the Horntail. Why did Dumbledore have to play fair when everyone else cheated?   

He froze. Why would the headmaster tell him when he knew Hagrid would do it instead, without implicating his impartial reputation?

Old foxes were the craftiest. But why hadn’t anyone bothered informing Cedric, then?  

His errant thoughts scattered as Juno emerged from the champions’ tent with a stride just as graceful as Fleur’s. For better or worse, his fiancée didn’t wear her emerald ring today, ignoring the advice of her ghostly master. ‘I can’t rely forever on Grindelwald for every small thing,’ she had said. ‘Not if I want to grow up.’

Harry understood and respected that decision, but even though Juno was stronger than the other champions and well prepared to face a dragon, he couldn’t help worrying. It was a dragon, after all, a behemoth of fire and magic, not some simple beast that could be dealt with with a curse or two. Still, he could only trust Juno and hope for the best.

Yet, the sense of looming danger clung to his senses. Harry wouldn’t have thought much of such an inexplicable feeling before, but after the Animagus transformation and the Intent breakthrough, his senses had grown too strong to ignore. Worse still, in a stadium full of thousands of spectators, it was nigh impossible to pinpoint the source.

“Look at you,” Diana’s teasing voice broke him from his stupor. “You’re stiff all over.”

Harry didn’t respond to her as the stadium grew quiet, watching with bated breath. The grey-blue dragon lifted her short-snouted maw and let out a low, rumbling roar at Juno as if to scare her away. 

In turn, his fiancée merely lifted her wand and stared at the dragon without casting a single spell or blinking. For a long moment, neither made a move, and whispers rippled through the stands. 

“It seems she is…” Bagman’s voice faltered for the first time today, his tone growing uncertain. “Staring down the dragon?” 

Harry, however, knew better. Only one magic would require eye contact alone. Legilimency. She was communicating with the dragon. It was feasible enough—rank five magical creatures all possessed good intelligence, and he’d bet most were certainly smarter than Crabbe and Goyle. Or Flint.

Sure enough, the Swedish Short-Snout slowly rose, carefully stepping away from her nest. The draconic head twisted, lowering itself to inspect the clutch of eggs she had been guarding.  

The golden egg was spotted immediately, and the dragon reared up, snapping toward the dragon keepers. Thick ribbons of smoke curled from its maw as she let out a deep, rumbling growl, but no gusts of fire or angry roars followed.  

The whispers grew louder.

“What is happening?” Dianna asked, voice laced with confusion as the Swedish Short-Snout wheeled back to face Juno, once again without attacking. 

“Juno is communicating with the she-dragon,” Harry offered languidly.

“It might not work,” Padma said carefully. “The Swedish Short-Snout is of the type of dragons that love gathering shiny things. It won’t surrender the golden egg just like that.”  

Juno finally moved. Her wand made a slow, circular motion, and a silver egg appeared before the dragon. The beast leaned in to sniff it all over and let out a thunderous scoff. Only after Juno conjured two more did the Swedish Short-Snout hesitantly lower its maw and pluck the three silver eggs. Reluctantly, the she-dragon coiled the golden egg with her tail and gently flung it at the witch. Juno deftly caught it, bowed deeply and, with a flourish of her wand, conjured two thick streams of silver that coiled around the draconic head, coating its grey horns in lustrous silver.

“Look at that!” Bagman finally found his voice. “Will you look at that?! She gave the dragon a make-over! Our youngest champion is the quickest to snatch the egg. That will certainly shorten the odds in favour of Miss Black!”

As Juno walked out of the arena, the dragon keepers flooded the rocky terrain, but this time the greyish dragon offered little resistance, carefully carrying the silver eggs in her mouth. 

The task was done, yet the sense of danger only grew.

“I can’t believe Juno bribed a dragon with some silver,” Padma exclaimed, exasperated.

“It didn’t look that hard,” Anthony muttered.

The Indian witch gave him a mocking glance. “Yeah, why don’t you—” 

Harry rose and rushed down the stands, urgency rising in his mind. He would have transformed into his phoenix form and flown over in a heartbeat, but it was too crowded here, too many eyes watching. A pity his presence trick would break the moment he shapeshifted—his control over any magic in his phoenix form was shoddy at best. He lowered his presence to the utmost, and most gazes slid over him, letting Harry pass mostly unnoticed.

He easily found the medical tent, where Madam Pomfrey fussed over Juno while Hagrid and Professor Flitwick stood to the side. The tightness in his chest eased somewhat, and his grip around the yew wand loosened ever so slightly. With their head of house here, any danger was greatly reduced.

“Harry!” Hagrid’s face lit up as he waved him over. “Rare ter see yeh these days, lad.”

A pang of guilt speared through him as he nodded in return, trying and failing to find the enthusiastic words that had come so easily when he had faced Hagrid before. In this life, he had spent far less time with the kind Groundskeeper, and without the Magical Creatures classes, that time had been cut even shorter.

The diminutive Charms Master was far more composed. “Mr Potter,” he said with a cheerful smile. “Miss Black performed splendidly. A marvellous display of advanced Transfiguration and Legilimency. Such finesse and grace and…” His face had grown red with excitement, as if he had taught her Transfiguration. He heaped praise to the point that even Juno’s pale face flushed ever so slightly, until he finally stopped, clearing his throat. “Right. Poppy?”

“She’s in perfect condition,” the medi-witch said, shaking her head and muttering about dragons and fools under her breath.

Juno’s blue eyes rose from the golden egg and immediately found him, giving him a proud smile that reminded Harry of a child seeking praise. He shook his head inwardly, marvelling at how childish his fiancée could be at times, and stepped closer. 

A thick, bitter stench hit him as he neared the tent’s entrance, no doubt from some healing paste.

Poppy disappeared inside the tent, and he heard her say, “Mr Krum, now that your bones are set, you must drink another dose of Skele-Gro.”

“Very tough, that boy,” Flitwick said. “Struck down by a Horntail’s tail, and getting away with only three bones broken. Anyway. Go now, Miss Black—it’s time to get your score.”

The joyful Charms Master led them to the edge of the enclosure, where the clamour of the stadium threatened to drown them. At the far end of the arena, the top box loomed, where the judges had all come to the forefront.

Cheers erupted as Dumbledore, Bagman, and Crouch gave a ten without hesitation. Next, Madame Maxime reluctantly lifted her wand to conjure a nine, and Irina Zagorska, who awarded a black five, was met with jeers and angry yells.

“So much for impartiality.” Harry’s mouth twisted even though he had expected it, anger surging hot in his stomach. 

“Still first place,” Flitwick said joyfully. “Well done, Miss Black. You’ve done Hogwarts proud. Twenty points to Ravenclaw!”

Harry stifled his laugh while a smile tugged at Juno’s face.

“How does it feel to be the best champion?” he asked lightly as they headed back to the school. 

“Not as special as I thought,” she said, voice rueful. “I already faced dying dragons up close last summer, so this was no big deal. Are we forgetting—”

Her words died, and Harry felt all his senses scream, as if he had plunged into a freezing lake.

Two figures blocked their way, one woman, one man.

“Ah, youth,” the witch spoke with a soft accent. A revealing black silk dress hugged her willowy body, leaving little to the imagination, her face hidden behind a black veil. “It’s an honour to meet you in person, Lady Black… and who might your companion be?”

Her presence carried a subtle danger, but it paled before the man beside her. He was tall, nearly half a head taller than Harry, with a chiselled face and a charming smile that revealed rows of perfect white teeth that would make even Lockhart green with envy. His hair was meticulously combed, and his dark green robe was tailored from the finest Acromantula silk, cinched with a dark silver tie. But his cold, poisonous green eyes didn’t match his smile and made him seem evil. 

Harry’s back was covered in cold sweat as his heart began to beat faster. His right hand twitched, but he knew his wand wouldn’t help here; instead, he drained his mind, running his Occlumency to its utmost and reigning in all his magic with an iron fist, surrendering nothing. 

Harry had never seen this face before, but he knew this sheer presence, this choking vileness that made him feel insignificant all too well. 

Lord Voldemort.

“This is my classmate and dear friend, Harry Potter, Mrs Zabini,” Juno’s silky voice broke the spell. Surely enough, Voldemort’s eyes settled on Harry’s brow, where the lightning-shaped scar had faded, his smile not faltering for a moment. “But I must confess, I have not seen your companion before.”

The Dark Lord’s heavy gaze shifted away from him, finding Juno far more interesting. For a long moment, father and daughter stared at each other, faces unreadable. Harry’s fingers kept twitching, but he dared not summon his wand. Nyx had gone out to hunt, and he wasn’t confident facing Voldemort alone with Juno. Even if his familiar were here, at most it’d buy him a few more seconds. 

“I must beg forgiveness for my misconduct.” Voldemort’s voice was enchantingly smooth. Harry felt the tension in his body ease despite his Occlumency, and that only made his heart tighten. Enchantments with his voice? “My name is Thomas Gaunt, the last heir of the noble Gaunt line.”

Juno’s lips thinned. “Truly? Last I checked, the Gaunts were long dead to the last.”

“Not me,” Voldemort said, his smile growing dangerously sharp. “Some old lines are not so easily extinguished.”

“Perhaps.” Juno’s expression turned peculiar. “But I happen to know the Gaunt bloodline—their bloodline drove them to madness, and the last handful of them were no better than wretches, inbred fools barely more than Squibs who struggled to wield magic and lived in squalor. Are you perhaps a pretender… or a bastard?”

Harry stiffened, and it took all his willpower not to glare at Juno. Was she mad?!

The Dark Lord’s eyes darkened as his smile receded, replaced by something darker and more dangerous, and Harry’s heart leapt into his throat as the air around them solidified. It was as if a gigantic mountain was pressing down on his chest and limbs, and even breathing was a struggle, let alone fighting. He realised that… Dumbledore had always been holding back against him in training, as had the Dark Lord in his previous life. This Voldemort had nothing to prove, nor did he want to toy with Harry for some twisted satisfaction. Without the means to cast off that looming pressure and move freely, one wrong move and he was dead in moments. 

“Oh my.” Mrs Zabini chuckled somewhat nervously. “That’s quite the sharp tongue you have, young lady. I would have thought the next Lady Black would have more tact than this.”

Juno bowed her head slightly. “My apologies. But I hope you don’t take it to heart, Mr Gaunt, Mrs Zabini. It wouldn’t be the first time some fraud presented themselves as something they are not, trying to enter high society and meet people far beyond their station.”

Harry felt something dark and furious suddenly slam into his mind like a battering ram, and his vision almost darkened. Voldemort wanted to read his mind, but now that his surprised attack had failed, Harry felt bolder. He met the Dark Lord’s gaze openly. His mind was too sturdy, and his Occlumency shields had grown thick and solid under years of training and months of Dumbledore’s abuse. But the attacks kept coming, battering at his shields like a relentless storm, each stronger than the last. Next to him, Juno had stiffened like a statue.

She was under assault, too.

His mind held on well enough, but it wouldn’t rebuff the Dark Lord forever. His yew wand leapt into his hand, and its warm pulse rebuffed the choking pressure ever so slightly, but he had no hope of victory. He was not afraid of death… having stared at it more than once, but a meaningless end… that frightened him. He hadn’t trained so hard just to end here, unable to change anything. A piercing shriek echoed in his mind as his phoenix stirred. The magic in his veins bubbled, growing as hot as molten iron as he felt his anger and defiance pulse beneath his skin, and the pressure on his body eased another notch. 

Just as Harry prepared to transform, an aged but firm voice rang out.

“Bagman wants a word back in the champion’s tent.” The pressure on Harry immediately receded, and even the phoenix quieted down. “Go back quickly, Miss Black.”

Juno bolted back without hesitation, her previous pride and grace all forgotten. 

A firm hand squeezed Harry’s shoulder as Dumbledore arrived beside him, and the boy let out a breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding. A stream of students surged over from the stadium, loudly discussing the First Task and eager to return to the castle. But they all parted ten yards from the Dark Lord and Dumbledore, as if some invisible force pushed them away, and not a single one glanced this way.

“Ottavia, Tom.” The headmaster’s tone was sharper and colder than Harry had ever heard him. “It’s unseemly for you two to approach young students like this. Special visitations need to be submitted to the staff in advance.”

“Indeed,” Voldemort said, eyeing Dumbledore with a calculating glint. “We were merely curious to see the rising talents of Wizarding Britain. It’s not every day a grown veela of such skill and a Durmstrang elite get trounced by a fourth-year witch.” 

A streak of red descended from the sky, and Fawkes landed on Dumbledore’s shoulder, feathers all ruffled.

“Dispense with the pleasantries,” the headmaster said flatly, drawing his wand in one swift, smooth motion. The magic in the air thickened so much that Harry could almost taste it. “I advise you to leave while you still can, Tom. Ottavia, you poor girl, you have no idea what dark pit you have jumped into.” 

Mrs Zabini grew deathly pale as her eyes dilated. 

Lord Voldemort’s hand stiffened, as if itching to reach for his wand, yet the headmaster’s doubled, and he paused. Finally, he threw Dumbledore a cold look and dragged his dazed companion away.

The headmaster followed them with his gaze until they disappeared beyond the gates. “He’s gone now,” Dumbledore said with a faint sigh, sliding the Elder Wand back into his sleeve. 

Harry’s back was damp with sweat as he let his emotions loose and lowered his mental shields. His heart thundered so loudly he could hear it in his ears, and adrenaline ran high through his veins as if he had just finished a battle. In a way, he had.

“Why was he even here in the first place?” Harry blurted out.

“Curiosity, perhaps.” The headmaster adjusted his spectacles, his eyes having lost their usual twinkle. “Scouting talent for certain, and getting a feel for either the foreign dignitaries, myself, or the school defences. Tom’s actions are rarely as simple or as singular as they seem.”

Harry dabbed the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. “I thought I was a goner for a moment. He directly attacked my mind when Juno provoked him.” 

Even after six years in Gryffindor, he didn’t have the nerve to insult the Dark Lord to his face. Not as ruthlessly as this. The hat had definitely put Juno in the wrong House.  

The headmaster stared into the distance. “Tom might be daring, but he would never dare to face me inside Hogwarts grounds, where the ancient magics protecting the school allow me an advantage.”

“I never thought he’d dare show his face in public,” Harry muttered. “Though he looks… too human.”

“It’s precisely because he has shed that evil appearance twisted by dark magic that he dares to appear so openly.” Dumbledore let out a long sigh. “And he knows that with all the students and the crowd here, I would not dare attack, lest hundreds die. Did you feel it well, Harry? That undisguised malice and cold darkness that threatens to drown your very existence?”

The young wizard exhaled slowly. “Yes. I felt like an ant, and even controlling my body was a struggle.”

“It’s quite the burden when one faces it for the first time.” The headmaster patted his shoulder. “Voldemort is the master of fear in more ways than one, wielding it in ways I never before thought imaginable. But once you know how to face it, it’s easy to overcome, especially now that your Intent has transcended. I’ll begin teaching you tomorrow. But for now, I’m afraid more urgent matters demand my attention.”

Dumbledore stepped away and disappeared in a burst of flame with the phoenix, leaving Harry alone in the outer yard. Had Voldemort’s appearance put some new plan in motion? Harry suppressed his rising curiosity—if the headmaster had a quick way to deal with the Dark Lord, he would have done so already.

Most of the students had returned to the castle by now, and only now that Dumbledore was gone did a few who had staggered behind throw confused glances his way, finally seeing him.

He returned the wand to his holster, finding his palms all sweaty. Deep down, he knew he wasn’t yet a match for Voldemort as a mere fourth-year student, and that four extra years of training wouldn’t make him the Dark Lord’s equal. His fingers clenched into fists as he fixed his gaze on the gate where the Dark Lord had disappeared. Not enough. It wasn’t enough, but the Dark Lord no longer seemed like a distant goal; he was now worthy of being taken seriously by Voldemort at first glance. He resisted his mental assault, and that meant something.

The last of the crowd melted away, and the faint scent of jasmine tickled his nose as he sensed a presence beside him.

“You’re… barking mad, you know that?” he said, voice shaking despite himself.

“I’m a Black, Harry,” Juno said, tone perfectly even. A slender hand hooked underneath his elbow. “Madness runs thick in my blood. On both sides of my family, even.”

He did not know what to think or how to feel about that.

“I just didn’t expect that from you,” he managed weakly. “Even Dumbledore hasn’t insulted the Dark Lord to his face with such fierceness.”

“I…” Juno hesitated for a long moment, her previous nonchalance nowhere to be seen. “I didn’t mean to, at first. But the moment I saw his face and realised who he was, I couldn’t hold back when boiling-hot anger surged in my chest. I completely forgot to rein in my emotions, measure my words, or do anything else. I just wanted to make him hurt, no matter how little.”

Harry gently squeezed her wrist in support. He understood her all too well, and empty words of comfort would not make her feel any better. Any chiding about not bringing Gellert’s ring would be even less useful—the old Dark Lord had voluntarily surrendered all his powers in exchange for a wretched existence as an artefact spirit, and would be even more helpless against Voldemort than the two of them.

“If Dumbledore had come a moment later, my mind’s shields would have shattered,” she added softly, finally looking remorseful.

“We should probably go back,” he said lightly, changing the subject. “The whole of Ravenclaw must be throwing a party by now, and today’s star can’t be absent. Seeing how happy Flitwick was earlier, he won’t stop them but join instead.”

Juno sighed softly, her voice lowering to a whisper. “Morgana, that’s the last thing I want to deal with right now.”

“Don’t worry.” Harry gave her a bright smile. “There are the Yule Ball, the next two tasks, your N.E.W.T.s, and our extracurricular activities, both in and out of school.”

Her face fell. 

The plan they’d worked on so painstakingly with Narcissa needed to start soon, too, though that burden fell on his shoulders.

---

27th of November 1994, Sunday (3 days later) 

Albus Dumbledore

The mood at the staff table was solemn, while whispers rose between the students below. Many looked at the young Draco with schadenfreude; others, including his housemates, with pity. Especially his housemates. The blonde Slytherin himself looked deathly pale, knuckles white. 

Alastor’s scarred face was scrunched, torn between dark amusement and worry as his magical eye spun erratically. Madame Maxime was composed and elegant as always, as if this had nothing to do with her, while Zagorska carefully read her own copy with an odd look on her face.

His eyes scanned through the new edition of the Sunday Prophet once again. 

A vicious attack on Malfoy Manor! 

By Betty Braithwaite

On Friday night, an unknown assailant broke into the Malfoy grounds, subduing the three Aurors on guard and Mr Malfoy, kidnapping the young Calisto Malfoy before reinforcements could arrive. Just as in the previous cases, the assailant conjured the Dark Mark before fleeing the scene. 

We have reasonable suspicions that this was connected to the previous attacks and kidnappings of Yaxley, Rosier, and Travers, further disturbing public order and deliberately sowing chaos amongst the outstanding members of the wizarding community. 

While nobody was grievously harmed, Mr Malfoy, who fiercely fought for his daughter, suffered severe injuries and is said to remain at least a full week in Saint Mungo’s for recuperation.

Furthermore, an anonymous source at the DMLE revealed that the attacker was inhumanly quick, using only deflection and the Stunning Spell to subdue the Aurors, each powerful enough to shatter through their shields. 

The investigation has failed to find any leads so far, and there are rumours about the involvement of the Department of Mysteries in the search for the missing children…

Albus couldn’t help but glance at the Ravenclaw table, setting his eyes on young Harry. The boy ate sluggishly, his eyes bleary as he wolfed down a double serving of bacon. Another sleepless night, then.

He did not need to be a seer to know what would happen at the next emergency Wizengamot meeting. Malfoy would raise a great fuss with or without the Dark Lord. Narcissa was no less fierce and vicious when it came to her own children, and the Minister couldn’t easily ignore either of them. Feeling personally challenged, Fudge would push for increased DMLE funding and tighten the hunt for werewolves and dark wizards, hampering Voldemort’s plans inside Wizarding Britain. 

His thoughts once again turned to the day of the first task and Voldemort’s bold appearance. ‘I am being too passive,’ he chided himself, ‘too cautious and indecisive again.’  

If Gellert had been in his shoes that day, he would have buried Voldemort on the spot, no matter how many others died in the bloody fight, and would have considered it a bargain. After all, without Voldemort, the rest of the dark wizards were no better than a pile of loose sand. Even if he had failed and Voldemort escaped, his revival would have been dragged into the open in the most blatant, undeniable manner, and thus many of his clever plots would fail. 

But for good or bad, Albus was not as callous as his late friend. He didn’t have the heart to risk the lives of so many of his students and the audience. Still, he needed to do something—Albus knew better than anyone that leaving Voldemort to scheme and to act freely was too dangerous. 

Turning over the events of that day through his mind again, a plan formed. He signalled to his old friend, quickly finished his juicy sausage, and retreated to his office. 

Half an hour later, Alastor joined him.

“Change of plans?” he asked, voice gruff. 

“Send new instructions to Kingsley,” Albus said carefully. “Tell him to research the affairs of the last of the Gaunts under the guise of their ardent support for the extreme views and actions of the Death Eaters. He should look closely at Tom Riddle’s history and re-examine the origin of this Thomas Gaunt. I’ll send over everything I have on the topic, of course. At a convenient moment, this should all be leaked to the Daily Prophet.”

The remaining half of Alastor’s nose twitched. “This… isn’t it too dangerous?”

Albus let out a weary sigh. “Perhaps, but it’s more dangerous to allow my wayward student to operate in the open with such impunity. A legitimate identity, even one as a member of a fallen house like Gaunt, gives him an in with the Ministry, which is unacceptable. It’s time to tear down the mystery Voldemort so ardently cultivated and expose him for what he is—an ambitious liar, albeit quite a dangerous one.” 

“It might raise a storm of blood.”

“It will raise a storm of blood,” Albus said quietly. “But we’ve come to the point where bloodshed is unavoidable. Certain things, once set in motion, can no longer be stopped—just like a spell once cast cannot be recalled. We can only do our best to see them through and, to the best of our ability, guide the outcome for the better.”

Alastor gave him a stiff nod and left to contact Kingsley. As a veteran dark-wizard hunter, his friend knew better than anyone that fighting was dangerous and bloody, and that catching a dark wizard always carried some risk.

His thoughts turned to Ottavia. Her mind had been an open book to him, slipping past her clumsy shields and read with barely any effort. After a day of organising the last few months, Albus had gained more than he had hoped for. The sultry widow hadn’t joined Voldemort’s ranks, but planned to join him in other ways. Though she knew nothing, her subtle conversations and flirting gave him a sense of Voldemort’s goals.

After taking control of much of Central Europe, he set his sights on Italy next. But by now, even the usually lethargic ICW and Mugwump Council must have been spooked by Emberwick’s rapid expansion and were preparing to deal with the Pyromancer for good before he gained too much momentum.

But any trap the ICW set would be seen through by the cunning of Voldemort, who was crafty enough to expect some serious pushback by now. Knowing Tom, he’d probably try to turn that ambush around. Indecision gripped his mind once again. 

What if this was a trap meant for him?

No, he could no longer afford to ignore the ICW and the continent’s affairs, no matter how dangerous and troublesome they were.

Next, he scribbled a note and handed it over to Fawkes. “Take it to Fontaine Margot, the French Mugwump.”

“You should not have stepped into Hogwarts, Tom,” Albus whispered coldly, and the Elder Wand thrummed with agreement in his sleeve, all too eagerly.

---

Author’s Endnote: I considered having Harry toy with the Aurors guarding Malfoy Manor, but decided against it. There’s hardly any mystery or suspense to the fight, since Narcissa would leak all the arrangements beforehand, giving Harry an even bigger advantage.

Anyway, featuring: Voldemort’s sinister recruitment plans flopping because his daughter has daddy issues.