18.Twisted

11th of November, Monday

“I don’t like it, Albus,” Armando Dippet grumbled from the portrait. “You should have dissolved the Board of Governors when you had the chance.”

“While cumbersome, the Board guaranteed Hogwarts some independence from the Wizard’s Council and later the Wizengamot. You should well know that, Armando.”

While the Board was often a nuisance, they had their uses. Nearly half of Hogwarts’ yearly budget came from their pockets, and they were responsible for the school’s public image in Wizarding Britain and abroad. Not even he could juggle so many things. While they could counterbalance the headmaster’s authority, they also added political weight to the school, making it nearly unmovable.

The members were far from agreeable, but Dumbledore knew how to work with them and their egos on matters of import. Besides, opportunity and adversity walk hand in hand, and with careful planning and some luck, the tide could turn at any moment.

Surely enough, the knock on the door heralded one of Dumbledore’s latest headaches, and the new caretaker entered.

“Good evening, headmaster.” The words were spoken with a heavy Eastern European accent; Grigori Petrov bowed politely, allowing Dumbledore to notice faint scars on his balding scalp. “You called for me?”

The man was dangerous; most died or retired before forty in the Monster Hunter business with a wreath of missing limbs, his Care of Magical Creatures professor a prime example. That profession was notorious for selling their wands to the highest bidders on the side, and most monster hunters oft dabbled in all sorts of contracts, including assassination and curse-breaking, adding even more peril to their lives.

That was even more true of one who had done it in a dangerous place like the Balkans. Yet, Grigori Petrov stood before him in his late forties, hale and healthy.

Albus clasped his hands and inspected the bulky man under his spectacles. Petrov was as calm as a lake and would easily pass for an average, hard-working, honest wizard with his genial face if not for his many scars. His body told a different tale; his barrel-like chest and thick, trunk-like arms spoke of a life of harsh adversity. They also hinted at a willingness to get physical; few wizards were so well-built.

“Indeed, Mr Petrov.” The headmaster nodded, and with a simple gesture, his favourite bowl flew over. “Lemon drop?”

“Thank you.” Unfazed by the show of chantless, wandless magic, the caretaker took one and grimaced. “Not sour enough.” That did not stop Grigori from picking up a handful of the muggle sweets, much to Dumbledore’s amusement.

“I understand being a caretaker is quite the deviation from your previous occupation.”

“It’s not every day you get offered a job at Hogwarts,” the burly man shrugged. “I’d rather be a caretaker for sixty galleons a month than risk my life for a hundred that might not even come every other week.”

Dumbledore could only agree with such a sentiment; the sum paid to Petrov was over ten times Filch’s salary. The Board of Governors had forked out such a ridiculous amount all of a sudden while still not opening their purses for new school brooms. It was done partly out of spite and as a blatant show for the populace. A pointless one at that – the original defences of the school were more than formidable enough, and Albus had ensured that any attempts at breaching the existing loopholes would no longer succeed, Samhain or not.

Regardless, Grigori was hard to read, even for someone like Albus; his body language, magic, habits and eyes were nearly impossible to decipher. The headmaster had carefully observed the new caretaker for the first week; the man had done his job stellarly and far better than a squib ever could.

Inquiries were made into his origins with his friends in the ICW; Petrov hailed from a humble background and had a mostly clean record, avoiding trouble with the authorities. Or he was very good at hiding.

Still, such a dangerous addition to the staff left Dumbledore wary, especially since the Board pushed it. Did Grigori Petrov indeed join for the gold? Or the treasury of knowledge that was the Hogwarts library? Or was it something else?

Worse, Dumbledore no longer enjoyed his previous prestige and influence after Severus’ trial and could not easily decline such an appointment. And why would he? If he did, Albus would struggle to find someone with Petrov’s qualifications, and there was no guarantee that the next person the Board pushed would be better.

It was not all bad – once his loyalty was proven, the monster hunter could be a valuable addition to the Hogwarts staff. Only Albus would take his time observing the new caretaker lest he have ulterior motives or prove unsuitable for his staff.

“I am glad you like it,” Dumbledore said, stroking his beard. “I summoned you here to inquire how you’re settling into your new post.”

“I like it,” Gregori chuckled heartily and popped another lemon drop in his mouth. “Patrolling the castle and keeping the hallways free of trouble has been far easier than hunting trolls and werewolves down through the woods. Only those twin boys, Weasleys, keep making a nuisance of themselves.”

“Ah, yes, the exuberance of youth. The two troublemakers are always up to all sorts of mischief, much like their late uncles.”

“Students are easy enough to handle. Only, must those monsters be kept on the third floor?”

“Fret not, Mr Petrov. It’s a challenge for a special student of mine,” Dumbledore explained, taking a lemon drop to suppress his weariness. “I hope you’ll remove errant students from the corridor in question.”

The caretaker did not look very convinced but nodded nonetheless.

What had the infamous dragonologist Quang Po said again?

Once you ride the dragon, it is hard to get off.

Albus couldn’t help but wonder how long the Board’s generosity would last. They argued over every knut, and the public would soon forget Samhain’s troubles. Life moved on, and ultimately, the trolls had been disposed of with no casualties save for Argus Filch. And, for good or for bad, very few truly cared about squibs, despite any lip service paid.

Would Grigori remain as a caretaker after finding himself with a reduced salary next autumn? Over seven hundred galleons a year was not a small sum, even for a Ministry Department Head. His contract would expire at the end of the school year, and if the caretaker protested the pay cut, he would leave the position empty for Albus to tangle with.

Sadly, the Board of Governors was far from Dumbledore’s only woe; something was brewing in the Wizengamot, with another urgent meeting called for tomorrow morning, and he had not been notified of the cause of the agenda despite still being Chief Warlock.

The loss of repute was beginning to grow annoying, but Albus was not without connections. He was too busy to care about matters of the law and state. Chairing the ICW’s conference last weekend had squeezed out most of his sparse free time.

And fortifying Hogwarts’ defences had taken the rest of his attention since Samhain, but thankfully, the job was already finished. Slughorn’s presence had aided him in calming any student unrest. The old Potions master was an experienced head of house and teacher and took to the job like a fish to water again, albeit with his usual networking shenanigans.

However, Minerva’s resignation weighed heavily on his mind as Yule approached, and he had yet to find another person suitable for a deputy.

Shaking his head, Albus focused on the hallway ahead. A few students greeted him with reverence, earning themselves a genial smile. Seeing that the troll attack had not dampened their spirit was heartening. Everyone but the Gryffindors, who had lost the last Quidditch game again. But that too would soon pass; the flames of youth were not so easily extinguished, especially not in the house of the valiant and the brave.

After a few minutes, he finally arrived before Flitwick’s office. A knock on the dark, varnished door earned him a muffled ‘Come in’.

“Albus,” the diminutive Charms master looked up from his stack of parchments and smiled warmly. “How may I help you?”

“A couple of things, Filius.” The headmaster conjured himself a tapered chair with a flick of his wand and sat down. “First, you tried to reach out to me this Saturday?”

The ICW meeting had been in Brazil this weekend, and the professor’s message had arrived far too late for Dumbledore to respond on time, as it would not do for the Supreme Mugwump to leave in the middle of the meeting.

“Oh, indeed.” Flitwick grew pensive for a moment, then shrugged. “It matters little, I suppose. The trouble has been solved without involving the school. I made sure of it.”

Albus sensed there was more to the story, but Filius was a capable teacher, and if he was no longer worried, there was nothing to fret over. Details could be discussed later over a hot cup of tea. “That’s a relief. How are Mr Potter and Miss Lestrange faring in their lessons?”

“Exemplary as always. Those two are just a joy to teach, and there’s little that gives either of them trouble. At this rate, both could take their Second Year Charms with excellent results by the end of January.”

And Albus had heard a similar tale from the other teachers. “Have they expressed any desire to move up a year or two?”

“Neither seemed interested.” Flitwick hummed thoughtfully.

“Good,” a sigh of relief tore out of the headmaster’s chest. “I’ve oft found youth are far too rushed in their endeavours.”

“If this continues, there won’t be anything they could learn here in a handful of years, though.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” Albus inclined his head. Talent was one thing, but he had found that many lost motivation along the way and made themselves content with the level they had reached. “Now, one last thing. Sadly, Minerva has decided to resign from her position as Deputy Headmistress, and I find myself in need of a new deputy.”

Flitwick blinked in surprise and took half a minute to find his bearing. “Oh my, it would be an honour, Albus. But I’m afraid I cannot give such a position the due it deserves, especially if Minerva failed.”

Dumbledore grimaced.

As always, the Charms master was far more perceptive than he let on. The deputy position was not only bureaucratic but also the headmaster’s preferred successor and usually the most skilled wand. While Minerva was a gifted Transfiguration mistress, Flitwick was a better fighter. His temperament was mellow and friendly, but the steel hidden underneath made him a perfect candidate for it.

Flitwick would have been his original choice, but the diminutive Charms master had joined the faculty after Minerva had ascended her position.

“Is there nothing I can do to change your mind?”

“I wouldn’t trade the jubilation on a student’s face when they master a charm for all the glory and wealth in the world, Albus.” Flitwick’s smile turned half proud and half-dreamy. “Nothing can rival joy and exuberance in a child’s eyes when they succeed in their first spell. Not even winning the International Duelling League three times.”

“Understandable,” Albus nodded respectfully and steered the conversation towards a more mundane topic before departing Flitwick’s office.

Alas, the genial Charms master still dearly cherished the passion of teaching. Albus could try harder, but he respected Flitwick too much to push too hard, especially since he felt nostalgic about the joys of education, of sharpening the bright minds of the next generation.

Now, he was left with a conundrum, with both of his candidates for the position of deputy declining. Pomona simply lacked the power to qualify, and while Horace was competent magically, his skills bar Potions had gone rusty long ago. Slughorn would also be faced with a challenge similar to Filius and Minerva: filling three sets of shoes at the same time. Despite the Potions master’s considerable skill with a wand, he lacked the bravery and the spine required for a future headmaster, and his obsession with influence and fame made him even more unsuitable.

Now, Albus had to look towards the younger teachers with far fewer burdens, like Sinistra, Babbling, or Vector. Yet they lacked the power, prestige, and experience to take on such a burden, and he lacked time to take on a protegee or an apprentice. Merlin, when had he grown so reliant on Minerva’s assistance?

The headmaster rubbed his wizened brow tiredly.

14th of November, Thursday

The Black Manor was even darker than usual, and a heavy, choking scent of smoke hit her face as she entered the parlour. Her cousin smoked only on rare occasions, and the last time she had seen it happen had been over a decade and a half.

“This better be good,” Cassiopeia hissed, banishing the annoying dark fumes with a swipe of her wand. “I was just about to depart for Hawaii.” Without Juno to teach, she was getting far too bored to linger around the damp, cold weather of the British Isles.

Arcturus snorted, taking stiff puffs from his cigar, and threw a newspaper on the table.

Her eyes glanced down and froze at the sight of her grandnephew smiling madly back at her from the paper, looking like some sort of unwashed street rat.

Sirius Black Innocent!

DMLE Director Felix Fawley captured Peter Pettigrew this Saturday, alive and well-

“Good enough?” Arcturus asked after a few moments of stunned silence as she stared at the paper.

“That must’ve caused a storm in the ministry.” Cassiopeia chuckled fondly at the image of the ministry official scrambling around like headless chickens.

Arcturus let out a raspy chuckle. “That it did. Our new minister quickly threw the blame elsewhere to help the public forget he was the first on the scene. Barty Crouch and Bagnold are in deep shite with the Mot for authorising life sentences with no proper trial. Even the Auror captain who carried the arrest is in trouble.”

“Still, I don’t see how this changes anything for us, Archie.” She shrugged, sat on one of the chairs, and helped herself to the cookies on the table. “Didn’t you disown the boy?”

The Black lord picked up his cup of tea, took a small sip, and smiled. It was a cold, callous smile, just like the rest of him. “Walburga certainly wanted everyone to think so.”

“Ah, having a foot in both camps as usual,” Cassiopeia clicked her tongue in disapproval. Her uncle, Sirius Black II, was much the same when Grindelwald had risen. “But last I heard, your grandson wanted nothing to do with House Black.”

“A small wonder Sirius managed to find some spine with Orion for a father,” he shook his head. “I hope his stay in Azkaban has given the boy time to think his frivolities over.”

“It would be a small wonder if the Dementors have not driven Sirius mad in ten years.”

“Come now, Cassie, you know a little madness had never stopped a Black.”

She grabbed another glazed cookie. Lynny was excellent with pastries, as always. “What of Juno? Will you discard her for an ungrateful cad after all the effort put in nurturing her?”

“There are far too few Blacks to the boy,” Arcturus scoffed dismissively, puffing out another plume of dark smoke. “Sirius should have been my heir. Besides, he’s Potter’s godfather.”

Ah, there it was. A Lord of Black always played a game of benefits that others did not see. Yet it wasn’t only that; Cassiopeia could clearly see he preferred his grandson stemming from his loins over a girl from a secondary branch, even if he would never voice it.

“Juno has already made friends with the Potter boy.”

Another puff of heavy smoke made Cassiopeia’s nose twitch, and she flicked her wand, sweeping the air clear.

“If only the foolish lass did not drag her arse into danger for it. I taught Juno better than to get into meaningless trouble.”

Cassiopeia wanted to tell the old stooge that bonds forged in adversity were the strongest but held her tongue. Arguing with her stubborn cousin was useless when his mind was made up.

“Perhaps she takes after you? Unless my memory fails me, you always got in all sorts of trouble at school.” From picking fights to attacking, bribery, blackmail, extortion, curses, and manipulation, Arcturus had done it all without batting an eye. Juno trying to help a friend was harmlessly innocent, and perhaps that was the problem.

“Bah, I was rarely caught and never in danger!” Another heavy puff of acrid smoke. “I didn’t call you to banter about the good old times, though. I want you to escort me to Saint Mungo’s.”

“Why would you need an escort?”

“Sirius is recovering there, and-“

“…And you need me there to make sure Augusta won’t get rid of you,” Cassiopeia finished with an amused giggle. It would be perfect for the old Longbottom dowager – killing off Arcturus would remove the pressure on her family, especially with no other competent adult Blacks to take up the mantle.

A worthy place to announce her presence to Wizarding Britain once more.

“Indeed. Are you coming or not?”

It seemed that Augusta Longbottom indeed had the idea. Leading two other Longbottoms, the old battleaxe blocked the stairway two floors below where Sirius’ room lay.

While they wouldn’t do anything in the open, Cassiopeia knew all too well how these things went. Apparition and portkeys were blocked beyond the foyer in the hospital, so a well-placed curse out of sight here or there, and Arcturus would be dead by the next day with none the wiser. While decent with a wand in his youth, old age had made her cousin go rusty; his strength had always been in the finer aspects of the higher life.

“Lord Black.” Scorn and hate dripped from Augusta’s steely voice. “You finally dare show your face.”

“Out of the way, you crazy old hag,” he groused.

They remained unmoving, and Cassiopeia took the chance and stepped forward, smiling wide. “Oh my, little Augusta, old age has treated you poorly.” Indeed, Augusta was two years younger than her, but her hair, tied into the traditional widow’s knot, had gone grey, and her face was wrinkled. The old battleaxe hailed from a middling pureblood House now extinct; the Hargreaves had been snuffed out in the Blood War and a heavy bout of Dragonpox to the last.

“You!” Augusta’s hazel eyes wheeled to Cassiopeia with caution and a measure of shock. “You’re still alive?”

The other two Longbottoms palmed their wands warily. Good, they still had some wits left to them, at least. However, she was itching for a fight.

“Hale and healthy,” Cassiopeia nodded with an amused giggle and spun her wand between her fingers, making them step back.

Wizarding Britain had never issued an arrest warrant for her, and the ICW had grudgingly agreed to issue her a pardon for identifying some of Gellert’s infamous secret stashes. It was effortless to do after Cassiopeia disappeared from the public eye after the Great War and slowly but meticulously cleared up any problems that could have come back to bite her in the arse. As her uncle Sirius loved to say, ‘no witness, no crime’, and galleons made the world go around.

“Enough of this charade, Augusta,” Arcturus barked out. “Out of my way. I have no time to waste on the likes of you!”

Cassiopeia stopped twirling her wand and got in a battle stance, pooling her magic at the tip of her wand, making it glow a ghastly green with a predatory smile.

The three Longbottoms stepped aside carefully as if looking at a dangerous serpent that could lunge at any moment. Pah, of course, they would not dare to fight out in the open, not against her. She would not necessarily come out of such a fight unscathed, but at least two of the Longbottoms would perish, not to mention the endless trouble with the DMLE and the Ministry that would follow. Cassiopeia knew Augusta was aware of the latter, or at least suspected heavily.

House Black was never afraid of trouble, and they already understood their mortality, but the Longbottoms had too much to lose…

“Cowards,” Cassiopeia muttered loudly enough for them to hear but only received a twitch in response as they slinked away like defeated mutts. With a scowl, she let the magic dissipate harmlessly from her wand and returned it to the holster. “Tch, how boring.”

“Well, the Longbottom boy must’ve picked the inclination for ambush and murder from somewhere,” Arcturus added sardonically, loud enough for even the spectating nurses to hear. Backs stiff, the Longbottoms made their way out.

Up the staircase, down a marble hallway to the left, they finally reached the room where her wayward nephew resided.

The two Aurors guarding the door gave Arcturus an uneasy nod while looking at her with proper caution. This brought a warm smile to Cassiopeia’s face—it seemed her reputation had not fully faded even after so much time.

She first took stock of the room; it was one of the most luxurious places that would easily fit in a high-society parlour. The gilded windows looked made of the finest enchanted glass, probably spelt unbreakable, and the only way in or out was the door. It seemed the Ministry intended to express their regrets over the unfortunate miscarriage of justice.

“Oh, you’re still alive,” a raspy voice finally greeted them from the bed. Under white cotton sheets lay Sirius, looking gaunt, tired, suspicious, and completely sane. It seemed like Azkaban had left a mark, but not as strongly as Cassiopeia had thought.

Cassiopeia casually threw a noise-suppressing charm at the door, preventing eavesdropping from the Aurors.

“Is that the way to great your Lord Grandfather, you little shit?”

“I remember being disowned,” Sirius shrugged nonchalantly. “Did my good ol’ mum finally kick the bucket?”

“Five years ago.” The moment the words were uttered, the Black Sheep started laughing out loud joyously, without a care in the world, eliciting a scowl from his grandfather. “Look at you, over thirty and still no manners!”

Sirius snorted with amusement. “As if you care of shite like that. I doubt you care much for little old me. Out with it – why are you here?”

“I am here to see my grandson, of course,” Arcturus’ eyes softened slightly.

“Well, that’s a first,” a raspy, sardonic laugh escaped the bedridden man. “You never cared much before. What changed?”

“We’re the last of the Blacks, Sirius,” the Black lord spoke regretfully as he sat on one of the chairs, looking more feeble than usual. A master manipulator, as always. “Ties of blood are not so easily severed, and we must stay together in those trying times. Kinship is the foundation of our society, and our family name carries a strength that cannot be dismissed.”

Sirius looked sceptical, but he was at least listening carefully.

“But I don’t care much about your blood purity,” he eventually replied with a shameless swagger.

“Few do,” Cassiopeia laughed. “They would posture and parade around like peacocks, but in truth, it’s showing off their heritage and wealth.”

“I am well aware of the grievances that forced you out of the family, Sirius,” Arcturus continued softly. “I do not dismiss the pain you have suffered. But the Black family endures, and its strength lies in unity, not division. Let us reconcile, my grandson. Return to the fold and claim your rightful place within the family!”

Sirius looked carefully at his grandfather, and for a short moment, Cassiopeia thought he would accept. But then his face twisted in amusement, and he roared with laughter, making Arcturus stiffen.

“Merlin, this is the biggest load of shite I’ve heard in my life,” Sirius brushed some imaginary tears from his eyes. “And I’ve had the joy of listening to Bellatrix’s insane dribble for a whole decade. I could do without you slimy lot back then, and I will handle myself now, too.”

The Black Lord stood up, gait rigid, and walked out of the room with a stony face. It seemed that even Arcturus’s pride wouldn’t take his grandson laughing at his face with such scorn. Cassiopeia followed silently, for Juno was so much better an heir anyway.

“It’s that useless Crabbe blood.” Arcturus looked like a statue in the hallway, but that only meant he was seething with rage on the inside. “I’m disowning this little shit first thing.”

23d of November, 1991, Friday

Some would say the mind was at its weakest, the most open when one was asleep.

They were wrong.

The soul, the mind, and the body were the most defenceless amidst the peak of pleasure, especially when the bodies were interconnected in almost every sense of the word.

Trelawney’s surprisingly supple body writhed in ecstasy underneath him as flesh and magic intertwined as one, and soon enough, her pupils dilated then over from the sensual overload.

Quirrell gazed into her eyes and dove.

It was not the first time and would not be the last if he failed. Opportunity was plentiful, and he patiently pushed his mind towards what he sought.

Deeper and deeper he went, ignoring all the inane memories and sinking into the subconscious.

Just as he felt his time was running out, he found it.

The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord Approaches…

born to those who had thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…

and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have the power the Dark Lord knows not…

and either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other one survives…

the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…

Quirrell opened his eyes and blinked in incomprehension at the divination teacher, bare as the day she was born. Already exhausted, it seemed that Trelawney was snoring gently, having fallen asleep.