65.Pride and Power

3rd of September 1994, Saturday (2 days later)

Fleur Delacour

The small hall was no different from a modest dining room, but more than enough to accommodate Madame Maxime and all twelve champion candidates. That had been the plan, once. But now, the hall was filled to the brim even after a round of expansion charms, seeing nearly forty students from the first to the seventh year, squeezing together on each table with no small difficulty. And this was after only those proficient enough in English had been chosen to come. Even her sister had managed to secure a place among the first years, though she was already asleep in her room.

The walkway was split between a row of slender tables, each boxed by cushioned seats on both sides. Arched glasses were enchanted to show the view outside, acting like windows without any connection to the outer walls.

The headmistress finally looked at ease on her throne of carved marble; all the tension that Fleur had seen in her shoulders and sensed in her magic was gone. Few had said it, but the werewolves and other unrest had seen undercurrents stir in France—evident in the strained smiles of her usually calm parents and the alert Beauxbatons teachers.

Even now, the fellow champion candidates were talking in hushed whispers about Lord Incendius’s latest attack. Others spoke of the werewolf raid in a village ten miles from Beauxbatons. Fleur did not fear dark wizards or the cursed mutts, but the same could not be said about her sister or the other students. 

Her thoughts drifted elsewhere. She shuffled uneasily in her seat, fingers straightening the folds of her blue skirt for the hundredth time today.

“You should calm down, Fleur,” Adeline leaned across the table to whisper.

Fleur’s hands stilled. “I am calm,” she said in a clipped tone.

Her best friend quirked a blonde brow. “If you say so. But I wouldn’t worry my head over this if I were you. Nobody knows better than I how hard you trained and the countless hours spent poring over treatises and in the duelling room. You have two world championships under your belt, and even 13th place in international duelling A18. The British boy has not done a thing since that casual duel.” 

“Not that you know of,” said Fleur softly. “But that doesn’t mean he remained idle. He took his Standard Magic Level exams two months before I did.”

“Grades on exams have more to do with knowledge than magical might,” Adeline scoffed. “Besides… didn’t the British claim the boy had Squibbed himself? It was all a fluke, I tell you.”

Fleur gave her friend a look. “And the press said I am the second coming of Julie d’Aubigny, only twice as shameless. You should know better than to believe every bit of nonsense you read.”

Adeline let out a melodic chuckle. “Perhaps. But he’s hooked up with a British lady of higher standing. Clinging to the thighs of wealthy women is not something any self-respecting wizard would do. Perhaps he’s like Julien—grovelling before a superior witch for every scrap of power and influence.”

Yet the boy had resisted the full brunt of her allure at twelve as if it were no more than a breeze, when wizards far older and more powerful had been bent by a single smile of hers. Fleur refused to believe that someone like that could ever Squib himself, let alone lower his head to another. His pride would not allow it, just like hers would not. It demanded she prove herself, too.

“I came here to claim another victory, not meet some boy,” Fleur said despite herself, but the words lacked conviction even in her own ears. 

Her friend glanced at the other tables with no small measure of disdain. “Victory will be yours. I just don’t know why Madame Maxime brought the likes of Mathieu or Julien.”

“Mathieu is a decent wizard… when he behaves,” Fleur said. “Second only to me in the whole of Beauxbatons.”

“That’s a kind way of saying he’s so far behind he can’t even breathe your dust.”

The veela let out a long sigh. “It’s better this way. Otherwise, it’d be only me, and you wouldn’t get to join me here.”

That brought a smile to her friend’s face.

“Suppose every champion needs a proper retinue.”

The truth… was harder to swallow. She had been utterly trounced that one summer, no matter how hard she tried. And each following defeat came easier than the last, until the green-eyed youth no longer put visible effort into it. How could she ever forget that? Her pride had been shattered by a little boy!

It should have been an utter humiliation… if the boy in question hadn’t bested those older and more famous than her. When so many were defeated, being one more loser meant little. It made her just part of the quite sizeable crowd of losers, and she hated it. Yet Fleur had not been humiliated that year in Corsica. Most victors would put on a fake smile and utter back-handed gloats disguised as sincere compliments to their opponents. Or even mock the defeated. Yet she had only received quiet kindness, and those green eyes only held understanding and softness—even encouragement—never contempt or ridicule.

It still burned to be treated like that by someone three years younger than her. It was not done maliciously, but her pride… 

The memory was seared into her mind, and it had kept her awake at night, pushing her to toil over spellwork or study each time her discipline began to falter. Never again would she lose to a child. 

For it, she had gone further than even her parents had thought possible, unlocking bloodline skills unseen in her maternal line for generations. 

Whispers of excitement rippled through the small hall, and Fleur had found her fingers fidgeting in the folds of her robes again. 

“Look,” Adeline said, pointing at the enchanted glass. “We’re about to arrive.”

Fleur’s gaze flicked to the side, and she no longer saw an expanse of clouds and the sun had gone far in the west. A great lake nestled between a dark forest and a castle perched atop a great cliff. Hewn out of granite that had weathered centuries, towers and turrets rose to the sky, some slender, others squat, and rarely two of the same design, as if each next headmaster had been adding a wing or a turret during their tenure in their own style. But there was a rustic charm to it, and its windows sparkled under the September sun, not nearly as atrocious as her father had described. 

“A bit crude,” her friend murmured, and Fleur could hear similar sentiment from the other tables. “Too much drab grey for my taste. Beauxbatons is far better.”

Fleur gave a hum and nodded. Adeline was right, but Beauxbatons was a proper palace, while Hogwarts was a castle, and looked like one too. 

Madame Maxime rose, towering over them all, and a clap gathered their attention.

“Prepare yourself,” she said calmly, her dark eyes roaming over the students. “I expect each of you to be at your finest, whether in manners or skill. You represent the dignity and grace of Beauxbatons.”

They all rose and followed in the wake of the headmistress towards the foyer. Before long, the great carriage-house shook gently. They had landed. 

Mathieu, always the pleaser, was the first to slip through the open door, eager to pull down the golden stairs. But the moment Fleur rolled her eyes, a cold gust of chilly Scottish air rushed inside, easily biting through their thin robes of blue silk. 

“Come along now,” the headmistress urged as she leaned down to pass through the doorway.

Shivering like quails, they had no choice but to follow outside and found it even colder. Adeline and Maglene had it worse, shaking like leaves in a storm, and the boys weren’t much better. Even the ground and the grass were still wet, to her annoyance.

“And they call this British summer,” Julien half-sneered, half-sneezed. Madame Maxime threw him a withering glare, and he swallowed any further complaints about to erupt.

Mathieu muttered something that sounded suspiciously like ‘late Alpine Autumn’.

The castle courtyard was packed with students in black robes and cloaks, arranged into orderly rows beneath the looming granite wall, greeting them with eager applause. A good part was already staring her way—both the wizards and the witches—even though she had reigned in her allure completely. At their helm stood an old wizard with bright plum robes, crescent spectacles, and a genial, grandfatherly smile. Just a glance at him had the hairs on her skin standing on end, and her Veiled Form curled itself in fear.

This could only be one man. 

Albus Dumbledore accepted Madame Maxime’s outstretched hand and was tall enough to kiss it without having to tiptoe.

“My dear Madame Maxime.” He smiled genially, as his twinkling eyes beheld the sizeable contingent of Beauxbatons students. “Welcome to Hogwarts.”

“Dumbly-dorr,” the headmistress said in a deep voice. “I ‘ope I find you well?”

“In excellent form, I assure you.”

Her jewelled hand motioned at the clustered group. “I ‘ave brought more students zhan planned for a proper inter-school exchange. I hope eet is of no ee-sue.”

Fleur’s eyes studied the crowd of students, gaze focused on the group with bronze and blue ties behind a diminutive wizard. Like the rest, they had put the youngest and shortest at the front and the oldest at the very back. A pang of disappointment came quicker than she would ever admit—no matter how hard she looked through the crowd, all she saw were the enamoured gazes of boys and the envy written all over the faces of witches. Not a single trace of that sharp pair of emerald eyes she was seeking.

‘Maybe he’s hiding in the back rows,’ Fleur told herself. 

“‘As our newest… colleague arrived yet?” Madame Maxime asked uncertainly. 

“Headmistress Zagorska and her charges ought to be here any moment now,” Dumbledore said. “Would you like to stay here and greet them or step inside and warm up a trifle?”

“Warm up, I think.” The headmistress glanced towards the Abraxans that were uneasily stamping down, leaving plate-sized craters in the wet grass.

But before she could say anything, Dumbledore called out, “Come, Hagrid.”

A mountainof a man made his way through the crowd, just as tall as Madame Maxime but far broader and all of it muscle by what Fleur could see beneath the face covered by the tangle of beard. The headmistress stared, and she wasn’t the only one. The rest of her schoolmates huddled beneath Madame’s shadow, and even Fleur found herself stepping closer to the headmistress. The towering man approached the Abraxan with a jolly smile, mumbling a welcome. The elephant-sized steed turned its red eyes to the intruder and lunged to bite at the meaty hand reaching out, playfully swatting the snout away.

Before long, both steeds were being manhandled like little ponies and reluctantly stilled under the lid-sized hands of the half-giant.

Madame Maxime regained her elegant bearing again, though her gaze lingered for a while on the half-giant already leading the Abraxans away.

“Come,” the headmistress said imperiously, and the Hogwarts crowd was quick to move aside, allowing them to pass up the stone stairs. 

Inside the castle was warmer, almost cosier, though the air was not as warm as Fleur would have liked. Adeline still clung to her scarf, rubbing her shoulders as if it would chase away the chill. 

The biggest change was the air. It was heavy, thick with magic, and it made her blood thrum. Now, away from the cold winds outside that wrapped her senses, she could feel it far better. A magical nexus, not inferior to Beauxbatons in any way, and the castle was built in the thick of it. That alone made it a great place of learning and sorcery, and Fleur’s earlier dismissal drained away.

Soon, they passed through a double door into what could only be the infamous Hogwarts Great Hall, judging by the cloudy sky-like ceiling that looked much like what they had seen outside. Even the clouds were tinged pink to the west, as if twilight was fast approaching. Enormous silk banners hung from each wall. Crimson with a golden lion for Gryffindor, blue with a bronze eagle for Ravenclaw, yellow with a black badger for Hufflepuff and green with a silver serpent for Slytherin.

Behind a high table at the far end hung a banner bigger than the other four, uniting all four houses around a large letter H.

Maxime paused between the four long tables. “Each table corresponds to a Hogwarts House, so choose wisely—you’ll likely remain seated at it until the end of the school year.”

As the headmistress turned to climb towards the dais, Fleur had already made her way to the second table from left to right, with the navy-blue tablecloth emblazoned with bronze eagles. 

A heartbeat later, Adeline rushed, joining her by the bench. Eyes wide with wonder, Gabrielle sat across from her on the table. Grumbling, the rest of her schoolmates followed, most of their faces sour. Nobody dared to voice any displeasure—not directly at her anyway. While Fleur was not particularly fond of her schoolmates (and the feeling was mutual), most of them were displeased to be in this cold, wet land more than anything else.

“Why must we stay here for a whole year?” Alexandre from the sixth year muttered loud enough for all of them to hear. “This place is unbearable.”

Maglene was the one to respond, though her tanned face looked like she had swallowed a lemon. “Because this dreary island has been deemed safer than Beauxbatons.” 

Adeline looked at her with great interest. “Don’t tell me you picked this table because of…”

Fleur merely sniffed, glancing down at the array of golden plates, platters, and cutlery arranged from one end of the table to the other. She reached out a finger to touch—it was real gold, polished enough to be used for a mirror. How dreadfully ostentatious. 

Her glance settled on her little sister.“You should have sat with your yearmates.”

“Can’t stand Gracia and Simon,” Gabrielle said petulantly. “The boy can’t stop staring, and she… uh, forget it. Do you think he’ll be here?”

Fleur sighed with exasperation while Adeline snickered.

The other champion elects were looking at her sister every now and then, and for good reason. Over a head and a half shorter, she stood out amongst the sixth and the seventh years like a sore thumb.

The sky above darkened to black, and most clouds slowly dispersed, revealing a starry sky. Before long, black-robed students rushed inside like a dark flood, trailing along a streak of boys draped with fur coats and hats.

“Here come the brutes of Durmstrang,” Julien said, voice dripping with disdain.

The brutes of Durmstrang, however, didn’t even spare them a glance. Though many, including those from the rush of Hogwarts students, were glancing at the front, more precisely at the boy leading the Durmstrang procession. It was an older teen with a stout build and a stern face marked by three jagged claw scars. He was following closely behind a slender, tall witch with flowing hair of grey and a hawkish but surprisingly youthful face.

“That must be the new Durmstrang headmistress,” someone murmured down the table. 

“Who cares about some old hag. Krum is here!”

Adeline smacked her lips. “Krum is more dashing than I thought. And that scar… it only makes him more rugged.” 

Fleur gave her a very unimpressed glance.

“Come now. With some luck, I can get him to sign my shirt. Or perhaps underneath it.”

“Thinking of consorting with the competition already?” Fleur asked wryly. 

“Call it scouting the enemy,” Adeline said with faux seriousness. “Don’t you see the sacrifices I’m making for you? To stick my neck out and brave Durmstrang territory—ugh!”

Fleur chuckled despite herself. 

Meanwhile, the four tables were filling rapidly, and the Great Hall was increasingly crowded, and groans of disappointment rippled from the Gryffindor table as the Durmstrang group joined the Slytherin table. Unlike Fleur’s schoolmates, they looked around with appreciation, delight plain on their faces—even the witches. The Durmstrang students shrugged off the furs, revealing caps and robes of bright crimson underneath.

To Fleur’s left sat a witch about her age with lidded eyes and a sleepy face.

“Name’s Clara Rowle, Frenchies,” she said with a lazy drawl. “Welcome to Hogwarts, I suppose. Just don’t disturb my meals or my study… or my naps.”

Words said, she pulled out a book on runes and started reading without a care in the world as Adeline bristled.

Fleur swallowed down her own irritation and shook her head at her friend. Her gaze returned to the Ravenclaw table, roaming around from one end to the other. A frown settled on her face as her eyes paused on each student, and some even met her gaze, flushing bright red. More and more eyes settled on her back, and some on her perfect silvery hair, and she could feel the jealousy and envy and lust thicken in the air around her.

Taking a deep sigh, she closed her eyes and pushed the allure into the deepest corner of her being. The stares decreased, though not by as much as she would have liked.

“Do you see him?” Fleur whispered to Adeline. 

Her friend glanced about the table. “Perhaps he’s not here.”

“Madame Maxime said we should speak in English while in Hogwarts for practice,” her sister chimed across the table.

Fleur quirked a brow. “Zen, why are you speaking in French, ‘mm?”

Gabrielle slapped her brow, but before she could come up with a clever reply, all of the higher table was filled aside from Dumbledore, who remained standing between Madam Maxime and Irina Zagorska. 

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, ghosts and, most particularly, guests,” he said, beaming down straight at Fleur and her schoolmates. “I have great pleasure in welcoming you all to Hogwarts. I hope and trust that your stay here shall be both comfortable and enjoyable.”

Alexandre and Maglene snorted, while Julien, still snuggled around his scarf, gave a derisive laugh.

That immediately earned them the ire of the Ravenclaw students, and the sheer amount of glares had the three shrink back in their seats. 

The plates before them suddenly filled with a generous fare of steaming meat and warm, freshly baked bread, and the younger years started oohing and aahing at the sight.

Adeline shook her head. “So easily impressed by parlour tricks.”

“I bet you’d be impressed too if you were eleven,” Gabrielle bit back.

“What a precocious little thing,” Adeline cooed back, and her sister’s adorable round face reddened.

“Manners,” Fleur said. “Dinner is for eating, not for childish chatter.”

Gabrielle had the decency to look ashamed. 

Her best friend, however, let out a whine. “The food here is so… British. Too much grease and too little style. At least the chefs bothered to make proper French cuisine.” 

Dinner passed quickly, though the Hogwarts and Durmstrang students swept through the plates with too much eagerness and too little finesse. Fleur kept nibbling on a small cut of Bœuf au Vin Enchantés that was surprisingly delicious. Her attention, however, was spread across the table, and her eyes kept darting across its length to the far end, where the dais was, but she couldn’t find her target. 

In the end, Fleur was forced to turn to the prickly girl to her left.

“Pardon, please, Miss Rowle.”

The witch reluctantly peeled her attention from some mysterious meat pie. Her eyes settled on Fleur’s silver curls, her nose wrinkled ever so slightly, and she impatiently raised a brow. “Hn?”

“I thought ‘Arry Potter was part of your ‘ouse and yet… I do not see ‘im.”

That got Clara’s full attention. She reached for a napkin and dabbed away the grease on her lips. “The Boy Wonder?” 

“The Boy Who Lived, yes.”

Clara’s dark eyes passed down the table with a frown. “Now that you mention it… I have scarcely seen him this year.”

“So is it true then?” Adeline asked with no small excitement. 

The British witch regarded her best friend with a less icy glance, though not by much. “Is what true?”

“That Potter Squibbed ‘imself.”

A harsh, mocking laughter tore from the Rowle witch. “Potter? Squibbed?” she wheezed as if she had heard the funniest joke in the world. “Word is he suffered some spell backlash, but I did hear he goes by in classes well enough.”

That was all they could pry away from Clara Rowle before she fixed her attention on her plate, as if nothing else in the world mattered.

Relief washed over Fleur, but the frustration bubbling underneath still remained. Harry Potter was here, yet… she had not expected him to be so hard to find. 

There was no inkling of him in the Great Hall the next day at breakfast, either. The Ravenclaws were all friendly enough, even though some hid their distaste behind empty courtesies, but the moment Harry Potter was mentioned, something shifted. Many deflected, and everyone claimed they hadn’t seen him, even when she enchanted an older boy named Roger Davies to guide her to her target. 

“Potter always keeps to himself and his friends,” an Asian girl named Cho told her, voice full of irritation. “Don’t rush, you’ll probably see him sooner or later in your classes.”

Fleur sniffed imperiously. “I am in my final year, oui.”

“So is Tryhard Potter.”

The fourth year Ravenclaws, supposedly friends with Potter, avoided her like a leper. 

By evening, Fleur had grown despe—cough—irritated enough to even ask the Hogwarts ghosts, but they had not spotted the Boy Who Lived any more than Fleur had. She vented in a long duelling session with Madame Maxime, but the feeling of frustration stuck to her even at the start of the next week. 

???

Thomas Gaunt

The Forest of Verdun was an exceptional place. Verdant greenery had cloaked the bunkers and trenches jutting out of the ground, scars still lingering after more than two-thirds of a century had passed since the Muggle Great War.

The Muggles were not nearly so altruistic as to let the land mend from their incessant greed; no, they had merely deemed the millions of unexploded shells still buried underneath too dangerous and expensive to remove. Even the beautiful woodland had become nothing more than an attraction for Muggles to gawk at what had once been a meat grinder that had seen the death of hundreds of thousands of Muggles for no gain.

The staggering numbers gave even him pause. This forest and everything beneath it was a terrible monument to the capacity of lesser beings for destruction on a scale that even he would struggle to unleash. Muggles had a way of multiplying more and more, and had only grown better and better at squeezing whatever goals they set their mind to out of that numerous populace.

Especially destruction.

One Great War had not been enough for the Muggles, and in merely two decades, they had fought a second, even greater, one. He had witnessed a small part of it, yet it was nothing that Lord Voldemort could forget. It was one thing to see the Daily Prophet with a picture of Muggle aeroplanes blotting out the sky, and another to return to London to see devastation and wreckage spreading in every direction. Yet even that paled in comparison to what Muggles were truly capable of.

The Second Great Muggle War had been far more devastating than the first, and the sheer scale of havoc they had wrought on the land and the horrors of technology they had unleashed in the Far East had dominated his fears for a long time.

The Forest of Verdun was a clever hiding place for a werewolf pack, secluded enough from Muggle society but too important for the magical authorities to risk a direct raid.

It felt peaceful and serene, the air thick with the sound of birdsong and the swaying of the trees. Something wistful and far too melancholic stirred deep inside his chest as he walked through the woodland. 

He squashed it and cleared his mind. 

It wasn’t long before the forest parted before him into a glade where tents were sprawled amidst the jutting bunkers, some cleared of overgrowth and used as cottages.

He stood patiently to the side as a flick of his wand sent a letter hurling deep into the camp. Four men dressed like Muggle woodcutters with axes slung over their shoulders gathered, watching him vigilantly from the edge of the encampment. Sentries.

Soon, an unkempt man over six feet tall with a scarred face came out of the inner camp, and the sentries raised their heads to him; a savage form of respect where they showed their necks to their leader. After a short talk, they nodded reluctantly, while the man turned to meet Tom as the sentries remained behind.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet, Mr Lupin,” Tom said softly, looking at the man who was no less dangerous than Greyback. “I assure you that Lord Emberwick considers the werewolves to be his close friends.” 

Truth be told, Lord Voldemort loathed the mutts, for their minds were far harder to read with the cursed beast dwelling in their depths. But not impossible—nothing was impossible for him. The mutts were useful the way a demolition hammer was useful. And many things in the Wizarding World needed smashing or a heavy whack. This particular mutt was more important than most, and not because he controlled the biggest pack in Europe, almost four hundred strong.

Considerable achievement for one who had joined the werewolf horde less than three months ago. Also, far harder to tempt than the other pack leaders due to his lack of bloodlust and ambition. But Lord Voldemort loved a challenge. 

Remus Lupin’s face was implacable, but frustration oozed from the man, almost as thick as that black, oily distrust.

“Friends?” Lupin shook his head. “Those under my command have little desire to involve themselves in the affairs of wizards.”

Thomas cocked his head. “Yet your brethren have amassed a large host that has drawn the gaze of the ICW, attacking Muggles and Wizards alike. Some even from your… pack.”

The werewolf blanched. “I’ll deal with them,” he said darkly, muttering something about unruly traitors under his breath. “But my mind shall not change, Mr Gaunt. Your name is quite peculiar.”

“The last token of my parents,” he said with a long, drawn-out sigh. “They couldn’t leave me much else but the name, you see—one was a Squib, and the other a Muggle.”

Most of the suspicion instantly drained away from Lupin’s grey eyes, but a smidgen still remained, lingering like a stubborn loach. Dumbledore had not fully disclosed the details of his parenthood and humble beginnings as he had feared. Tom’s lips curved. Before, he would have been ashamed of it. But now, it was merely a proof that he had climbed out of the muck and grasped greatness with his own strength.

After all, it was far harder to catch him in a lie when he spoke none. 

Remus Lupin slowly nodded. “This Lord Emberwick… tell him we appreciate his friendship, but we love our solitude more.”

Slightly stronger than Greyback. His control was half an ounce worse, but it was made up for with cunning and smarts greater than the old brute could ever possess. Not to mention his prowess with the wand. 

The Dark Lord wanted him. 

Tom gave him a charming grin. “Even when he is willing to acknowledge werewolves as rightful beings of the wizarding world with rights not inferior to wizards and witches?”

“I’ve heard plenty of false promises before,” said Lupin, bitterness creeping into his voice. “Tell your lord to measure his terms to something more believable next time.”

“But Mr Lupin, his offer is genuine,” Tom uttered, allowing genuine confusion to creep into his tone. “Lord Emberwick is a man who remembers those who helped him the most. I’m willing to swear a vow on it.”

Lupin’s brows shot so far they disappeared into his locks. “A vow?”

Tom drew his wand, clearing his throat. “Unbreakable one. I can do it now if you wish.”

The act stumped Lupin as he stepped back, stunned. Tom laughed inwardly, especially as the werewolf’s eyes immediately strayed to his wand. The sentries watching from afar, all tense, but made no move to act. Good mutts. The more Tom watched, the more his satisfaction grew. They could be used.  

“Let’s…” Lupin faltered. “Let us speak terms first.”

“Good. I prefer being forthright myself,” Tom said, reaching out to place a hand on the werewolf’s shoulder. “You and your pack shall receive opportunities for employment, paid missions, and contracts backed by our allies. You shall have access granted to our direct information network… and all the resources at the disposal of the Fire Knights. Proper wizarding education for all the children, even Muggle ones, should they desire. Procurement of legal wands. Any legal—and illegal—problems you encounter shall receive Lord Emberwick’s full backing, of course.”

Lupin’s eyes brightened with each next word spoken. But caution had yet to leave him.

“And the cost of this generosity?” he asked evenly. 

Tom clasped his hands behind his back. “You will form a band, preferably those who volunteer. At least a hundred strong, though no more than a hundred and twenty. They must be available seven to eight days a month for Lord Emberwick’s command, of course, but the rest of their time shall be their own.”

“And what shall Lord Emberwick require of us?”

“Scouting, pressure, flanking,” Tom said with a soft smile. “Perhaps the occasional raid, and you might even see battle, should the situation call for it. You get to keep all of your gains during work, too.”

Tom knew he had won when the werewolf glanced back at the camp, and his eyes lingered on a visibly pregnant woman with a child clinging to her thigh. The deal was too sweet for Lupin to reject. But the werewolf had more cunning than most of his ilk, and the next two hours were spent on dissecting each proposal, haggling, and finally exchanging guarantees.

Truly, Remus Lupin was almost a wizard worthy of respect. Almost. The sky was darkened by the time everything was concluded. 

“Can I help you further, Mr Gaunt?” Lupin pressed when Tom made no move to leave.

After hesitating for a long moment, Tom spoke softly, “Truth be told, I have a personal matter I must bother you with. It’s a bit of a shame, you see, but I was hoping that you could answer some of my queries.”

“Ask away,” Lupin said, face betraying no emotion. But Tom could sense the vigilance roaring in the man’s mind. “But I make no promises to answer.”

“Long ago, Jason Slynt did me a great favour,” Tom muttered, allowing regret to seep into his tone. “And now that I have the means to repay it, I feel compelled to do so.”

The werewolf rubbed his stubble. “Name sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it.”  

“He was one of the Azkaban escapees. Tall, dark eyes and hair with a crooked nose and a face scarred by dragonpox. Worked under Bellatrix Lestrange.” 

“Ah, him. Last I saw him, his head was cleaved in two with his smoking brain splattered all over the place.” 

“Alas,” Tom let out a long, sorrowful sigh. “It seems I was too late. Could you perhaps tell me more of the manner of his demise?” 

“It all started with the capture of Lestrange’s daughter and Potter’s attack…” The Dark Lord cast out his mind, carefully sifting for the truthfulness in each word, each sentence.

Disgusting regret and self-loathing dripped from that story, but he ignored them, delving deeper. Once his magic slowly filled his surroundings, he slipped into the very edge of Lupin’s surface memories, deep enough to peer inside undetected even by the inner wolf. 

Fifteen minutes later, he said his goodbyes, parting ways with Remus Lupin. Finally, he had answers… though not the answers he had sought. Betrayal for love. 

Or perhaps it was no true betrayal if those loyalties had shifted for a wife and a son, no matter how reluctantly. After all, if Tom himself had been a werewolf… he would have spared no expense to bring the very system that tried to crush him to ruin. But Lupin had done more than plain betrayal of old friendships. The stain of kinslaying lingered in his magic for those who knew how to look. The Dark Lord would know, for he was one.

Once he was out of sight and sense of the mutts, he let go of his emotions. Laughter slipped from his lips, rippling through the trees with magic. How amusing. Lupin had remained quiet about it, but Lord Voldemort had seen it. He had seen that final memory, oozing with guilt, where the traitor cast Patronus, which could even carry a message. Amusing.

A part of him had wanted to kill the werewolf for it. He was responsible for the death of his sweet Bella, Greyback, and so many other loyal followers and useful tools. The Dark Lord wanted nothing more than to slaughter his band of sorry mutts until their blood soaked the Verdun forest crimson, and torture their spirits until they were nothing more than tormented ghosts. Lupin would be kept alive and watch as it all unfolded before him, and the last to be slain would be his wife and son.

But that would be a waste, and Lord Voldemort could not afford such pesky things as personal emotions to set back his own plans. There was a delightful irony in the current arrangement that suited him. To have those who had defied him bow their heads willingly with just words… that was just as sweet.

With a crack, he returned to his new mansion, formerly Lucius’s summer retreat in the Austrian Alps. Silk, gold and lacquered ebony dominated each room, luxury on blatant display in every corner. Truly, the Malfoys knew how to enjoy life.

He slid through the halls, down the stairs and into the dungeons where Rookwood was toiling over a gaunt man with a mangled face. He lived still, his eyes had been clawed out by his own hand. Two hollow orbs of glass glittered into the hollow eyesockets.

“His mind is completely scrambled, my lord,” Augustus said with a deep bow. “All I managed to glimpse is a great wall of green fire consuming everything. It didn’t touch him, but somehow seared through his mind, a feat impossible for any cursed flames I know.”

“So, the same as the last fool. You can cease your search for Brechfa survivors now.”

“But my lord—”

“It was Dumbledore,” Voldemort said calmly. A pity Lupin had left so early; otherwise, he would have caught a glimpse of the old man’s new capabilities. Or perhaps not—Lupin’s mind would have been melted by the cursed flame. “He went in to save young Potter and Bella’s daughter. The old man has grown bold and dangerous. Spread my order—from now on, any who encounter Dumbledore are to flee on sight.” 

“It shall be done.”

Bella’s daughter had grown far faster than he had hoped. A worthy replacement for her mother. Then there was young Potter. His promise had fully bloomed, and then some. Those special abilities… 

Curious.

The Basilisk hide robes had caught his eye right away. That had to be the remains of poor Serris. Someone must have breached the Chamber of Secrets… or perhaps wielded Parseltongue.

No direct descendant of the malformed line of Gaunt survived, but Tom knew better than most that his maternal clan was lusty, possessive, and eager to spread their seed. He had been the last fruit of that—their twilight had seen them powerless to act on those urges, reduced to nothing more than half-cripples and outcasts.

His thoughts returned to the Potter boy and his grand display in Lupin’s regret-filled memories. 

It was not mere skill or power, though those alone displayed frightening potential. The sheer will and persistence to pour in countless hours on honing his body and magic already put him a cut above most of his followers. All of them, if his age was considered. That was not it either. No amount of training the flesh, or sorcery, could produce such a powerful defence, far beyond the resilience of basilisk hide. No, that resistance to spellfire had to be some obscure ritual. Voldemort licked his lips. 

Poor, foolish Bella. Pride and Azkaban had scrambled her wits, and she could not rein in her own daughter.

He wanted them both. Potter and Black. Together or separate, it did not matter. So many things would be revealed to him, then. Perhaps they knew how Dumbledore had enchanted those flames, too, and if nothing else, they had seen it and had survived—that alone was no small thing.

But whisking away someone important from underneath Dumbledore’s nose was hard. The risk was not worth it. For now. The old man was more heavy-handed than he dared to imagine, and his willingness to use such sinister magic… there was no rush. Voldemort had all the time in the world. Time was on his side, too. Even without the rituals, each day saw his power swell, while each day Dumbledore grew older. His magic would not decay, but his body would slacken, his flesh would slowly wither, unable to support his might.  

There was no triumph in outliving his enemies like that old cowardly turtle Flamel. Such a victory would only taste hollow, and Lord Voldemort wanted nothing to do with it.

He ran the numbers and the runes through his head. The auspicious time for his next ritual approached, and he needed one final ingredient.

He found Barty toiling over a desk in the storage room, dutifully reviewing each report.

Crouch’s son hastily slipped out of his chair, bowing deeply. “My lord!”

“Any progress on Severus?”

“Just a faint clue,” Barty said, lowering his head in shame. “A man resembling him was last spotted crossing from Africa to South America, and that’s where all traces disappear.”

Voldemort tilted his head. “You’ve done more than I expected, Barty. You can cease your search—your great talents are wasted on such an endeavour.” I shall deal with it myself later.

That earned him another deep bow, as Barty’s eyes burned with zeal. “What is your bidding, master?”

“My next task shall be far harder,” the Dark Lord said. “And the reward for it shall be far greater. I heard that the Divination Mistress of Hogwarts has given birth to a child. A boy by the name of Quirinus Junior.”

“Sneaking into Wizarding Britain with the island-wide defences up and leaving unmolested…” Barty hesitated for a long moment. “I do not fear death, my lord, but I’m afraid my skills are too lacking and might disappoint you. Perhaps with a companion—”

“I will train you myself. Do not fret—that is your reward for loyal service. It will help you complete your mission with ease.”

Barty thumped his chest and proudly declared, “I will bring you this Quirinus’s head!”

“You’ll do no such thing.” The Dark Lord’s eyes narrowed. “I want the child alive. Subterfuge is far more important in this task. Play your cards right, and you won’t have to fight a single enemy.” 

Author’s Endnote: Fleur PoVs required New OCs. Most of them are just side names to fill up, so no need to care. Adeline was already introduced in chapter thirty, and the rest… you can just take them as background characters since we don’t really have anyone from Beauxbatons. I think I’ll avoid Voldemort’s PoV as much as possible.