Lmao hope no one has a heart attack! I haven't updated this quickly in years hahahaha

Anyway! This chapter is a weird one - lots and lots of dialogue, lots of things happening, lots of characters. It might seem a bit fast-paced, but I'm a big fan of characters, when being faced with a crisis, actually doing shit about it. So we get to enjoy competent people making and actioning plans in this one.

Hope you all have as much reading this one as I had writing it!

Sirius wondered as he walked up the deserted stairwell, Augustus Rookwood in front and Rabastan fucking Lestrange behind, if his mother was watching him from her cold grave and laughing. She had tried so very hard to get him exactly here. Years of abuse and manipulation and punishments were spent attempting to twist him into some perfect little follower for her old school mate, attempts that he had been so proud to have resisted – and yet here he was.

Working with Death Eaters, with Voldemort, against Dumbledore. Going to interrogate people he considered his friends, prepared to use whatever he had to, to get the information he needed.

Gods, he hoped her bones choked on the fucking stone that packed her into the ground.

The walk was silent, thankfully. Rookwood was not a man that invited conversation when he was focussed, and Lestrange was more interested in drilling a hole in the back of Sirius' skull to bother opening his mouth.

Sirius ignored the stare and kept his shoulders tense just in case the asshole tried anything. Rabastan had always been a creepy fucker and his obsession with Sirius' family, with Sirius' little brother, was hardly a secret in the circles they had both run in decades ago. Even now, just thinking of the way Rabastan had lingered around Regulus, looking at him the way no twenty-three-year-old man had the right to look at a fourteen-year-old boy, had Sirius' hands curling into fists.

That old discomfort and anger was followed, as ever, by the sour taste of guilt sitting heavy on his tongue.

Sirius hated himself for a lot of things, the list growing longer each year that trudged by, but remembering how a younger him had just been glad that he was seen as a blood traitor and therefore was an undesirable option to Rabastan, made him want to be sick.

He had left Regulus to deal with that and more when he had run, and no matter what James or Remus or Tonks had tried to tell him – he knew he was, in part, responsible for Regulus' disappearance. His soft little brother had never had the temperament to be one of these people, but Sirius' actions had helped push him into it regardless.

Ahead of him, Rookwood slowed, pulling out the key that would open the door to the topmost floor of the Dark Tower. Sirius glanced over his shoulder, meeting Rabastan's unblinking, reptilian stare for a second, before turning back to the front. Rookwood swung the door open and ushered them out onto the open level, and Sirius had to brace against the icy gusts of wind this far up.

The tiny cell to one side would offer little protection from the weather up here, and he had a moment to puzzle out just how they were supposed to hear anything above the gale when Rookwood strode over to the stone parapet and brushed his hand against an engraved runic circle. A bubble snapped into place around them, shimmering blue just once before fading. The sudden drop in noise made Sirius' ears ring.

Rookwood turned to look at him then, his dark eyes purposefully blank. "He is inside," he said, tipping his head towards the barred door.

Sirius grimaced, nodding rigidly.

The first step he took was the hardest, a tacit agreement to do this, and before he consciously registered it, he was staring through the thick bars down at the slumped body of Moody. The man was a mess, his injuries healed only enough to keep him alive, giving Sirius plenty of time to see the damage he had wrought. He ignored the speculative look Rookwood tossed his way when the man opened the cell.

The last thing he wanted to know was what a man like Rookwood thought of him.

Sirius clenched his fists when the way was finally cleared for him. He closed his eyes and counted to five, then released a heavy breath and stepped inside. Rookwood and Lestrange followed, crowding around the unconscious form of their prisoner.

Lestrange had his head cocked, and the way he was eyeing Moody made it seem like he was about to kick him. To stop the man, Sirius tugged out the clear vial that Voldemort had handed over to him before they had left for the tower and dropped down to his knee. He rolled Moody over, careful of the chains around his arms and legs, and tucked a hand under his neck, tilting him enough so he could get his mouth open and pour the liquid in.

A murmured spell had Moody reflexively swallowing, and Sirius stepped back. "Alright," he said, sliding the empty vial back into his pocket. "Wake him up."

"Rennervate," Rookwood muttered.

Moody jolted awake when the charm hit him, letting out a wet grumble as the pain flared up from his movements. His one good eye squinted up at them, beady and fever-bright, but when his gaze settled on Sirius a snarl overtook his scarred face. "You fucking turncoat," the man hissed, the insult landing hard even if Sirius refused to show it.

"Where's Dumbledore?" Sirius asked.

"I don't know," Moody spat, then blanched – which at least told Sirius that the serum did as described. Instinctive, involuntary answers brought on by a potion so strong that even an occlumens of Moody's calibre would be unable to fight it. Terrifying to know their enemies had had something like this on hand for years, but incredibly useful now that he was standing on this side of the fence.

He could see the confusion on Moody's face, then the rippling realisation. There was no betrayal in his eye when he looked up at Sirius, but the way his gaze stabbed into him still felt like a condemnation. His expression went steely, and Lestrange shot forward like a dog let off the leash.

His fist collided with Moody's face hard enough to knock a tooth loose, sending the man careening back into the floor. "Oh, I fucking dare you to, you old goat," Lestrange laughed. "Anything you bite off I can regrow. We're getting answers one way or another, and I've been getting bored without anyone to play with lately. See how cooperative you are when you're missing the first two layers of your skin."

Torture, Sirius thought with a distasteful sneer. Another reason Rabastan Lestrange, in particular, was an awful human being. He felt dirty just breathing the same air as him, but for his godson, Sirius would plunge right into the filth until not a speck of him was clean.

He shot a look at Rookwood, silently telling the man to get his colleague in line. Rookwood pursed his lips, though obediently flicked his wand at Moody and cast something that caused a soft glow around the other's lower face. Moody's jaw slackened, lips parting and already a thin pool of saliva was building on his bottom lip.

"He won't be able to close his jaw now, stops them biting," Rookwood explained softly, tucking his wand away. "Might slur a bit, but he'll be understandable."

Good enough, Sirius thought. He moved closer to Moody, outright shoving Lestrange back with a well-placed elbow to his side, and knelt down beside his old mentor. He kept himself out of lunging range and met that violent gaze with calm.

"Where is Dumbledore conducting the compulsion ritual?"

Moody grunted, a trail of drool leaking out, and finally garbled, "I don't know."

Sirius frowned, sharing a glance with Rookwood. Are you sure this is working? he tried to convey with a raised eyebrow.

"What is the name of the ritual you were planning to use on Hadrian Evans?" Rookwood asked, cadence smooth and warm considering what they were doing.

Moody sent him a bitter, vicious glare. "Radix obedientiae," he gritted out.

"'The root of obedience'," Rookwood translated, his tone thoughtful. "Aptly named."

"Why don't you know where the ritual is taking place?" Sirius asked, ignoring the huff of amusement Lestrange let out at Rookwood's comment. They had a name to pass on to Narcissa, but what he needed was the location. Already, a dreadful suspicion was stirring at the back of his mind, and he could only pray he was wrong.

"Albus didn't tell us," Moody said, and a mangled, spiteful smile crawled onto his lips. "And he's hidden it so you'll never be able to find it."

"Son of a bitch," Sirius snapped, jumping to his feet and heading for the door. "Let's go, this is useless."

"What – Black?" Rookwood made to follow him, stopping just before he stepped out of the cell completely. "What do you mean? There's still information we can get."

"Not anything we really need," he replied, turning on his heels. "Dumbledore's used the fidelius charm. He," Sirius gestured back to the cell, to Moody who was watching him with palpable anger, "can't give us more information on where they are. This is a bust."

Rookwood stared hard at him, clever eyes darting over Sirius' face in search of answers. Whatever he found had him spinning around to stare at Lestrange. "Get whatever information you can out of him about the Order, Dumbledore and what they're planning. We don't want any more surprises cropping up. I'll report to Lord Voldemort with Black."

Lestrange's little smile was disturbed as he crossed his arms and glanced eagerly down at Moody. Sirius started to protest but Rookwood was already marching past him, so when Lestrange wiggled his fingers in a mocking farewell, Sirius found he could do nothing but snarl and whirl away.

"Tell me about this charm," Rookwood demanded as they began to descend, their steps hurried.

"It's old, powerful, and a bitch to perform. I've only known Dumbledore to be strong enough to do it. It's used to hide things – places, people, whatever – by locking a secret inside someone's soul. They're called the secret keeper, and only they can divulge it. That means that even if they tell someone else, that person still can't share it. It can't be coerced, it can't be forced, it can't be taken. The keeper has to willingly give up the secret. It's the only way."

Rookwood made a noise to let him know he was listening.

"If Dumbledore's hidden the ritual site under the fidelius charm than the location is invisible, intangible, unplottable and fucking soundproof. It's essentially wiped from people's memories, from maps – like it never existed. Even if he had told Moody where he was taking Lily, he never would have been able to tell us."

"Fascinating," Rookwood murmured as they hit the bottom floor. Sirius instantly threw up a simple glamour, changing his obvious features into something a bit more nondescript as they left the safety of the tower and stepped out into the midday sun. It felt wrong to have such cheerful weather when everything around them was falling into chaos.

They cut across the grounds, making their way back to the headmaster's office, which Voldemort had commandeered while they worked to fix this mess.

"Is that why we were never able to locate your bases?"

"Yeah, we used it for most of them," Sirius hummed.

"And there's no way to break this charm?"

"Not that I know of."

"Well," Rookwood said dryly. "Shit."

"Yep," Sirius echoed.

They made the rest of the way in silence.

Voldemort, when he had them standing in front of him and heard what they had learned, was equally frustrated.

"The fidelius charm," he said, leaning back against his borrowed desk. Sirius nodded, trying not to show how disconcerting he found the man's true features to be. Rookwood did not seem surprised, so Sirius assumed it was common knowledge amongst at least the most loyal Death Eaters that their lord spent his time moonlighting as either a hairless snake-man or a wrinkled professor while truly looking like a spring chicken.

"It hides –"

"Yes, thank you, I'm familiar with it," Voldemort interrupted sharply.

Sirius glared, crossing his arms.

"So, Dumbledore has made himself the secret keeper," the Dark Lord continued, tapping his fingers against the desk absent-mindedly.

"Which means that so long as he stays inside the location, no one's going to find them," Sirius agreed. "And we're back at square one."

"Is there any other way we might be able to locate him? Or Lily Potter?" Rookwood asked. "I know this charm is powerful, but every spell has a weakness. There must be something we can exploit."

"I don't know what to tell you," Sirius sighed, pressing his finger against his brow. "Unless Dumbledore himself waltzed in here and told you to your face what the secret was, then we're shit out of lu –"

"The wording."

Sirius looked up, his anger easing when he saw the hard, calculating expression on Voldemort's face.

"My Lord?" Rookwood prompted tentatively.

"When Peter revealed the location of the Potter's home to me that night," Sirius tensed, a current of lightning crackling through him as Voldemort continued to speak, "he had to use very specific wording." Those red eyes dispassionately flicked over to catch Sirius'.

"'James, Lily and Harry Potter live at Number 7, Keeldon Road, in Godric's Hollow'. That was what he had to say to me to reveal the secret. That wording exactly."

"Yes?" Sirius said, raising his eyebrows obnoxiously to hide the way he wanted to put his fist through the bastard's face. "I know the wording, I was there when it was decided."

"Precisely," Voldemort returned, his mouth curling into a biting smile. "When it was decided. As in, when someone sat down and deliberately selected each word of it. I should not have to tell you that the wording of the secret is paramount to the charm working properly."

"If the parameters of the secret could be changed…" Rookwood mumbled, picking up on the train of thought.

Voldemort nodded, pushing himself upright and circling around the desk. "The secret guarding their home was broken the moment I killed James Potter, because James no longer lived at the address, and therefore the parameters of the secret were no longer fulfilled."

"This is great and all," Sirius bit out, agitated and a hair's breadth away from doing something regrettable, "good brainstorming session – one flaw though. We can't know what will change the parameters of the secret because we don't know what the secret is."

"Are you absolutely sure there's no way we could still find the location without the secret being shared?" Rookwood asked, smoothly interjecting, and likely saving Sirius from having his intestines expelled or something equally death-inducing judging by the glint in Voldemort's eyes.

Sirius looked up at the ceiling, staring at the intricate designs sculpted there, and bit his lip. "There's nothing," he muttered. "Dumbledore's the only one that knows the secret. He's the only one that can share it. So long as he and Lily are under the charm, nothing we do will find them."

"There is a reason it is considered one of, if not the most powerful piece of defensive magic in the world," Voldemort added quietly. "Still, I prefer to keep my options open. Augustus, I want you to cast a locator spell for Lily Potter and keep it running for now. On the off chance she leaves the charm's boundaries, I want us to be right there to reclaim her."

"I'll need something of hers, preferably hair or blood to make the connection stronger."

"We can use her brush," Sirius proposed, staring at the bookshelf as he rolled their next steps around in his mind. "She had a room here at Hogwarts and one at her hotel. It's been a few weeks so it might not be anything recent, but you'll be able to get what you need from there."

Rookwood nodded his thanks, then darted a questioning look at Voldemort. The man waved him off, and Rookwood bowed low before he moved for the exit.

"See if you can get something of Hadrian's," Sirius called out as the other was leaving. "Might as well cast a locator for him too."

"He won't be so easy to find," Voldemort told him as Rookwood acknowledged Sirius' words just as he closed the door behind him and trapped the two of them together once more.

Sirius gave the man a flat look. "Obviously. The kid's too clever to not have some kind of concealment charm on him, but if we're keeping our options open…"

Voldemort clicked his tongue, obviously displeased at having his own words parroted back to him. He tellingly did not say anything else on the matter though, so Sirius took his continued ability to breathe as the win it was.

"Any luck on your front?" he asked, falling into one of the available seats. Voldemort eyed him with irritation and let the silence stretch – an answer in and of itself.

"He hasn't dropped down from the rafters and tried to stab me, if that's what you are asking," he eventually said, dragging his attention away from Sirius and back down to the desk. His eyes were not moving though, so Sirius knew he was not reading any of the documents that had been left out in the open.

There was, he was shocked to realise, legitimate concern on Voldemort's face. He knew the other was not unaffected by all of this, but he had not thought he would allow it to spill out of his impressive control and be visible to someone who was, until a few hours ago, considered an enemy.

Sirius sat forward, trying not to think of Lily or Hadrian or Remus or Tonks or fucking Moody, and studied the man with interest. He took in that calm but intent expression, the blistering level of focus in his eyes, and the way that, in certain lights, he looked so utterly and unmistakably human. For a man who claimed to be otherwise, who implied he was immortal, he did not seem very godlike.

So long as one ignored the insane presence of his magic, of course.

"We'll find him," Sirius felt compelled to say, even if he immediately knew he sounded like a fool.

"Obviously," Voldemort answered. Conviction was heavy in his tone, every inch of him oozing the simple belief that he would succeed, and yes, when he spoke like this Sirius could see what had drawn so many people to the man's side years ago. That amount of self-assurance was addictive. It was the kind of trait that people were desperate to experience for themselves, even if it meant hitching their wagon to someone as treacherous as a Dark Lord.

Still.

Arrogant prick, Sirius thought.

"What's the status of the tournament?" he asked, instead of giving into temptation.

Voldemort sighed, leaning back in his seat. He opened his mouth to say something, only to cut off abruptly. Those red eyes shot behind Sirius' shoulder, and he straightened, arranging himself into a carefully constructed pose.

Sirius turned to the door, his hand falling automatically to his temporary wand. He prepared himself for anything, but even he was taken aback when Lucius cautiously entered the office with Yaxley at his heels. What was shocking, however, was the presence of the Beauxbatons' Headmistress, the French Minister of Magic and an unfamiliar but well-dressed young man accompanying them.

Sirius realised a second too late that he was not wearing his glamour anymore. Lucius, safely in front of the three foreigners, attempted to burn him with his eyes alone as he came to a stop in front of them.

"My Lord," he greeted, and when Sirius glanced over, he saw that unlike him, Voldemort had already reapplied his own guise. Bone-white skin and no nose. "Forgive me for the interruption, but Minister Lécuyer was adamant that she speaks with you."

"I was quite clear with my instructions, Lucius," Voldemort said, and even his voice had changed, becoming higher and colder.

Lucius winced, the censure a humiliating hit. "I understand that, my Lord, but the minister –"

"I hardly gave him a choice, Lord Voldemort," Lécuyer said, stepping forward with a boldness that Sirius liked. The woman looked at him, a sharp, assessing scan of her eyes that made Sirius uncomfortably aware of his own skin, before dismissing him entirely as irrelevant.

It would have been offensive if he were not absurdly grateful to be regulated to the background for this. It was a nice reminder as well that just because his face was infamous in Britain did not mean he was known across the world. Sometimes being a small fish was a good thing.

"I want to know what is going on," Lécuyer demanded, standing tall with her chin raised. "You might have successfully kept the details hidden but we all see that something has occurred, and I believe I have the right to know it."

"The right?" Voldemort repeated, slowly rising to his feet. His fingers remained resting lightly on the desk, but the implicit threat radiated out from him. "There is nothing happening here that concerns you, Minister, so I –"

"Harry Potter," Lécuyer said loudly, and all the air in the office was sucked away in an instant. "Or Hadrian, as he prefers."

Sirius leapt to his feet, his wand in his hand even if he did not raise it. Lucius had stiffened across from them, his face whitening – and Yaxley gripped at his forearm with a pained grunt.

Magic slammed down on the room.

OoO

Mistake.

The thought bleated through Simone's mind as that frightening, impossible, all-consuming power wrapped around her throat and squeezed.

Mistake, mistake, this was a mistake.

Across the room Voldemort's eyes gleamed, flickering like twin pools of blood reflecting a flame, and though his face remained impassive she knew he was savouring the primal fear that sunk, ruinous, into her bones.

His magic dwarfed them all, coiling around the edges of the office like one of the serpents he had built himself after. It crackled in her senses, the fine hair along her limbs standing on end as the force crushed in around her, reducing her to little more than a hapless mouse. Small and insignificant.

William's hands flew to his throat as his legs buckled, and at the edges of Simone's vision, Olympe clutched at one of the pillars, her face ashen as she fought to stay upright. Even the man's own allies bowed under the weight of his power. Malfoy and Yaxley were both hunched in long-practiced deference, and the other one – Sirius Black, William had told her – had crumpled back down into the seat he had just stood from.

And Simone…Simone cowered.

She hated herself for it. Hated how he made her feel, how her lips trembled, and her chest shuddered with each rattling breath – but she remained standing. Her own magic, meagre in comparison, thrashed desperately to beat back the influence of the Dark Lord. The expression on Voldemort's face would have been indulgent if not for how coldly furious he was. He allowed her pitiful attempts to continue, observing her with clinical interest before what seemed like all his power condensed around her.

Simone's knees cracked from how hard she hit the ground. The pained gasp she let out was the last snatch of breath she was permitted because the muscles in her throat seized.

He left her like that, scrambling at her own neck and choking, until Simone was positive that she was going to die. It was only as the darkness crept in on her that the phantom presence of a hand around her throat lifted and she was able to suck in a startled, painful breath.

The fresh air burned its way down into her lungs, too much and far too little at the same time. She stayed on her knees, coughing roughly, and grasping at the bottom step that led up to the landing where the desk sat.

Magic hung in the air, inert but so very present, a tangible sign of his lack of patience – and for the second time since William had come to her and revealed what he had overheard, Simone felt unmoored.

She had miscalculated. Grievously.

Slowly, skittishly, she dragged her eyes up from her hands to meet Voldemort's.

He stood above them all, listening to their wrecked breathing with a slight tilt to his head. Not a hint of his true thoughts touched his face, and it was that, the utter control over his expression while his magic all but screamed his displeasure into the cosmos, that scared her out of her wits.

Violence was the main language of men like Voldemort. It was expected, anticipated, accounted for. But this ironclad composure was something else entirely, and the disconnect between what she was seeing and what her magic could sense made her head spin.

"I do not tolerate ambushes, Minister," Voldemort told her softly. A fool might have even assumed it was gentle. "Nor do I appreciate spies."

Off to the side, Black unsteadily rose to his feet once more. The man was pale, a grimace painted across his narrow face, and he watched Voldemort the way one would a wild beast. An emotion glowed like a beacon in the grey depths of his eyes.

Genuine fear.

It was a cold comfort that she was not the only one awfully afraid.

"Now," Voldemort said, retaking his seat. He crossed his legs casually and perched his chin on his fist so he could stare down at her. "You will tell me how you came to possess that information, because it's not common knowledge, and what you plan to do with it." The way he looked at her, as if she were less than nothing, was so at odds with the vicious note in his voice.

Simone massaged the abused muscles in her throat as she considered the man before her.

He was a study of contradictions. His body playing at being calm and loose with all the confidence of a king in his court, while his words carried an undertone of steely protectiveness, and yet his eyes were void of anything human.

Voldemort was a layered mirage, each aspect offering a different angle, each hiding a different threat, and Simone felt besieged by the shifting perceptions.

The most dominating indicator though was, by far, the veritable storm of magic in the air – and it was from his magic that she realised the chilling truth.

He would not hesitate to kill her.

Mere hours ago, on the walk here, she would have thought it an absurd notion, for not even Lord Voldemort could get away with killing the French Minister of Magic. She had been assured that her position would keep her relatively safe, that the political ramifications would be too great even for him to risk it.

Staring into those hellish eyes, at the innocuous, mocking press of his lips, she understood things with a clarity that horrified her.

Ludicrous, she thought in a daze, suddenly glad she was already on the ground for her legs would not have been able to hold her up at this revelation. A distant part of her was curious how this had all come to be, but the larger part of her was near hysterical to realise that this, that whatever was going on between Hadrian and Voldemort, it was real.

Deeper than she had suspected. Stronger than she had suspected. So strong, in fact, that the Dark Lord would willingly plunge both their countries into a war if he deemed her a danger to the boy.

It was madness. To go to such lengths, to be so prepared to drive the fate of two nations into the ground just for one person…

Simone, staring up at Voldemort but not really seeing him, stumbled to her feet with William's assistance. She inhaled shakily, gripping his slim hand hard as she waited for the tremors to work their way through her limbs.

Voldemort raised an eyebrow, waiting.

She wet her bottom lip. "My assistant," she began hoarsely, "he overheard your conversation in the hospital wing."

"How?" Voldemort shifted his attention to the young man at her side. Simone regretted bringing him with her.

"I am an animagus," William answered, his gaze dropping automatically to avoid the man's. There was a subtle hitch in his voice as he rushed to continue, "A sphinx moth. I attached myself to Minister Malfoy before you left the gathering."

The look Voldemort slanted his way had Malfoy cringing back. Simone felt no sympathy for him. William had always been so clever – it was one of his best qualities. She would not apologise for their actions, not when what they had discovered was tantamount to a conspiracy.

"So," the Dark Lord said, returning his focus to William, "you intentionally followed the leader of another country to a private discussion, purely with the goal of learning confidential information – an act of espionage, if you were unaware – and scurried back to your minister to tell her everything."

William had grown progressively paler through that, and Simone could not blame him for the small step he took backwards. She felt much the same when Voldemort turned to her.

"Then you, in your infinite wisdom, decided to read in your esteemed headmistress, further expanding this criminal web. And then you dared to storm into this office and demand answers from me. Please, stop me if I missed something?"

No one spoke.

Voldemort's smile grew teeth.

"You are very fortunate, Minister Lécuyer, that I have bigger things to worry about than you and this breach of trust, or else I would take great pleasure in showing you all the ways I earned my title." He cast his eyes over her derisively, picking her apart like a vulture did a carcass. "As it is, you still need to tell me what you intend to use your ill-acquired knowledge for, so I'll refrain for now."

Simone blew out a short breath, watching him warily. The gazes of the room darted between them, some more frightened than others, but she never let her eyes stray from the predator masquerading as a man.

"I have no wish to harm Hadrian," she said with careful deliberation. "I wanted to know how you planned to resolve this matter. He is in this mess because of you."

"He is in this mess because of who he is to other people," Voldemort corrected instantly, a harsh sneer sliding into place. "He is in this mess, as you put it, because long ago a miserable old man heard a prophecy that he thought was the key to fixing his own mistakes and has since sought to force its fulfilment by any means necessary."

"Prophecy?" Olympe asked, less hesitant than Simone would have expected given the circumstances. Her tone was low and respectful, and perhaps that was why Voldemort bothered to look at her when he answered.

"It's unimportant," he said with a careless wave of his hand.

"I would argue otherwise, given you place the blame for all of this on its existence," Simone shot back, even as she tucked that away to investigate at a later time, once she was far away from this man and preferably with Hadrian on hand to provide answers. Prophecies were nebulous things after all, and the fact that someone she had a vested interest in was the subject of one made her incredibly uneasy – hell, the sheer number of things she did not know about this situation made her want to break something.

Every stone she overturned so far had revealed a deep, cavernous well of secrets.

Voldemort's ire flared in time with his magic, making her wince. "I couldn't care less what arguments you have. The contents of the prophecy are irrelevant. It is Albus' belief in it that has caused this – making this a British matter. Your input is not needed, nor is it wanted."

Simone's teeth cracked from how hard she clenched her jaw. "Hadrian is a French citizen," she bit out, her anger at his presumptive words igniting her fire once more.

"Is he?" Voldemort asked lightly, an undercurrent of dark amusement twining through his voice. "Technically, legally, he is Harry Potter – a British national. 'Hadrian Evans' is a false identity in the eyes of the law." He leaned forward then, expression mean and savagely pleased as he whispered, "He's not yours."

The fucking audacity –

Her irritation fizzled out almost immediately though, replaced by a barbed rush of satisfaction. "Did you know, Lord Voldemort," she said, coating his title in as much scornful laudation as she could, "that when you first established control of this country there was an influx of migrants across France's borders?"

His face stilled, eyes narrowing slightly.

"Some were French nationals that were eager to return home before they became trapped in your warzone, but others were seeking…refuge. And we provided it."

"Your point?" Voldemort asked, one hand curling around the arm of his chair.

"My point," she stressed, "is that we had many British witches and wizards apply for citizenship rights in France, and that many of those people applied for a change of identity at the same time. So long as they complied with the requirements on our paperwork, they could shed their old identity and forge a new one as an official French citizen." Her smile was a sharp little thing. "A council vote took place after we realised the extent of the situation, and the decision was made to seal the documents pertaining to any such identity changes that occurred between 1978 and 1983. Not even I, as the minister, have the authority to view those documents without going through the proper procedures – so I doubt your own spies would have been able to get their hands on them."

Simone lifted her chin, meeting that blistering gaze with a sense of courage that was only half-projection. "So you see, if his mother completed the documentation – which she must have, to have her son enrol in Beauxbatons without any issues being flagged – then Hadrian, legally, very much is one of my people." Her expression hardened, her faux amusement vanishing in an instant.

"Which means that I have as much right as anyone to be in this room when discussing what essentially amounts to Hadrian's kidnapping and the violation of his freewill by a British extremist."

The words were thrown down like a gauntlet, clattering between them and ringing loudly in the ensuing silence.

Simone breathed heavily, her pulse thundering in her ears as she waited for retaliation. It was then that she realised William was gripping her arm, his fingers curled firmly around her; though whether it was to restrain or provide some form of support, she could not say.

The seconds ticked by, the tension ballooning out until she felt like she was about to snap.

Voldemort moved, and the collective flinch that went through all of them was followed by a thrum of hot embarrassment when all the man did was reach out and pluck one of Yaxley's quills from the golden pen holder. He twirled it in his fingers, red eyes watching the decorative feather rapidly spin.

It was a power-play, cheap on anyone else but somehow sinister with him. Everything Voldemort did held that sliver of warning to it. Every move, every gesture, every word – it all crafted the image of a man so far above everyone else. As untouchable as the sun, and just as blinding to look at.

Simone swallowed thickly, shifting her weight in preparation.

Finally, Voldemort's gaze rose to settle on her. Whatever thoughts he had been ruminating on were a mystery to her, and the lack of indication on what he would do next had her tensing.

"I want you to swear," he said, quiet but ringing with force, "that you will not use Hadrian's true name or any of the information that you learn here today against him. You will not use it to blackmail him, you will not use it to manipulate him, and you will not share this information with anyone, through any means, without his explicit permission."

"Or what?" Olympe asked, saving Simone from having to. The interruption gave her a moment to smother her instinctive rejection, because swearing to anything, pledging a vow of any kind, to a man like Voldemort was a supremely stupid idea.

Simone's eyes darted to the headmistress, finding her face surprisingly difficult to read.

"Or you leave this room without any recollection of the past six hours," Voldemort told her flatly.

Olympe raised a thin eyebrow and folded her hands in front of her, the feathered sleeves of her gown hiding them from view. "That would not be very subtle," she replied, far too serene for someone who was being threatened.

Voldemort's smile held no warmth. "I don't need to be subtle, Headmistress, when dealing with security breaches. I will not have any of you endanger Hadrian's future."

There it was again, that protectiveness. Just what had Hadrian done to secure such valiant, vehement defence from a man that was widely believed to be heartless?

This was more than possessiveness, more than friendship, however ridiculous it was to use that word in association with the Dark Lord.

Simone studied Voldemort from under her lashes. Several threads twisted through her mind, theories being woven as she began to piece together the signs and hints that had littered their conversation.

None of the theories she came up with were particularly reassuring.

She was broken from her reverie when Olympe took a single, pointed step forward.

"Very well," she said with a shallow dip of her head. "I hereby swear that I shall not divulge any information relating to Hadrian Evans that I learn here today, be that his true identity or the circumstances surrounding his current disappearance, through any means to anyone not already aware, without his permission."

The vow ended with a surge of magic, and though it was not an unbreakable contract, the fact that she had done it at all had Simone's lips parting in shock.

She was not the only one, for William was outright gaping and the Dark Lord's allies were staring in obvious surprise. Even Voldemort himself appeared taken off guard by the easy compliance, his eyes sharp with suspicion.

Olympe looked around placidly and scoffed. "Hadrian is one of my students," she said. "I care not for his past or whatever other names he is known by. While he is a student of Beauxbatons, his safety is my primary concern. This man that has bewitched him is a common enemy, yes?"

She flapped a hand, frowning when she looked at Simone and caught the disbelief that she was not quick enough to mask.

"Hadrian requires our assistance, Simone," she said sternly.

As if it was as simple as that.

Voldemort nodded at the woman. Approval, there and gone again, sparked across his face before he slid his eyes over to Simone and William.

Unease struck her hard in the chest, along with shame.

Her caution was warranted, she knew that, but the oath Voldemort demanded of her was hardly terrible. Was, in fact, purely driven by the need to stop them from jeopardising the situation further.

She had not walked into this room planning to use what William had told her for anything nefarious. Swearing a vow would only solidify the actions she was always intending to carry out.

Through this all, Voldemort watched her closely, still twirling the damn quill loosely in his long fingers. The fact that he did not push her to make her decision faster, that he seemed content to wait, spoke of his confidence.

A fraught minute passed, until Simone finally agreed with a grim pinch to her lips.

She swore the same oath that Olympe did, William echoing her quietly, and they both breathed in deeply when their magic sealed their words.

With their cooperation settled, Voldemort withdrew his magic from the air completely. The abrupt absence had her blinking rapidly, light-headed without that weight pressing down around her.

"We cannot hold off the closing ceremony for much longer without outright cancelling it," the Dark Lord said, the sudden shift in topic another jarring change for his audience to follow.

Voldemort turned to Black, dismissing the rest of them for the moment. "Ms. Kaiser is stable and woke up a short time ago, so we no longer have her as an excuse to delay. Revealing that Hadrian is missing would only incite more questions and bring too much attention. We need to deal with this before we can tackle anything else."

Black frowned, his gaze roaming the room in search of something, lingering on Simone before his attention fell back on Voldemort. The man's expression cleared, though he sounded unsure when he suggested with a half-shrug, "Polyjuice?"

"Have someone pretend to be Evans during the ceremony?" Malfoy asked, sounding intrigued as he spoke up for the first time since she had flattened his attempts to explain her presence to his Lord.

"We have plenty of potion in stock, and we can likely find some hair in the boy's room," Yaxley said next. The headmaster of Hogwarts was a calm and efficient man, and he spoke with the authority of someone long used to being heard.

The solution was logical, Simone thought, and one that was relatively easy to put into effect. It was disappointing that Hadrian would not get to experience the ceremony for himself, but if they wished to protect both him and his reputation, then it was a necessary sacrifice.

She said as much, breaking back into the discussion. Malfoy inclined his head at her in agreement, though he was quick to look back to the one holding his leash.

Voldemort appeared displeased, a soft frown marring his otherwise smooth skin. He had sat back in his chair, his hand now braced against his mouth to cover the snarl she could see beginning to unfurl there.

As they all stared, Black leaned in and whispered something to Voldemort, moving into the man's space with a recklessness that made Simone question his sanity. She could not hear what he said, but it was enough to pull Voldemort from his troubling thoughts.

"No," Voldemort replied to whatever Black had asked. He refocussed on the rest of them.

Simone took that as her opportunity to speak. "If we go ahead with this, it must be someone who knows Hadrian well enough to mimic his behaviour and mannerisms. Preferably someone who knows about this," she motioned vaguely around them. "But we can settle for someone who will not ask questions."

William turned to her, an expectant look on his face. Simone shook her head, denying the unasked question. While William was skilled at subterfuge, he had not been around Hadrian enough to get a clear read on the boy's personality. While he might be able to handle the official ceremony, the following celebrations would pose a problem.

Olympe cleared her throat, smoothing one hand down the front of her shimmering dress. "I believe Ms. Séverin would be the best option," she said. It was only luck that Simone was angled right so she was able to spot Voldemort's reflexive scowl. "She and Hadrian are quite close, and she cares for him a great deal. She would help."

"Raina?" Simone asked, raising her eyebrows high. The thought was an appealing one, however. Raina was close with Hadrian, and while her absence from the celebration might cause some interest, it would be far easier to explain away than the winning champion missing his own party.

"Raina – is she the one with dark hair? Super pretty?" Black asked, straightening like a bloodhound. When Olympe made an acknowledging noise, as if that were enough of a descriptor to identify someone with, Black clicked his fingers and smiled. "She definitely knows some of the details. Hadrian brought her with him to, uh, speak with Lily one time. She didn't seem surprised to hear anything they discussed. She's perfect."

Simone also stored that away in the back of her mind. Along with the increasingly sour expression Voldemort was sporting.

"We can send for her immediately," Simone said, gesturing at William while Olympe pulled a slip of blue paper from her pocket. The headmistress' dark eyes found Voldemort's, a calculated move, and she only made to write a quick summons when he gave a short nod.

Simone absently rubbed at her throat, wondering if it would bruise, and watched as her assistant took the folded piece of parchment and left.

OoO

"Mademoiselle Séverin."

Raina turned at the call of her name, her hand loosening from where she had wound it around Albert's arm. She expected one of her father's acquaintances, someone who sought to use her as a springboard to get closer to him, or even one of the few, bolder wizards that thought a match with Olivier Séverin's heir would be beneficial for them.

She did not expect to see William Fortin standing a short distance away from her. "Yes?" she asked, sharing a quick glance with Albert.

Fortin's smile was kind but fixed, and he appeared slightly dishevelled. No one had seen him or the minister for almost two hours at this point, so his sudden appearance was drawing a significant amount of attention. Fortin paid the crowd no mind though, merely stepped closer so he could address Raina properly.

"May I speak with you privately? There is a matter that requires your assistance."

Hadrian, she thought, and normally it would have been silly to just assume that this related to her friend, but if she had learned anything this year it was that Hadrian was inevitably at the centre of many things.

"Of course," she said softly. "Albert, could you…?"

He held her gaze for a moment, silently asking after her, and Raina forced herself to smile. "I will be fine. Go."

Albert hummed, darting another look at Fortin, before he lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss there. Raina's smile faded into something more genuine as her friend turned to slip into the milling bodies around them.

"What can I help you with?" she asked, folding her arms together now that Albert was not there to provide a buffer from the cold.

Fortin gestured off to the side, where the crowd was less, and Raina followed him obediently. She caught her father's eye from the other side of the field, his gaze a welcome weight, but he did not move to interfere. The trust he had for her to handle herself warmed her chest.

Far enough away from any curious ears, Fortin handed over a slip of paper to her. The blue colour told her who it was from instantly. Madame Maxime always favoured their school colour when it came to paper – a quirk of hers that many of her students found delightful.

Raina stared at Fortin for a long moment before plucking the message from his hand and reading it. It was a simple summons, asking her to follow Fortin to the castle with haste.

"What is going on?" she asked warily, a frown worming its way onto her face.

"That is best discussed back at the office," Fortin told her, offering his arm to escort her. Raina pursed her lips at the non-answer, but she willingly dropped her hand in place and allowed herself to be led away.

They did not talk, their pace once they entered the castle a little too fast to facilitate easy conversation. The silence just allowed Raina's mind to churn unhappily, especially once she realised that they were headed for the headmaster's office.

On the staircase leading up to the office door, Fortin gently tugged her to a stop. Raina looked up at him, seeing the worry swimming in his eyes.

"I will warn you," he murmured, "that the Dark Lord is inside. Something has happened to Hadrian Evans, something serious. Ministers Lécuyer and Malfoy are here, as well as your headmistress and Yaxley. I tell you this only so you are not completely blindsided and that you can prepare to hear what they have to say."

Raina's stomach swooped and she had to close her eyes to battle the wave of bitter frustration that crashed through her.

Fortin let her have a few seconds to collect herself, to swallow down the tide of her emotions, before guiding her to the door and opening it. Raina stepped inside, her head held high and back straight. Her gaze skipped right over everyone, landing on the only person in the room that truly mattered.

And in the next breath she was angry.

She ignored her minister and headmistress, ignored the Death Eaters, ignored Sirius Black, and stared fiercely at the Dark Lord. She hated the conclusions she was already drawing.

"What happened?" she demanded.

"Raina –" Lécuyer hissed, but Raina stepped around her outstretched hand and continued to glare up at Voldemort.

"Tell me," she ordered, and it might have come across as crazy to these people, but they did not know what she did. They did not know that he would never harm her. That he would not dare so long as Hadrian's regard hovered around her in a protective coat.

"Ms. Séverin," Voldemort greeted her coolly, and she was sure she was the only one who heard the resentment he said her name with. "Hadrian has gone missing. The Order have used a ritual that has laid a compulsion on him."

The news rocked through her, stealing the air from her lungs.

Hadrian was missing? How could he be missing? He was one of the most watched people in the school – it was not like he could just waltz off the grounds. Then the rest of what he had said slammed into her.

"To do what?" she asked, fisting her skirt in her hands to stop their trembling. The whole room was watching her, only Sirius Black and Voldemort seeming unsurprised.

"To kill me."

Raina could not help the snort she let out. She turned her head away from them, pinning her gaze on a random painting of a field that was hanging on the wall.

Of course, she thought, of course they did. They could not handle their puppet refusing to play along in their delusions.

Spiteful eyes flashed back to Voldemort, and she consciously bit down on all the accusations she wanted to hurl in his face. "And?" she said aggressively. "What are you going to do about it?"

This time, Raina allowed a hand to settle on her shoulder. Madame Maxime's presence at her side did nothing to soothe her anger, but she was a solid reminder that losing her head would help no one.

Minister Lécuyer was the one to answer her when Voldemort obstinately did not. "Before we can focus on Hadrian, we must deal with the tournament," she said calmly.

Raina's eyes snapped to her, blazing. "The tournament?" she echoed harshly. "You think the tournament is more important than finding Hadrian and putting a stop to this madness?"

"Be reasonable," Lécuyer replied, tone firm. "We are trying to protect Hadrian and his reputation by doing this. If the people found out he was missing, if they found out why, it would have far-reaching ramifications. It would be an international scandal. Hadrian would not want that."

"Hadrian did not even want to be in the stupid tournament," Raina snarled, taking a step towards the leader of her country, catching the glint of confusion in the woman's eyes. "He was tricked into it and has spent the entire year being batted around by the tasks, and Kaiser, and you. He would not care about the closing ceremony, not when us focussing on it meant he had to spend another minute under the control of someone else."

She looked at Voldemort somewhat desperately. If anyone would understand what this would end up doing to Hadrian, it would be him.

But instead of helping, Voldemort remained grim and silent. Raina hated him.

"This is bigger than that," Lucius Malfoy said, stepping away from the wall he had been all but plastered against. "Think, girl. If the truth of Mr. Evans' situation was revealed, he would be the one to suffer the consequences –"

Raina's mocking laughter cut him off. "There would be a cacophony of media attention, I do not doubt that, Minister. But beyond the initial noise who do you think would bear the brunt of the scrutiny and scorn? The young, charming, talented boy who was forced to flee his country and assume a new identity to protect himself and his mother; or the evil Dark Lord that murdered the boy's father and has spent the year haunting his every step? The very same Dark Lord who allowed his enemies to attack and use the boy, forcing him to fight against his will?"

Her attention fell back to Voldemort, gleefully taking in the clench of his jaw at the jab at his own failings. That's right, squirm, you utter bastard, she thought. "Hadrian would hate the media attention, I know that well enough, but he would not be the one painted as the villain. He would be seen as the victim. An innocent young man subjected to the whims of others."

Lips peeling back into a mean smile, Raina stepped forward, slipping out of her headmistress' orbit, and putting herself right in Voldemort's line of sight. "Do not stand there and pretend you are interested in protecting anyone's reputation but your own. Hadrian would eventually benefit from the revelation of his identity. He is the lost heir to one of your most ancient families. His tragic backstory would endear him to the public. He is well-loved in France due to his performance in the tournament, and he is a popular, respected figure despite his age. He would be fine."

You wouldn't be, hung on the tip of her tongue, but she forced it back.

The silence that descended on the office was grating. Raina held the man's stare, meeting the simmering rage she saw there with her own. She would not be intimidated by him.

"I know you care for him," she said, quieter. Voldemort's expression pinched, though whether it was from the words themselves or because she had said such a thing in front of an audience, she could not say. "Why are you prioritising a ceremony above his wellbeing? You know how he feels about these things."

Being controlled. Being manipulated. Being used. He had endured Hadrian's anger before by doing those very things.

Raina just needed to understand why the man Hadrian was so enamoured with would rank him second.

Voldemort's face was blank, his eyes staring straight through her, and for a moment Raina believed that she had crossed the threshold of what he would tolerate, regardless of Hadrian's goodwill. But then his eyes fluttered shut, and when he opened them the red in them glittered.

"Because revealing it should be his choice."

The simple statement was a blast of cold water over the embers of her fury.

Raina looked down at her boots, her eyes stinging. He was right.

"Shit," she breathed out. "Shit. Okay."

Raina raised her head and flicked her hair out of her face. She inhaled deeply, putting her own impending breakdown to the side for now, then gave Voldemort a sharp nod. "What do you need me to do?"

Black moved forward then, his steps cautious. Raina refused to feel self-conscious about her reaction, or the tears she could feel welling in her eyes. Hadrian was her best friend, she would burn the world down for him in a heartbeat. She would stand before the Dark Lord and gnash her teeth at him for her friend.

"We're going to hold the ceremony soon, and when we do, we need someone to pretend to be Hadrian – during the ceremony and the celebrations after. That will let things go smoothly and give us time to start looking for Hadrian without the whole world going mad."

Raina bit her lip, turning the idea around in her head. "You want me to be him," she guessed, glancing over at her headmistress. Madame Maxime met her gaze evenly, fully believing that Raina could do this. "Fine, but our friends will notice if I'm not there. They'll be suspicious."

"Do any of them know the truth too?" Fortin asked from his place at Lécuyer's side.

"Only Claire," she said, crossing her arms. "But Albert knows there is something we're not telling him, and Jacob might be obtuse, but he is not an idiot. Those three are the most likely to notice."

"Can we trust them to hold their tongues?"

Raina looked over to Yaxley, frowning. "They will not confront him – me – during the celebrations. They are much too clever for that, but once this is all resolved, we will need to explain some of this to them."

Yaxley's eyes drifted over Raina's shoulder to where Voldemort sat. She did not turn to see what was on the man's face.

"I will organise to get you five vials of Polyjuice with some of Mr. Evans hair," he said eventually. "You will change into him and maintain his form for several hours, and then you will 'retire' for the night. Given the delay in the ceremony, it's close to afternoon now. You can excuse yourself and claim you need to recover from the match. That should be enough to assuage any curious onlookers."

"We will organise a uniform for you as well," Maxime cut in. "Something worthy of a victor."

Raina gave the woman a weak, grateful smile. It should be Hadrian doing this, but in his absence, Raina would do her very best to defend him in the only way she currently could. No doubt many reporters and officials would want to speak to the tournament winner – she would guard Hadrian's interests while others acted to save his life.

In short order, the adults began bustling around, organising what they needed to pull off their ruse. Raina stood to the side, holding herself tight.

Her thoughts were storming, distracting her from her surroundings, so it was only when something brushed against her elbow that she realised she had been approached.

Raina looked up, her mouth pulling down when she saw that Voldemort now stood next to her. With obvious exaggeration, she took a step to the side to widen the space between them.

"You care for him a great deal," the man murmured, barely moving his lips. He avoided looking at her, keeping his attention on the preparations instead.

"I love him," she corrected because it was the truth, and she would not let anyone misunderstand precisely what Hadrian meant to her. She loved him as a friend, a brother, perhaps something more. It did not need an exact label. All that mattered was that it was there and that she would do anything to keep that bond alive.

Voldemort's distaste for her was obvious, she could feel it in the way his magic brushed against her, but Raina was not bothered by it. She disliked him too.

Their only common thread was Hadrian, and it was for Hadrian that they could work together.

Still, Raina could not help but push her luck. "Do you?" she asked.

"Do I what?" Voldemort evaded.

"Love him?"

Finally, those red eyes dropped down to her, peeling her back a layer at a time. Raina lifted her chin, letting him look.

"That," Voldemort said, "is none of your business. I shall see you on the field, Ms. Séverin."

He stalked off without waiting for a reply.

OoO

The streets of Diagon Alley were remarkably quiet for what should have been the afternoon rush. Most of the stores were closed, which was an inconvenience but not so terrible that he had trouble getting what he needed. The alchemist stall he had managed to find was particularly helpful. He patted his bag with satisfaction.

Unfortunately, the lack of people did increase the chances of his glamoured face being remembered, which could be a problem. They had to know he was gone by now, and he would not put it passed Voldemort to send scouts out to this district, if only to cross the Alleys off the list of potential hideouts.

That was fine, though. He was done here.

Humming under his breath, he made for the entrance to Knockturn Alley. On his chest, the pin he had dug up from his drawer shone coyly, and the blade on his belt possessed a hint of warmth that seeped through the fabric of his uniform. Both were tempting targets, and he had to dance around the sly hands of a familiar looking hag that tried to brush by him as he strolled into the murky, shadowed street. A suspicious, rather dry-looking siren sneered at him with pointed teeth as he walked past her, hissing lowly when he sent her a wink.

Down in the bowels of this Alley, the crowds were even less, but he still kept a hand on his bag, his carefree stride contrasting the promise of violence in his eyes. The few that did cross his path quickly ducked away.

He made it to the apparation point without any issues, stepping into the designated area and brandishing his wand. Imagining his destination, he twirled his wand with a flourish and let the magic sweep him away.

Boots hit the grassy hill, disturbing the uncut growth. His eyes surveyed his surroundings with a spark of excitement, running his fingers up and down the leather strap over his shoulder. To his left, a homely little village sat. To his right, a net of powerful wards glowed in his senses, only identifiable because his magic had encountered it before.

If he had time, he would have visited the rustic tavern, enjoyed some of the locals' hostilities while trying a meal. As it was…

He turned right.

The sun was only just beginning its descent now, the afternoon heat burning through his back as he approached the thick cover of trees that ringed the seemingly empty field beyond. The shade was a relief, and he removed his glamour with a flick of his wrist so he could fully savour the breeze on his skin.

Some birds chirped above him, hidden behind the leaves but eager to announce their existence to the world. He tipped a distracted smile upwards and continued on his way.

The woods opened up quite suddenly, only a minute or so into his walk, and revealed the large grass-covered plain. He came to a stop less than a foot away from the buzzing, snapping invisible wall that guarded this place.

This time, he was much more confident in pulling his blade free and stabbing it into the wards. He aimed high, slicing through the protective layers until the white, shimmering cut was large enough for him to hop through. The blade grew hot in his palm, devouring the magic, and the transference of sensations had him clicking his tongue.

"Greedy little thing," he murmured fondly, sliding it back into its sheath. He sniffed, scratching lightly at his chin, and looked up the hill.

The manor looked the same as he remembered. Three storeys, ivory winding up the walls, neat garden – and most importantly, lacking the caustic, nuclear magic of its owner.

With a nod, he set off up the hill. Unlike last time, he did not have the cover of dark to shield his movements; but unlike last time he also knew that the chances of him being spotted by anyone inside were low.

The garden was pretty, he thought, looking even better in the daylight, and a small part of him mourned it already.

Such a shame.

He climbed the steps and moved right up to the door, rolling his wand in his palm. With his opposite hand, he knocked loudly, activating the protective charms that laced the wood.

He waited patiently, rocking back on his heels as he appreciated the architecture.

Only a minute later, he heard the lock unlatch. The door opened slowly, and a pudgy, balding head peeked out. Watery blue eyes found his, blew wide, and the man stepped back in fright.

He kicked the door open before the other could react and marched inside, crowding him back.

"Hello again, Peter," Harry greeted brightly, jabbing his wand into the startled man's face. "Imperio."

OoO

The breeze from the lake was a welcome relief, one that chased away the uncomfortable heat from the still-burning fires.

Albus stood to the side of the ritual circle, hands tucked behind his back and wand held securely in his palm. His eyes drifted from the blue sky down to the crumbling structure of the priory that was nestled in amongst the trees. When he had cleared this small area of the dense forest that covered the island for space, he had not intended to have such a clear view of the monument – but it was a beautiful, and welcome, sight to behold.

If he had not been so dedicated to his task, he might have even taken a short walk through the centuries-old building to bask in its rich history.

Perhaps later, he mused.

Albus turned his attention to Lily, observing her with a hint of worry. She had been standing in place for hours now, maintaining the connection between herself and Harry. He knew that she was incapable of feeling it right now, but the strain in her muscles – particularly her arms, having held the bowl as she had for so long – would need to be eased once all was said and done.

It would have been better if the blood he had used had been fresh. Sixteen years was a long time for a stasis charm to hold, after all, and the amount in the vial had lost a lot of its potency. If he had had a more recent sample from Harry, they would have not had to resort to Lily sustaining the ritual like this. They could have planted the seed within minutes and then he could have released her.

His eyes went to the bowl she had cupped between her hands and the small white flame that burned bright inside it, fuelled by the thin pool of blood that rested at the base.

It was a disappointing limitation of this ritual, something he had had to improvise for, but he had faith in Harry.

And, he supposed, faith in Tom's own nature.

The boy he had known so long ago had grown into a man almost unrecognisable, but his inability to let go of things he thought he owned had remained. That covetous, callous way Tom viewed the world – the way he viewed people, always categorising, always collecting, and assigning value based on what they could give him – was one of his greatest flaws. His desire to claim what he felt he needed, whether it be knowledge or power or a person, and keep it…

That had been there from the beginning.

And it would be there for the end.

Albus closed his eyes, breathing deeply through his nose as the weight of all his mistakes rained down on him.

"It won't be long now," he said, gazing back up at the setting sun. Come morning, things would be settled – one way or another.

OoO

The roar from the crowd was thunderous.

Out in the very centre of the field, under the eyes of the world, Voldemort stood beside a simple raised podium. Atop it sat the Triwizard Cup, emanating a beautiful, otherworldly blue glow. The words and symbols engraved on it glinted as the entrancing blue-white swirls drifted over the glass surface.

A handful of metres away, Yaxley waited with his counterparts for the noise to die down, and just behind them were the three ministers. Lucius, Lécuyer and Nyberg standing shoulder to shoulder, the ultimate picture of international cooperation – a sentiment he was sure none of them actually believed in right now.

Voldemort watched them, taking in the stiff manner they held themselves in, the contempt that was quietly brewing on Nyberg's face and the stress that clung to both Lucius and Lécuyer – and was nearly overwhelmed by frustration because this was such a waste of time.

Behind his back, his hands clenched together hard enough to bruise.

"Why are you prioritising a ceremony above his wellbeing?"

Damn Raina Séverin. Damn her accusing eyes and vicious tongue. Damn her for spearing right through to the heart of his own doubts and dredging them into the light.

He had known that the girl was aware, dangerously so, of what was occurring between Hadrian and himself; but to have her so brazenly throw that knowledge in his face? To have her question him on what was best for the situation? And learning that Hadrian had taken her to a confrontation with his mother, that he had trusted her enough to be a pillar during what was one of the most difficult conversations of his short life?

Annoyance was too generous a term for the emotion that scraped against his ribs.

Voldemort straightened as Yaxley, using sonorus, finally quietened the crowds and began to deliver his closing speech. He put on an attentive face as he tuned the words out. Having drafted the damn thing, he did not have to listen the call for unity, nor the hopeful mentions of the future, or even the praise bestowed on the champions for their performances.

The one he had written it for was not around to hear it anyway.

Instead, he cast his eyes over the packed stands. It had taken time to usher everyone back to their seats – valuable time, wasted again – but complaining about the rapid changes in schedule seemed to be the last thing on peoples' minds. Which made sense, given that this was the moment they had all been waiting for. Pity that their victor was not able to appreciate it too.

His jaw flexed, stamping down on his impatience. He knew this was for the best, even though the thought of having someone else take what Hadrian had rightfully earned – having an imposter stand there in his place, wearing his face and speaking with his voice – was distasteful.

He had meant what he said in the office, though. Revealing his identity to the world should be something Hadrian chose to do, not something he was forced to go through with because of Voldemort's mishandling of the Order and Albus Dumbledore.

Another thing that he refused to take from the boy, he thought, chagrined.

It should rankle him, how utterly ruled he was by Hadrian. That one boy could hold so much influence over him should have scratched at his pride, should have ignited his rage at the mere presumption that he could ever be swayed by a pretty face or clever mind. One, two, six, ten years ago, he would have killed anyone who tried to order him around as shamelessly as Hadrian did.

The very thought of capitulating to anyone should have disgusted him.

And yet here he was, again and again, making concessions for the same person.

"Dumbledore thinks Hadrian is the only one you'd hesitate against," Black had told him in the hospital wing before they had rushed off to try and find Hadrian. "He thinks you'd rather take a hit from Hadrian than land one on him. That's why he did this." The irritating man had stared at him after dropping that piece on his lap, not quite having the gall to ask the question he so dearly had wished to.

A new chorus of cheers went up then, and Voldemort looked over to see three new figures emerge from the bottom of one of the stadium towers, each draped in different colours.

Black and green, red and brown, blue and silver.

His gaze hooked on the last, an immediate heat stirring in his gut before he remembered that it was not the one he wanted walking towards him.

"Do you?" Séverin's voice echoed in his ear, hostile yet curious. "Love him?"

For the first time in his life, Voldemort found himself afraid to answer a question.

Séverin moved comfortably in Hadrian's skin, the gait matching his perfectly, and the mimicry spoke of observation. Years of familiarity, years of looking, and it was another irritating reminder that there was a whole past to Hadrian that he was not privy to.

The three champions came to a stop beside their respective minister.

Kaiser appeared pale and withdrawn, her amputated hand wrapped tightly and held in a sling that hid most of the damage from the audience. That she was even on her feet was evidence of the girl's stubborn nature and boded well for her recovery.

Young Draco was as tense as his father, his eyes wide with confusion as he darted several quick looks at where Séverin stood calmly beside Lécuyer. Lucius had informed his children of this part of the plan, if only to stop them from saying something incriminating, but it was clear Draco was unnerved by how well Séverin was playing her role.

And it was unnerving.

The way she stood, the way she scanned the crowd, even the impish grin she shot towards the Beauxbatons' portion of the stands that prompted a wild cry of excitement…it was so painfully Hadrian.

And Voldemort hated it. Hated her.

He had wanted this moment to be between them, had wanted the chance to look into Hadrian's eyes and see his own desire mirrored back right under everyone's noses.

He had wanted this to be special.

Yaxley announced each champion, allowing time for their supporters to cheer before moving on to the next – and then the moment came. A hush fell, just a single beat, before Yaxley's voice boomed out.

"And finally, your victor – the champion of Beauxbatons Academy, Hadrian Evans!"

The applause that erupted were the loudest of them all.

Séverin stepped forward, raising an arm as if to welcome the adulation, smile blooming into existence. She moved forward, confident and with a slight swagger to her steps, until she was directly in front of Voldemort.

Green eyes peered up at him, none of the warmth and humour he had come to anticipate in them.

"Lord Voldemort," Séverin murmured, tilting her head into the expected bow. Hearing Hadrian's voice use his title had his skin prickling.

Wrong, his mind whispered, this is all wrong.

"Mr. Evans," he returned, a close-lipped smile slashing across his face. He reached out to take the cup from its podium, and without any pomp, held it out to her.

Séverin's eyes lit with a hint of awe as she accepted the cup, hands wrapping around the handles with great care. The way the blue reflected in the borrowed green of her eyes had Voldemort's chest tightening.

It should be him, he thought. It was supposed to be him.

Séverin faced her school's section, turning her back almost completely to Voldemort, and held the cup high with a laugh. The Beauxbatons' students screamed in response, banners waving and what had to be smuggled fireworks being released, exploding in the sky in a spray of blue and silver and yellow.

As the procession departed, heading towards the tented area that would host the private celebration for their more esteemed guests, Voldemort stayed where he was. He was numb to it all, nothing but cold rage and biting disappointment left.

Before they were completely out of view, Yaxley made sure to catch his eye.

Voldemort gave him a single nod, then slipped away.

The tournament might be finished, but there was still work to be done.

OoO

Peter ambled along behind Harry as they walked down the vestibule of Riddle Manor and into the grand hall. Harry looked around, taking the time to study the artwork and collection of rare and fascinating items that lined the walls or were arranged, oh so carefully, around the large room.

Last time he was here he had been so focussed on his mother that he had not taken the time to enjoy the sights, so he stopped in front of a handful of pieces that caught his interest, leaning in to better appreciate them. He did not touch anything, but a small smile crept onto his face with each new one he looked at.

"Are there any other Death Eaters here?" he asked absently, tilting his head when he paused before a strangely shaped vase.

"No," Peter answered, his voice tranquil thanks to the iron grip Harry had on his mind.

"House-elf?" he tried next.

"No."

Harry hummed, turning away from the vase, and setting his eyes on his quasi-uncle. "Anyone expected to pop by for a visit in the next few hours?"

"No," Peter repeated.

Harry blinked, then shrugged his bag off his shoulder. "Well, alright then. That makes things easier." He flipped the bag open and started rummaging through it. "I want you to tell me if you feel anyone else approaching – particularly if it's Voldemort, got it?"

"Yes."

"Excellent!" Harry beamed. "Now, I need you to take me to the northmost point of this floor, please. We've got a lot of work to do."

It took barely any magic to pluck at Peter's strings, and soon the man was turning and leading Harry out of the grand hall. They walked past the large staircase that would take them to the next floor, looping around its side and through one of the archways. It opened up into a conservatory, filled with various potted plants and marble statues – some depicting magical creatures, others purely muggle in design.

Harry huffed, shaking his head at Voldemort's hypocrisy. For a man that despised non-magical things, he certainly had no issues filling his home with their art.

Peter weaved through the plants with ease, ignoring the ones that stirred at their presence, and took Harry right to the back where the glass wall allowed the sunlight to spill into the room. The back garden of the manor was even more impressive than the front, with fountains and hedge walls that had gorgeous blooming flowers sprinkled throughout.

He pulled his eyes away from the stunning sight.

"This is it?" Harry asked, gesturing to where a lounge was pushed right up against the glass. The wood was dark and polished to a shine, and the cushions were, naturally, green.

Peter nodded, and accepted the bag when Harry thrust it at him. Without a care for the man, he started pulling out the items he needed – a bottle of clear liquid, a rag, a leather-bound book, and a thick stick of chalk – then waved his hands in a silent order for Peter to step back.

Harry levitated the lounge out of the way, dropping it somewhere off to the side, and poured some of the bottled solution on the rag until it was damp enough. Putting those down, he dropped to his knees and began meticulously wiping over the area of the floor that he needed, cleaning away any dust or dirt that might have collected there.

Once that was done, he whipped the cloth over his shoulder and grabbed his chalk and book. He flicked to the right page, eyes drinking in the picture, then placed the book next to his knee.

"You know," he said as he drew the small, topmost circle of the array. "I always liked rune work. People don't appreciate how powerful they really are. They hear 'runes' and think 'wards', and then not much else." Another circle, and another, each ringed with two more, and then the symbols inside.

The chalk made a faint grinding sound against the floor.

"They never seem to give much thought to all the things runes are capable of. Which is so strange, right?" Three straight lines linking the circles, forming the first layer. "Magic is so wonderful, we're able to do so many incredible things, and yet people are so content to just…learn the basics and not much more? I never understood it, really. We can change the natural world with a few words and the wave of a stick, we can heal injuries that should kill us, we can see into the future – though that one is a bit hit-or-miss, I'll admit. It just seems silly to me that people aren't more curious."

Harry started on the inner array, circles and triangles all intersecting with each other, the image coming to life under his steady hands.

"It's funny as well," he breathed out a chuckle, glancing up briefly to smile at Peter. "I studied this one last year." He nodded at the half-finished array. "It gave me so much trouble. I kept forgetting the order I needed to draw the layers in – nearly set my desk on fire several times."

The next laugh he let out was louder, a tinge of good humour entering his voice. "My professor was beside himself, he just couldn't understand why this one was giving me so many issues when I had never really had any problems in his class in the past. I think it was for the best though," he continued idly, now moving on to the final layer. The outer rings encircled the whole thing and created a thick border, about five inches wide – just big enough for the symbols he needed to write all around it.

"If I hadn't struggled so much with this one, I wouldn't have remembered it for this. It wouldn't have stuck out in my memory so strongly."

Harry finished scratching the last symbol in the outer ring and sat back on his haunches, running a critical eye over the whole design. "My mother always said that practice makes perfect," he mused. "Of course, she also thought I should always be the best at everything immediately. Bit contradictory, huh?"

Peter did not answer. Harry did not mind.

"I think it's the secret to success, though. Being the best or strongest doesn't really mean much – but being the most consistent? That's worth the drop in power. Consistency is bred from hard work, and hard work is where the real success lies."

Harry leaned over the array, his chalk meeting the blank space in the very middle circle. He drew the mark for 'earth' there and then pressed two fingers to it. With a single jolt of his magic, the array sparked, burning itself into the floor and becoming black.

"One down," he muttered, "four to go."

Harry pushed himself to his feet, pocketing his chalk for now and smacking his hands together to get rid of the worst of the powder. "Alright," he said, bending to gather his bottle and book. "To the eastmost point please, Peter."

And on they went.

Harry made sure to hit each of the cardinal points over the following hours. The conservatory was the north, and then it was the banqueting hall to the east, the ball room to the west, and the vestibule to the south.

Earth, air, water, fire.

Earth to ground the spell to the building. Air to fuel it. Water to lower the humidity.

And fire for, well, fire.

As they came to the final point, smack in the middle of the grand hall, Harry chattered away to Peter. "There's an order to these things," he explained, flipping the large, patterned rug up so that he could get to the floor. "Each of the elements are important, of course, and have a meaning specific to the whole arrangement, but this is the important part."

The array he drew here was, compared to the others, relatively simple. Just a single circle with two symbols inside. Harry studied it carefully, making sure it was correct, and then nodded. He looked up at Peter from where he was squatting.

"This is the ignition point," he said, burning the mark into the floor. He could feel the wave of magic that locked into place, signalling its completion. "Want to know the best thing about this whole design?" he asked, pushing himself to his feet and kicking the rug back into place, so the array was hidden from view.

The smile he gave Peter was unpleasant. "It cancels out any magic not used by the rune. All Voldemort needs to do is walk across this," he waved at the now-covered spot, "and the array activates. No apparating. No shielding. No defence of any kind. Pretty neat, right?"

Harry looked back down at the floor, feeling quite happy with himself. Even someone as powerful as Voldemort would not be able to wriggle his way out of this.

All Harry had to do now was set the scene, find something to get Voldemort to cross the array, then sit back and watch the –

There was a dull thunk from above them.

Harry froze. His eyes rolled up, his head slowly following, and his hands slid from where they were perched on his hips.

"I thought you said no one else was here," he snapped.

Peter jerked, feeling the ricochet from Harry's magic. "We're the only ones here," the man said, sounding confused.

"Then what was that?" Harry pointed to the ceiling. Peter looked up as well, then back to Harry.

"Nagini," the man said simply.

Harry, for the second time in as many minutes, stopped. His gaze flicked to the staircase, then to the ceiling, then down to the rug.

"…And she didn't come say hello," he murmured.

A horrible, wicked idea bubbled up inside him.

He pulled his wand from its holster and started towards the stairs. Peter stayed behind, a silent command keeping the man in place.

Harry ascended to the second floor, eyes scouring the hallways rapidly, trying to locate where the noise had originated from. He went down the left hallway, stepping with caution, until he perked up at the sound of something heavy dragging along the floor.

He rounded the corner, pausing when he spotted the behemoth snake slithering towards him. She stopped as well, tongue flicking out curiously. There was no animosity in her just yet, the familiarity of his scent staying any attack, though he could practically taste her confusion at finding him here.

"Master's boy," she said to herself, Parseltongue crooning out of her as the back half of her body coiled.

Harry grimaced at the term. "Hello Nagini," he said back to her gently, causing her to rear up in shock. "For what it's worth, I am sorry about this."

Animal she may be, but the way he raised his wand to her could only be seen as a threat.

The hiss she let out was hair-raising, but she was too big of a target and the distance was too large for her to get him in a lunge. There was nothing she could do to dodge the bright jet of light that shot from Harry's wand.

The hallway glowed green, blinding him, and when Harry blinked the spots from his eyes, Nagini lay crumpled on the wooden floor.

That.

That was…

His hands did not shake when he lowered his wand, but there was a small ache in his chest at the sight of her majestic body limp and lifeless.

Harry pressed his palm over his heart, feeling the frantic beat of it, and swallowed thickly.

He had never used the killing curse before. It was quicker than he had expected. The rush of power was unwelcome, making him feel somewhat sick – and for a second there was a part of him that…quivered.

What have you done? it whispered, tiny and so so sad.

But Harry shook his head and pushed the voice down. He had a job to do. He had wasted enough time this year, messing around and being reckless when he should have just finished things months ago.

"Wingardium leviosa," he said, lifting her body off the ground. He turned on his heels and began the trek back to the grand hall. The house was silent but the walls themselves seemed to condemn him. Harry kept his head up, biting the inside of his bottom lip until he could taste blood.

When they arrived at the first floor, Peter did not react to his presence. Harry had locked down on his mind completely, uninterested in playing pretend now.

He dropped Nagini carefully onto the ground, a metre or so behind where he had drawn the array and took a breath. "Okay," he said, "alright, here's what will happen."

He turned to Peter, conjuring a plain, sharp knife. "Once I give you the signal, you will summon your Lord. He should appear here," he gestured just before the rug's edge. "When you feel him coming, I want you to start stabbing her. Do not cross the array unless Voldemort somehow avoids it. Do you understand?"

Peter, glazed eyes and blank-faced, nodded. Harry handed over the knife, glad to be rid of the thing. His hand felt dirty.

He spent a few minutes gathering his things, then paused next to the man, eyes darting over his face. "I won't apologise to you," he said quietly. "Maybe he would have found us another way eventually, but in this life, it was because of you – so I don't owe you anything."

Harry clenched his eyes shut, strangling the speck of guilt he felt.

"Goodbye, Peter."

He did not look back as he left the manor the same way he had entered.

OoO

Erebus settled into the crook of a tree less than fifty metres from the ward boundary line, tucking his limbs in close and burying himself in the protective shade. A delicate frown creased his brows as he rubbed his fingers over his mouth and stared out over the conspicuously blank grassy hill that stretched from the forest edge.

It was late afternoon, and night would soon encroach on this little pocket of the world, bathing Little Hangleton in deep shadows. A chill had begun to set in too, and if Erebus were human, he likely would have needed a thick coat to brave the outside. As it was, with a stomach full of blood generously donated by one of the locals in the tiny town, he hardly felt the drop in temperature.

Whatever task had brought Hadrian this far from Hogwarts, it was a lengthy one.

The past two hours had crept by without incident, nothing disturbing the air since Hadrian had first cut his way through the powerful barrier that masked what had to be Riddle's home. He had not been able to follow the boy, but a part of Erebus had preened at knowing that Hadrian had used the gifts he had given him to slip through the defences.

Truthfully, when one of his children had found him in Hogsmeade just as the closing ceremony had ended and told him that she had scented Hadrian Evans on the streets of Diagon Alley not even an hour ago, he had been confused. Especially given the boy's very obvious presence during the celebrations, being handed the tournament cup in front of thousands of witnesses.

Being in two places at once was not outside of Hadrian's skillset but creating an effective doppelgänger took time and power – and there had been nothing in the past few days to suggest that the boy was making one. Or even a reason for why he might need one.

His child had been adamant that it was Hadrian though, and blood did not lie. If Iris said she had smelt Hadrian, then he believed her, but it begged the question of just what the young wizard was up to and why someone else had been on the stage pretending to be him.

Something else had clearly been going on, and Erebus had a suspicion he knew precisely what, or rather who, was behind Hadrian's strange actions.

His Lady had warned him that Dumbledore would make his move soon, though Erebus had foolishly assumed it would take place during the task. It was an oversight on his part, one that he was sure would earn him some form of punishment from his benefactress, but at least he had found the boy now.

The charm they had woven into the lector blade – an older, more passive variant of avensegium that had long been discarded by magicals after one witch had 'improved' upon it centuries ago – had allowed him to track Hadrian to this place. The pin he was sure the boy was also wearing had done little to interfere with the charm, a flaw that had been deliberately included in its creation, though Erebus knew it would obfuscate Hadrian's whereabouts for anyone else looking to find him.

Until he exited the wards however, Erebus had no way of establishing the boy's wellbeing or his purpose for visiting his beau's home without said man in attendance.

It was as the last snatches of orange in the sky faded into a bruising purple that Erebus got at least one of his answers.

The wards a little way down from where he sat rippled, and a white smooth line appeared in midair. As he stared, it grew and then parted with a soft glow. Hadrian stepped through the hole he had made, the lector blade held comfortably in his hand, and surveyed his surroundings with narrowed eyes.

He looked fine, those nasty injuries from the duel healed, and the cuts to his battle suit had been mended. Curiously, Erebus noted that he was not wearing the Beauxbatons' overshirt that whoever had been playing him during the ceremony had been. The lack of pastel blue left Hadrian wrapped head to toe only in tight black clothing; and the reinforced padding along his chest and legs was reminiscent of old leather armouring.

Seeing Hadrian dressed in such attire brought back fond memories of Erebus' youth. It suited him.

Red eyes flicked back to the tear in the wards, watching for a moment as the cut melded back together and left the air empty of any signs of tampering. Once closed, Hadrian shifted, walking a few metres into the forest so that he was completely awash by inky darkness.

Erebus cocked his head, easily able to study the boy as he leaned against a tree despite the distance and thick foliage between them.

Hadrian lifted his wand, clearly casting a spell of some kind, before letting it fall casually to his side.

"Just what are you up to?" Erebus whispered, leaning forward in his perch. His body moved easily, the change in position hardly a threat to his impeccable balance.

His second answer came not ten minutes later, along with the abrupt destruction of the wards and a concussive explosion that lit the night with red flames and heat.

So much is happening! I'm so excited to get this one out tbh! A lot of events in previous chapters becomes relevant here - and it was a treat to finally tie those things into this final arc!

We got to see Sirius planting his flag in the sand. We got Voldemort experiencing Emotions. We got secrets being revealed and people forcing themselves into the situation. We got a little Voldemort vs Raina action where Raina is absolutely abusing her status as Hadrian's friend and therefore being 'off-limits' and asking Voldemort UnCoMfOrTaBlE questions - as she should. We even got some Erebus.

And best of all - we got compulsion!Hadrian (Harry) making his appearance and absolutely excelling in his assassination attempts. 10/10 execution for our boy.

Would love to hear what you think!

And as always, thank you for reading! For interest, my tumblr (Child_OTKW) is open if you want to come along to discover theories, scream at me, discuss new snippets or get some behind the scenes commentary! Thanks guys!