Blood of the Enemy
Voldemort tapped his wand against his palm, “We have ourselves a little guest here tonight.”
Heads turned, looking for the odd figure in the crowd, stopping when they saw Hadrian chained to a headstone.
He felt his blood boil and his magic spike in anger. If only he could get to one of his wands.
Wait.
His brows furrowed. He hadn’t used a wand to summon the gravestone or the Triwizard cup.
He could vaguely hear Voldemort talking to his followers as his head spun. Had he somehow unlocked the one ability that had been evading him for so long?
He rolled his fingers and thought of slicing through the chains binding him. It took far more effort than he wanted, his magic washing over the runic bindings, hoping to find a chink in their makeup. With a jolt of excitement, he discovered a link that the rune had been incorrectly carved. Digging his magic into the link, he was finally rewarded when it snapped, causing the rest of the chains around him to slacken and lose their charge.
He smirked, now for the fun.
The Dark Lord was setting up various tasks for his followers, asking them to recruit and bring him news while keeping a low profile.
Hadrian couldn’t help but laugh; while Peter had known to kill the snitch, he was unaware of the pin on his lapel. Possibly, it was because their spy didn’t have time to report back about the slight addition.
Voldemort turned and glared at him, “Is there something funny, child?”
He grinned at the black-haired man before him, "The house of Black is going to enjoy destroying you."
Red eyes glinted coldly as the Dark Lord’s fingers tightened around his wand, "They’ll be too busy crying over your dead body."
Hadrian laughed again, "That’s where you're wrong.” His head tilted as he saw the anger mar what many would call a handsome face, “Actually, you're wrong on many accounts."
Partially shifting to attain his grim shadows, Hadrian phased past the stone and decommissioned chains that were still holding him hostage. He reached his right hand out and grabbed a hold of the angel of Death’s scythe. Unsurprisingly, the statue released the weapon into his grasp. He wouldn’t put it past Death to be hiding among the gravestones himself.
"Now, where was I?" Hadrian tapped the scythe against his palm, "Oh, yes." His grin slipped from his face as he glared at Voldemort, ~You should fear the House of Black, Tom Riddle. We will be your end. Your poison no longer taints our number, and we will no longer tolerate your actions nor their consequences. ~
Hadrian grinned wickedly at the murmurs from the residing death eaters, "Yes, I am a Parselmouth." He spun around to see all the followers who were surrounding him, "A gift I gained from one of my ancestors." He stopped, his gaze on Voldemort and held up his ring, "I am Lord Slytherin."
Voldemort screamed in rage, "That is mine!" He lashed out his wand with cobra-like reflexes, a red spell spiralling toward Hadrian, who batted it away with the scythe he had spent the past minute pouring his magic into.
"Now, now, Tom." He smiled at the anger behind those red eyes, "Even though you are disowned, that's no way to treat your head of House. How could you ever wish to be welcomed back to the Slytherin family with that temper?"
Another red light was knocked away. Voldemort snarled, "By killing you, I shall take back what is mine!"
"Oh, has no one told you?" He grinned at the flash of confusion in his crimson gaze, "You are disowned. You will never be able to claim the line unless you are welcomed back into the family. Even if you murder me and all of my line, you will still not hold this ring or the Slytherin vaults." He smiled, ~but you've already tried to gain access, haven't you? You knew you were not the true heir. You only proclaimed to be. Much like the Smiths, holding an artefact of your ancestor does not make you the rightful heir.~
Voldemort seemed to be contemplating his words as the death eaters looked on in confusion.
"I don't need the Slytherin title to continue his work."
Hadrian cackled at this, "Do you honestly think you're holding up his beliefs? You ignorant fool."
Voldemort growled, sending a familiar green spell straight at him. Hadrian swung the scythe, and a gravestone intercepted the spell, shattering on contact. The second killing curse was only forming on his lips when the graveyard was silenced by an eery howl, which was quickly followed by others.
Hadrian grinned and spread his arms, "The Blacks have arrived."
A snarling spectral grim appeared at his side, the lifeless form of the serpent Wormtail called Nagini in his maw, while many more sprang from the shadows around the graveyard.
The grim beside him, which was the largest of them all, dropped the carcass of the snake and lunged at Voldemort. Before his teeth could tear into the intricate robe of the dark lord, the man was ripped away by the sound of house elf apparition.
Hadrian yelled in frustration, “No!” He spun on his heels and pointed his wand at the first death eater he saw, “Who entered my name? Tell me!”
The grims snarled in delight as they chased the death eaters, who were disappearing into the night one by one, as if the anti-apparition ward used their dark marks as a key to enter and exit without breaking the ward.
The death eater in front of him shook his head and backed up a step, “Only Pettigrew knows.” Then, he was gone. With the exit of the last Deatheater, Hadrian felt the wards collapse.
Hadrian ran his hands down his face and groaned as Aureus padded up beside him. Hadrian sighed and kicked the dead snake aside; his fingers instinctively scratched his father’s familiar between the ears. §It’s alright, boy; we’ll get him eventually. I assume you want this as a chew toy for later.§ He looked around, §Are these friends of yours?§
A grim with a limp sauntered over to him, §You don't recognize your grandmother?§
Hadrian laughed, §I see the family form found you. Are there any others here?§
Walburga Black shook her head, §No, they are still at the tournament. These are friends from the Peverell estate. Aureus asked them to join, and he will not be bringing that thing back with him.§
Hadrian grinned as he welcomed the others with gentle scratches, §Any friend of Aureus is a friend to the Blacks. We welcome you.§
One of the grims deposited his wands into his hand and nudged at the tiny pin on his collar.
Hadrian blinked owlishly at the small mirror tied to his magic, "I think Voldemort's return won't be as quiet as he had hoped for."
Aureus nudged his arm, "Is it time to go back?"
The grim leaned into his scratches before huffing and offering his scruff. Hadrian smiled and obliged.
They were whisked away into shadows, reappearing on the platform in the stadium where Cedric stood limply holding the Triwizard cup.
Hadrian grinned happily at the sight, "Congrats, Cedric! You won!"
Cedric and the crowd around him were silent for a long moment before his friend pointed upward, "Hadrian, we... we saw everything."
Hadrian winced as he heard Cedric in front of him and above him. Looking up, he could see both of their projection mirrors showing whatever was right before them, "I suppose you did."
"You saved me. And…. You faced him.... and lived. No one had done that since Harry Potter."
Murmurs broke through across the stadium.
The boy who lives...
He stood up to him...
Maybe we can too...
Don't be daft.
You saw! The scythe...
Hadrian sighed, "It’s been a long night. I could use some sleep." He tapped at the small mirror on his lapel, “Honestly, how do you turn these off?”
Cedric laughed in disbelief as Sirius encircled Hadrian with a bone-crushing hug. Waving a hand, he deactivated the mirrors and held his son tight, "I thought I lost you tonight."
Hadrian returned the hug with earnest, "Have you so little faith?"
Sirius choked out a laugh and pulled away, "A father will always worry. But I will always believe in you." He smiled softly, “The scythe is a nice touch. We should hang it in the study.”
Barty sat amongst his peers in the Beauxbatons section of the stands. His father growled as he prowled the exterior of the maze among the rush of students and aurors.
His eyes slid over to the platform where Hadrian Black stood with his father and the Hufflepuff champion.
How had it gone so wrong?
Barty had polyjuiced himself as his father earlier in the day to convince the visiting auror force to clear the path for Hadrian, but the boy just had to be fair. His father, who always wore a set of thin, dragon hide gloves, unknowingly placed the portkeyed cup at the center of the maze, safe from its effects.
No, adoptive father. He was adopted.
He had been so lost in his head that he hadn't heard the rhythmic thumping until a hand latched onto his shoulder.
"Come on, Armel. The aurors are gathering up the stragglers. Students leave first thing in the morning, but we are leaving tonight. You can owl that little boyfriend of yours when we get home."
Barty nodded numbly as he let Moody steer him toward the castle.
Blaise Zabini was as much of a cover as anything. He honestly could not bring himself to be romantically involved with anyone half his age, but the boy was interesting to talk to. Barty knew his mind was stunted by his stay in Azkaban, but not by fifteen years. Regardless, he hadn't been able to express emotion for a long time, even before his stunt in Azkaban. Regulus’s death broke more parts of him than he would ever admit.
Honestly, if it hadn't been for Winky, he probably wouldn't be as put together as he was. Oh, and Winky.... how he wished he never had to give her up. But with his adoption, he was no longer direct family, and she would no longer be bound to his magic, so he gave her to his master before the ritual. He could feel the gaping hole in his magic where she had once been.
How had everything fallen apart?
Voldemort had returned, and thanks to Barty's instructions, Pettigrew had spent the extra coin for quality ingredients, providing their master with the exact form he had when he was defeated so many years ago.
"Merlin and Morgana. Already?"
Barty looked up to find his father frowning at something. A swing of his head showed a familiar boy in Slytherin green leaning against the bottom of the stands.
"Fine. You can have him for half an hour. You better be glad you're a good influence." His father growled out before turning to him, "I’ve already asked Mitzi to get your things from the carriage; I’ll be waiting for you in the entrance hall. 30 minutes."
Barty nodded, "of course."
The two boys watched the ex-auror stomp off towards the castle.
"So, Voldemort is back."
Barty nodded slowly, "He is."
"Are you going back to him?"
Barty's head whipped around, "What?"
The Italian scoffed, "Please. I've known for months. The things you say... you're not a sixth-year student. And honestly, your French accent is horrible." The boy looked at him critically, "I'm guessing you took a de-ageing potion. A rather good one for it to last so long. I daresay it may be permanent."
Barty couldn't understand how the boy knew so much.
Blaise smiled, "Love, I'm a siren. I can pull truths from you without your knowledge for as long as I wish."
He really wanted to go for his wand, to stun the boy and disappear into the night. He’d find Moody, and they’d be gone to one of his safe houses. He’d be able to process the night in relative peace. But his hand didn't move.
"Subconsciously, you don't want to hurt me. Just like you don't truthfully want to go back to your master."
"How?" Barty hated how his voice cracked on the single word. He'd blame it on puberty, but he was long past that, even in his younger form. Something was breaking in him, and he didn’t like it.
"I've been talking to you for months. I know things about you that you haven't even let yourself know." The boy looked up at the looming castle, "You’ve found something you didn’t have before, and it’s filling that rotting void within you.”
He sneered at the thought.
Blaise chucked, “Moody is proud of you, isn’t he? He doesn’t know your entire story, yet he’s proud to have an intelligent son.”
Barty’s eyes narrowed at his chosen emphasis.
“Would you give up what you’ve found?” His head cocked to the side, “To you, is having a father’s love and acceptance better than having your masters?"
Barty shook his head, "Better than Voldemort? You don’t understand; you don’t just leave… he's the most..."
He was cut off mid-sentence, "A fourteen-year-old was about to put him on his ass, wandlessly. If that house elf hadn't been involved, the dark lord would be in the bowels of Azkaban."
He couldn't help the quiver that ran through him, "Blaise, can you not mention that place?"
The Italian laughed, "Sure... Barty."
This time, his hand did find his wand, and it was between the boy’s eyes in a fraction of a second.
Blaise only cocked his brow in response.
"It’s Armel." At the Italian’s questioning gaze, Barty sighed and waved his wand to cast a silencing ward, slumping onto an empty seat in the process, “I don’t know how much you’ve sirened out of me, but Moody was a cover. I did a bit of spying around Hogwarts during the summer; not many suspect a bird to be a spy. I knew Moody was going to be chosen for something important, and he was my ticket in. It’s actually not a lie that he once dated my father’s sister; the bit about her running away to have me, though, is not true.
“It took me far too many attempts to trap him.” He glanced up, “Moody’s paranoid; there was no way he was going to just accept me saying I was his. I had to prove it to him.” He grinned, “French Goblins are far more lenient in what they will do for returned Goblin silver and some added gold. I subdued him and, with my master’s guidance, performed a blood adoption ritual that didn’t technically need a willing participant.”
Blaise nodded, “Then you let him find you and ask to be verified.”
He nodded, “My account manager had already moulded my blood to show what it needed to show. I was a Crouch, after all, and as my Aunt had passed, her French vaults reverted to the main Family account.”
“And she was a pureblood, so her vaults also contained vials of her blood.”
Barty smirked, “Worked to my benefit.” His gaze turned toward the castle, “Moody came to France to find me after I had my French manager send him a memo stating he was the listed next of kin. The rest, I assume you already weasled out of me.”
“Why Meadux?”
“Moody picked it out; he didn’t want me to keep my mother’s maiden name. Imagine coming here with Crouch as a last name; It would be like a bullseye. So, instead of Armel Crouch, I became Armel Meadux. It's a play on his own with a French twist.” He chuckled, “Thought he was a right genius for that.”
The Italian was silent for a moment before he sat down next to him. “Armel.” His chocolate eyes flicked skyward, and he smiled, “Tonight, we say goodbye to Barty. Tomorrow, Armel can start his new life.”
Barty's eyes closed, and he smiled sadly, “I wish it was so simple.”
Blaise’s eyes flicked down to his covered and glamoured arm, "Maybe it could be."
“I’m not a good person, Blaise.”
The Italian only hummed as they sat in silence, time ticking away until he tried the impossible: ignoring the Dark Lord’s call.
Albus paced around his office, the portraits muttering incoherently in the background as his mind waged war over what step to take next.
The year had ended far from what he had hoped for. Durmstrang and Beauxbatons had left within an hour of the final task, as well as many Hogwarts students who had visiting parents at the final task. The remaining students would be leaving in the morning and completing their exams at the ministry.
His heels dug into the carpet as he swung back around to his pensieve, dipping his finger in for the sixth time.
Albus stood in the stands, staring down at his wide-eyed self, whose gaze was locked on the now-empty sky.
He had already revisited that portion of his memory multiple times, each time confirming an undeniable truth. Tom had returned, and he opposed the Blacks.
Had he misinterpreted everything? He knew the boy stated he was against Voldemort, but Albus had never truly believed him. No, Hadrian Black was to be the downfall of Hogwarts, and Tom would be the downfall of the British wizarding population.
He tore his eyes away from his own face to look down to where the crowds were dispersing, waved on by aurors and parents, many shooting glances toward the podium on the field. There stood the four champions and their mentors, save Albus. The minister stood with the Diggory boy, a golden money bag as well as the silver trophy clutched in the boy’s arms.
Amos Diggory stood next to his son, talking to the Black lord, who was gesturing down to the grim beside him.
Albus feared what this interaction would cause, as his body had been so far away from the conversation he hadn’t been able to discern anything from the group. If Amos saw the grims or dementors as anything other than soulless creatures, Albus feared they would be set back. The light would diminish in favour of the dark.
Regardless of how many times he examined this memory, he settled on one truth each and every time. Even if the Blacks opposed Tom, they were still dark.
And the light would need to fight back; It’s time for Albus to take drastic measures.
It was, after all, for the greater good.