The silvery gazelle bounded into the Headmaster’s office, its ethereal form rippling through the doors. Albus Dumbledore looked at it over his half-moon spectacles, his gaze anticipatory but unsurprised.
“It worked, Albus,” Fleamont Potter’s breathless voice echoed hollowly through the gazelle’s mouth. “We’ve got one. He’s restrained in the basement. It worked !”
Albus rose immediately. There was no time to waste. With a quick wave of his wand, the papers he had been examining on his desk folded themselves away neatly and tucked themself back into the filing cabinet. The magical gramophone by the window ceased its deep baritone grumbling of “Fly Me To The Moon”, and, with an indignant squawk, found itself shoved back into the secret cabinet from whence it came. A few of the more elderly portraits adorning the walls heaved secret sighs of relief.
Albus reached out in his mind’s eye, searching for the Potter estate. He found it almost immediately - covered in a myriad of impressive anti-Apparition wards. He mentally nodded his approval - Fleamont and Euphemia had taken his advice to heart. They wouldn’t pose much of a bother to him, but Apparating into the wards might come across as rather rude. With a quick turn of his feet, he landed soundlessly at the gates bordering the estate.
A sharp crack! cut through the crisp evening air and Fleamont Potter appeared behind the wrought iron bars, rushing to undo the locking spells with a few complicated wand movements. He was an old man (even if not quite as old as Albus), but in that moment he seemed every bit the young and excitable boy he remembered teaching at Hogwarts.
“It worked , Albus! Whatever awards you’ve won, they’re not nearly enough, I tell you. It went off exactly as you’d said it would.” He impatiently shoved his slipping glasses right back into his forehead. “I went, and I gave the speech, and all the old bores in the Wizengamot clapped, and I made it so obvious that I was leaving, and someone followed me!”
They strode through the grounds quickly, not even pausing to admire Euphemia’s excellent dandelions (he would have to make a note to do that later). Fleamont’s frenetic excitement was beginning to rub off on him. It would soon be time for a reckoning.
“How did you apprehend him?” Albus asked.
“It wasn’t much work, really,” Fleamont admitted. “Old fellow like myself, the youngling probably thought I’d be easy pickings. I just waited till he let down his guard, turned a corner, and Stunned him as he came around. It was simple enough to bring him here after that.”
Albus smiled. “Very elegant solution.” He was on the verge of saying ‘ten points to Gryffindor’ out of sheer force of habit when he caught himself. Really, the things that happened in old age. Memory was a world all in its own, and almost as convincing as the real one. He shook his head wryly. “Has he said anything? Have you spoken to him?”
“Not just yet. Thought I’d wait for the cavalry,” Fleamont winked and opened the door, ushering Albus in.
The Potter’s house was every bit as beautiful and homely as Albus remembered. Reassuringly solid wooden furniture bedecked the floors, the warmth of a roaring fire emanated from the dimly lit living room, and a peaceful sort of quiet descended upon the whole home, giving it an admirably cozy feeling. Until a baby’s cry rent the air.
Albus looked quizzically at Fleamont. The latter blushed red, looking down at his feet and fidgeting, but smiling madly all the while. Albus beamed.
“Am I to take it that one of my dear friends has been concealing some very excellent news from me?”
“We - ah - didn’t want to let anyone outside the family know. Not just yet. It’s so rare, at our age. We were so excited, but so worried too, Albus, you’ve no idea. We didn’t know if it would - if it would all end up alright.” Fleamont looked up. “But it did , and he was born just last week, and his name is James, and he’s healthy, and we’re just so thrilled about it all. I was going to tell you, truly. I promise.” He looked abashed.
“There are worse secrets to have kept,” Albus reassured him, eyes twinkling. A child. Fleamont and Euphemia’s child. How wonderful. Then he frowned. “Do you mean to say that Euphemia was expecting when we laid out our plans, then?”
Fleamont nodded guiltily.
“I can’t say I’m too pleased about that - I wasn’t aware I was endangering a mother and her son.”
The plan had been simple enough. Albus had long been aware that the politics of the Wizengamot had taken a distinctly reactionary turn - for whatever reason, they were suddenly skewed against Muggleborns, and a distinctly unsightly strain of pure-blood chauvinism seemed to have gained purchase in the debates being had.
To some degree, of course, this was natural. One could hardly expect Arcturus Black and Abraxas Malfoy not to continue peddling the same positions that they had been for the past half century. And yet, Albus had had his suspicions. Something was different. There was fear in the Wizengamot now. Something not entirely organic was taking place on the floor of the wizarding legislature. Abraxas and Arcturus seemed far too smug and not nearly caught off guard enough by how easily their words seemed to find purchase now. Someone, or some group, was playing individual members of the Wizengamot behind the scenes as though they were marionettes. It reminded Albus uncomfortably of things he was trying very hard to forget.
And so, the plan. He knew that people were unlikely to attempt to intimidate him, precociously talented wizard that he was, so he’d reached out to his old student and friend, Fleamont Potter. Fleamont was technically a member of the Wizengamot, though he never did attend the sessions. His heart was large and caring and harboured no hate, and he was immediately struck by the suspicions Albus laid before him, agreeing to make himself a target and give an aggressively pro-Muggleborn speech in the parliament, all while calling out the depravity and cowardice of the recent turn its debates had taken. Albus hadn’t been unduly worried for Fleamont - he was a capable wizard, and more than capable of defending himself, especially when he knew that he was walking into a trap.
But he hadn’t expected Euphemia to be pregnant. Things could have gone terribly, awfully, wrong. Fleamont shouldn’t have signed up for this. Their child could very easily have been endangered. Still, there wasn’t much use in crying over spilled milk now. He could lecture Fleamont later, drawing himself up to his full height and looking imposingly at him over his spectacles. It was wonderful how easily that achieved an effect.
“We can discuss this later. Let us go to the basement.”
-------------------------------------------
The man in the basement lay ramrod straight on the floor, his body clearly under the effects of a Full Body Bind. Albus waved his hand, and the captive gasped and turned on to his side, coughing as his muscles relaxed.
He turned to get up, hand flying to his wand, when he looked up and found Albus’ wand inches from his forehead. Fear and awe dawned in his eyes.
“I see you recognize me,” Albus said cheerfully. “Good, good - that will make this far easier for the both of us.” He waved his wand and conjured a plump armchair, easing himself into it and crossing his legs. The prisoner looked at him confusedly, but said nothing.
“Tell me,” said Albus, “who are you?”
The man said nothing, a sudden determination set in the lines of his face.
“You really should, you know,” said Albus. “I could extract the information myself, but I’m afraid that would be a much messier endeavour.” He traced a finger idly down the arm of the chair. “And I couldn’t quite guarantee that you’d come out of it entirely unscathed.”
The prisoner was clearly in some sort of conflict now. Curious , thought Albus. He knew me enough to fear me, and yet - even though I threaten him, he does not break. He could see the fear poorly concealed behind the blank face. But had he misunderstood it? Could it be that there was something this man feared even more than himself?
His thoughts turned uncomfortably to the past - to a great stone prison of a thousand cells, torn from the flesh of a mountain, and a man, his hair white, and his eyes sharp and yellow, boring directly into his.
“I will afford you one more opportunity to speak. After that, I’m afraid that we don’t have the time for more displays of mercy,” Albus said, regretfully. “Name your master.”
The man stayed silent and sullen. Albus sighed. He pointed his wand. “ Legilimens!”
Legilimancy was always an uncomfortable process, and not one he remotely enjoyed. Albus considered it only a few short steps removed from the Unforgiveable Curses - a few rare circumstances might justify its occasional use, but wielding it recklessly poisoned the goodness of an innocent soul. He took great care not to delve too deep, mindful of the man’s privacy, looking only for what might come to the surface of his mind - whatever it was that he was trying to hide.
The fear was palpable now. Where it had been a slight tremor in his physical self, it was a pounding hurricane within the man’s heart. Albus could hardly see anything for the fear - vague, inarticulate flashes - a white, bony hand; a long, knotted, elegant looking wand; a name , though the man seemed too afraid even to think it. And then, at last, a more whole memory - the man kneeling before someone, raising his arm, uncovering his sleeve-
Albus blinked. The man lay unconscious before him, an incredible stress disfiguring his expression. The spell had been forcibly ended. The intensity of the captive’s fear had turned him into an accidental Occlumens. But he had seen enough to continue his investigation.
“Fleamont,” he said. Fleamont hurried over, his eyes wide. “His right sleeve, if you would. Uncover it.”
Fleamont dutifully obeyed, pulling back the sleeve. He gasped, dropping the captive’s hand. On his arm was a gruesome tattoo - a skull, traced in an ink as black as night, swallowing a snake whole. The shine of the magical ink almost made it feel alive, as though the serpent was shimmering and undulating as it worked its way into the skull.
Albus reached out and touched the mark with his wand. Dark Mark . The words came unbidden to his thoughts. Had he heard them in the maelstrom of the man’s fear? He was sure that it was what the tattoo was named. Using an incredibly complex modification version of the Reverse Spell effect, Albus attempted to unravel the obviously magical sigil’s mysteries.
And found that he could not. Whoever had set this insignia into the captive’s skin was a wizard of prodigious skill. They had guarded it masterfully against discovery. The layers of warding were nigh impenetrable - comparable only to those that Albus had laid around Hogwarts himself. They made the anti-Apparition wards guarding the Potter estate look like a thin paper shield. But even in the wards there was information - information about the technique and preferences of the witch or wizard who had impregnated them with their skill.
And all at once, the pieces clicked into the place. He knew this technique. He knew this style .
The wand - no wonder it had seemed so familiar. How many times had he seen that same hand grip it, though it had not yet been leached of all colour and turned so ominously white with its use of Dark magic? How many times had he seen it perform incredible magic, unfathomable magic - all within his classroom? And he’d seen it not long ago too - when Tom Riddle had come to Hogwarts to ask to teach. He understood everything now. And he was so very disappointed.
Albus stood up, his presence so imposing that Fleamont stumbled and fell to the floor behind him. He pointed his wand at the unconscious man. “ Rennnervate.”
The man’s eyes flicked drowsily open, but widened as he was suddenly gripped by an incredible force and suspended mid-air in front of Albus.
“Go back to your master,” said Albus. “Go back to Lord Voldemort, and tell him that his old teacher is deeply disappointed in him.” He released the spell, allowing the captive to fall feebly to the ground, and then waved his wand again, Transporting him to the middle of Knockturn Alley. He’d be able to find his way there.
“Lord Voldemort?” Fleamont asked, mystified.
Albus shook his head heavily. “I have a lot to fill you in on, it seems.”
“Do you think he’s going to stop? I mean - do you think your threat will work?”
“No,” Albus admitted sadly. “But I can hope it frightens him enough to buy us some time.”
“Time? TIme for what?”
Albus smiled wistfully. “My dear, dear Fleamont. I’m afraid the hard times may soon be upon us again. Treasure what peace we have, and be prepared to have to fight for it. I expect your voice will be needed in the Wizengamot many times again in the near future.” He strode to the centre of the room and turned to face Fleamont. He clapped his hands over his head and disappeared in a flash of flame, his voice echoing through the room as he burned away.
“A hearty congratulations on the birth of young James. I look forward to seeing Mr. Potter at Hogwarts in a few years time."