Hell of a month.

Standard disclaimer applies, content warnings in Chapter 1.

Mosaic 8

February

"My Lord," Corban Yaxley stated lowly where he knelt fully before Him while the rest of His loyal followers looked on. "I bring news from the Department of Mysteries."

Voldemort drew the meeting to a close, inviting Yaxley to attend him in the privacy of His sitting room. Corban was already aware of his true visage, having assisted in locating both the ritual text and some of the less legal items required. His loyalty was admirable indeed, as Voldemort recognized and appreciated both his willingness to serve and his ability to dupe His other followers. Only His most trusted would be granted the right to look upon their Lord's true face.

"My Lord," the lean man greeted, waiting until the door fully closed behind him and the silencing wards were up before speaking again. "Tom." Corban was a breath of fresh air to the room, Tom appreciating the way in which his associate's sandy hair and bright blue eyes brought a bit of lightness into the otherwise dark lodge-like decor. It was no wonder the man was the subject of lustful gossip between those of young Malfoy's friends who were of a fairer persuasion. He was secure enough in his own sexuality to recognize an objectively attractive person, regardless of gender. Dismissing the flowery musings in his mind with an internal roll of his eyes, Tom motioned for his friend to sit and summoned Boppy for libations.

"How has the transition been thus far, Tom? Any pains or odd magical outbursts?" Corban asked after relishing his first sip of the aged Port provided. While his Lord had previously professed his absolute and unending magical might, the new incarnation - his friend - was more mindful of the fallacy in His prior hubris. He watched the man before him close his eyes, felt His power turn inward to sense within Himself the answer to Corban's question.

When Tom's eyes opened seconds later in doubt, Corban fought to keep his expression steady. The past month had shown the changes in Tom, from mad megalomaniac to a more thoughtful, careful political force. "I confess, Corban, I do not know. I can sense there is still discord, instability in my core, but I believe that is related directly to the pieces of soul still left to recover rather than any lingering effects from the ritual."

Corban nodded, understanding. "That is very likely, Tom. Also remember, depending upon where they have been hidden, the lack of cohesion even when they are returned may be affected by any latent magics surrounding them." Tom furrowed his brow, asking without words for clarification.

"For instance, you said you had one specifically at Hogwarts?" Realization lit his companion's face, so Corban continued. "As you know, the wards at Hogwarts are extensive in themselves, each strengthening as the school - which is already semi-sentient and possessing its own magical ability - accepts a new Headmaster."

He took the time to have a bite of one of the tartes Boppy had generously provided with their drinks while the Dark wizard contemplated his words. "Severus has told me of two destroyed within Hogwarts' wards, yet when both pieces returned, I felt no difference."

"You likely wouldn't have, depending on how magically powerful you were when they were fashioned." Corban leaned down in his seat to pull out a journal he had been compiling. Flipping open to the page he needed, he passed the book over to his Lord and friend. "As you can see, I have found some link in magical interference here and… here. That said, we know correlation is not causation, however there does seem to be mounting evidence supporting the theory."

Tom read through the journal a bit more before stopping on the last page on which Corban had written. "This is phenomenal work, my friend, but I'm still not following on how the link explains the disruption of my core as the shards are returned. You mentioned earlier in your research age of the horcrux might have a hand; explain that if you will."

With a wave of his wand, Corban transfigured an empty side table into a blackboard. He drew a square and labelled it Hogwarts, around which he then sketched out interlocking circles and woven lines to illustrate the exterior wards. "Now, we know Hogwarts has extensive protections. Everything from apparition to the most benign of building shield charms are represented. As each Headmaster begins his tenure, they feed these wards in a blood ritual using the Heartstone of the school. This granta the sitting Headmaster access to security and surveillance, and is intended to be used in defence and protection of the students, faculty, and the building itself."

Inside the Hogwarts square, he drew more smaller squares and circles, with the occasional triangle. "Within, however, there are more personalized works. Faculty, for example," he said, dotting the squares with his chalk, "may set their own wards for their quarters. Even the Headmaster has no access to their quarters if they do so, as the agreement is between the faculty member and Hogwarts itself. Only in extreme circumstances such as grievous injury will Hogwarts allow the Headmaster to supercede Its agreement with the faculty member."

Pointing to the circles, he continued. "In the cases of classrooms themselves, there are no wards in place, but rather charms which the Headmaster and Hogwarts agree upon. Take the Defense classrooms, for example." He marked out three circles in a row, looking at Tom to ensure he was being understood. "While there are no wards on the Defense classrooms, there are charms ensuring no serious bodily injury may come from something like duelling practice or even schoolyard hexing."

"And the triangles?" Tom asked curiously, crossing a leg over another and propping his chin on two fingers. "What do they signify?"

"This is where my theory really comes into play," Corban grinned back in a rare moment of boyish excitement. "So, we know Hogwarts is at least partially sentient. We both experienced the same moving staircases, after all. But then there are those places either made by the Founders, such as the Chamber, or made by Hogwarts itself, such as-"

"The Come and Go Room," Tom finished in a pensive murmur.

"In those cases, I believe Hogwarts latent magic may affect the horcruxes and the state of the soul shards as they are destroyed. Again, also taking into account the magical power and age of the creator when they were formed."

Tom stood, placing his glass on the table and joining his friend. "Severus told me the Potter boy was able to destroy my first horcrux in the Chamber itself." Taking the preferred chalk from Corban, he continued. "I wasn't of majority when it was created, so my core wasn't matured. As such, even the horcrux itself had limited power, only able to possess after a length of time." He drew a small rectangle with a jagged line through the centre in one of the triangles Corban had made. "Being that it was comparatively weaker than any later items, how would Hogwarts have affected the shard upon release?"

"Good question. First, let me ask, are you able to sense the individual returned portions?" Tom nodded. "You might find that specific shard feeling, hmm, Lighter? Hogwarts, theoretically, may be purifying any shards as their objects are destroyed within it. Any corruption to the piece would be cleared. When returned, the purified shard then has to fight to stay as such to compensate not only for the pieces still in other objects, but it has to fight against the Darkness which remained after you had made them all in your majority."

"What will happen if shards are destroyed both within and outside of Hogwarts?" Tom asked, concerned regarding the Gaunt ring destroyed on Little Hangleton.

"Ultimately nothing, however you may find instances of a 'crisis of conscience, 'if you will, where the purified soul attempts to override other shards. Once all are returned, you may experience physiological and psychological effects as they reconcile and merge, but otherwise your core will stabilise."

Tom looked alarmed at Corban's throwaway comment. "I won't be a raving nutter again, right?" His friend laughed and shook his head, laying a consoling hand upon Tom's shoulder.

"No, nothing so severe. Muscle aches as you've already experienced and likely the odd dream or night terror. Nothing with which a Dreamless Sleep or Soothing Salts can't assist." Warmth burgeoned in Corban's chest as his Lord seemed to deflate under his hand in relief. Returning the blackboard to its previous state, both men returned to their seats.

Tom gazed at his companion in the flickering light of the fire. "That wasn't all, was it?" A queer feeling wound within his gut watching one of his most devoted compatriots war with himself as inconspicuously as possible. Finally, Corban sighed, shoulders slumping a bit on contradiction with his upper-crust upbringing.

"No, Tom. No, it isn't." Corban leaned forward again, this time to make intentional, direct eye contact. "I can't see how not informing you of this would be to your benefit, but you should see it for yourself." Tom nodded and muttered the spell. Corban was instantly viewing the scene from earlier that day in his mind's eye.

He had been given an assignment to take down any new prophecies from the Ministry Seers. Walking past Brain and Time, he eventually came to the doors of the Hall of Prophecy. Ignoring the globes, he maneuvered down aisles to the antechamber in which the Seers worked, interconnected to each other and Magic itself. As soon as he entered and readied empty globes to collect their insights, an otherworldly dread laid across him like a woolen blanket.

All at once, five voices merged and unseeing eyes honed in on him.

"Your equal in might

You will know her by her magic.

Of wild hair and keen eyes,

Short of stature and temperament.

She will know you by your name,

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

A heretic born,

A child twice damned,

An Earthen Lady

At His right hand.

A land of strife

Which She will rend,

The lines of old

Which She shall end.

A woman reborn

With blackened eyes.

Of mud and blood,

An' She will rise."

At once, they fell silent, heads turning back to look straight at the chamber ceiling as they had been when he had entered.

Tom pulled out of the memory with ease, however both men were bathed in sweat as they shared uneasy looks.

Present

She was still screaming when he walked in, loud wails of horror he hadn't heard from her even as she had been tortured only days before. Upon her lay bits of grey flesh and spatters of bright blood. On the floor were two tiny elfen feet, one tipped on its side, seemingly torn from their body with impossible force.

"Severus," he muttered, activating the summons for the Potions Master's Mark. Not a second later, a dull pop sounded in the entry below and thundering steps were heard rushing up the stairs. At once, Tom realized he was not alone in his head, when the voice of Harry Potter let loose a shocked cry.

HERMIONE!

I'm sorry, Potter, but I have to do this, he replied to the teenager taking up real estate in his mind. Without another word, Tom partially occluded, shutting out the Chosen One's voice in favor of the girl still screaming in her bed.

As Severus came through the door from the sitting room, Tom waved his wand at Hermione. A stunning spell later, she was falling back quieted onto the pillows behind her. He could sense Harry's concern and fear even silenced as the teenager was. Without a word, he and Severus set the room to rights. Halfway through scourgifying the carpet, the equivalent of a mental knock occurred - a strange sensation indeed.

Yes?

You'll never get the slight browning out like that. Mrs. Weasley taught me one, glanadh domhainn, which was pretty handy after George's ear got lobbed off and he bled all over the-

Wand movements?

Oh, um, an open ended figure eight with a slight flourish clockwise. Keep your wrist tight at the end and just use your fingers to direct your wand.

Doing as such, he thanked the resident in his consciousness and continued to work. Severus had been sending furtive glances in his direction. "What is it, Severus?" His man seemed to waffle, chewing on the inside of his cheek in thought before finally answering.

"It's strange to see you care, I suppose. If I'm being honest." Severus levitated the figure above the bed slightly and sent a nonverbal cleaning charm to pull the elfen blood gently from her skin. It was said nonchalantly, and Tom thought, as inoffensively as the Potions Master could attempt. This belief was solidified when the taller man beside him continued. "Might I recommend timing a sleeping charm to activate when your stunner wears off?"

With a considering look, he finally nodded to Severus. Without another word, the two finished cleaning the bed and the woman in it. Minutes later they had completed the spellwork in the room and he turned to his friend as Severus made to leave. "Wait, I need your eyes for a moment." His esteem of the man, Harry agreeing within his mind, raised as Severus simply turned back around to stand by Tom.

"Shiko te kaluaren," the wand in his hand swept the walls and floor in a series of motions while he worked the charm. While he hadn't enjoyed his search for the Founders' relics, he had picked up a few tricks. In seconds, a ghostly image of the room shown in bright blue.

Hermione lay on the bed, tossing the duvet about in her distress. A figure popped into the centre of the bedroom suite, just feet from its charge. Hands wringing, the elf spoke only to receive no response. A minute went by at least of the little elf attempting to wake her mistress from her fitful sleep when he noticed a glowing begin in the elf's sternum. The creature tugged her pillowcase at the neck and tried to wake her ward again. The glowing intensified and spread even as the girl in the bed turned further into her nightmares. The elf began to clutch her throat and stomach when suddenly she was no longer there in a wet explosion, Hermione was sitting wide awake and terrified in bed.

He saw the lumos she cast, registered it with the sense of dread a muggle has when they watch a scary film at the cinema and a strange noise must be investigated on the screen. He wanted to still her hand, but the fact this had already happened stopped him. Besides, he was curious how her face looked when she realized what had happened.

Ah, there it was now. He was dismayed to find it didn't feel like he had thought, to watch her eyes close tight in hopeful denial before she opened them wide to take in the horror around her. Her plump lips splattered with the blood of one of the beings she had campaigned to save didn't bring him anything more than a frown.

He cancelled the spell and abruptly turned, walking out and leaving Severus to stare at his back. With a glance back at the figure tucked neatly once more beneath her expensive sheets, Severus, too, spun to follow his Lo- no, his friend back into the sitting room. Tom was standing straight backed at the table, china delicately tinkling with his movements.

"As I'm sure you're aware, Severus, I am not alone in my head. That is a very strange sentence to say out loud, by the way. Tea?" His friend nodded gratefully and sat on a cushioned armchair by the fireplace.

"I appreciate that, Tom. Mr. Potter, I presume?" The charcoal-haired wizard at the table replied with a distracted noise and sent a tea cup levitating over.

"He'll be through momentarily," Tom stated without prompting, focus suddenly on the hearth. Within moments, Harry Potter was stepping through.

"Tea, Potter?" He asked of the boy. Messy hair the colour of pitch limply bobbed around his face as Harry tiredly shook his head and made for the small liquor cabinet near Hermione's bedroom.

"After dealing with Dumbledore alone I could have used a drink. This thing with Hermione had made it a powerful need indeed. Anyone? Snape?"

Fuck it, Severus thought, and stood to pour a bit of brandy into his teacup. Awkward silence reigned between the three of them as they sat and simply stared at one another.

"She blew up a blo- a fucking house elf!" Harry broke the quiet like a rock through a window and with about as much subtlety. Both elder wizards shared a long look while the Boy-Who-Lived tried to control his breathing.

"Accidental magic, Potter." Tom replied, his lips never moving from the porcelain rim of his cup. "Powerful, yes, but accidental nonetheless."

"Is that why Dumbledore asked if I could- if I-" Severus watched the boy flounder, green eyes expressive like his mother.

"You say Albus spoke with you about Miss Granger?" His measured words, thankfully, didn't have the same effect on Potter they had used to. Rather than immediately becoming possessed with the need to run his gob, the teenager shared a glance with his Lord, who replied.

"Albus Dumbledore seems to believe it's necessary to terminate Miss Granger's existence."

With the Dark Lord's words, Potter seemed to have found his resolve and spun the whole sordid story to Severus. When Severus discussed his own project at length, the whole picture started to make sense.

"I have to wonder if he knows about the prophecy," Tom wondered aloud, rubbing a finger along his lip in thought. "Alas, I will have to share that with you at a later date, Mister- Harry. It is far too late an hour and we all have busy days ahead of us." They made plans to meet again at a future date and Harry flooed back in short order to crawl into bed for four short hours' sleep.

"Paris, why? Why now?" Her mother's voice was pleading, the same way it did when she asked the man in the sky to make Hermione an angel. She asked her mother once whether she meant innocent or dead. When the woman didn't answer, eyes wide with shock and fear, Hermione simply shrugged like it was no matter and went back to colouring in her drawing.

Her dad mumbles something, probably trying to calm the increasingly hysterical woman. Suddenly, her mother's voice sounds all dreamy, like he has just gotten her roses or she is in the most pleasant fantasy. "I suppose it would only be right to let him meet his granddaughter. It seems wrong to deny him family, my love."

Hermione snorts. Maybe her skyman finally gave her peace, if just to get her to shut her fat gob. Hermione figures even her mother's skyman was tired of listening to her every night; she knew she was. At least the wretched cow had learned to keep her voice down… finally. Her dad comes out minutes later, talking about a car ride and ice cream, and within twenty minutes they are out the door. She ignores her mother's slightly too-wide smile as she waves her dish flannel from the porch.

"Will we be home in time for my programme?" She asks. Your Mother Wouldn't Like That was going to be on at half-four. Her mother insisted the show was out of her age group, but learned to keep those opinions to herself. Besides, watching Mr. Briefcase (who reminded her of Mr. Brown down the road) suffer the indignities the kids forced upon him was honestly the only reason she watched aside from giggling at Palace Hill. She could care less about Cans, Loaf, or Tapeworm.

"Is a television programme more important than spending time with your poor, old dad now? Oh, just twist the knife while you've got it in!" He clutches the hand not holding the wheel to his chest dramatically when he pulls to a stop at a light, curls falling over his pained brow. "Have mercy, my darling Hermione!"

She giggles at his antics, joking about being merciful because she had no salt for his wound, and laughs even harder when he slaps the back of his hand to his brow in a swoon. Soon enough, they are pulling up to the kurb in front of a nondescript house Hermione doesn't recognize in a neighborhood too average to bear.

"Daddy, where are we?" A weird energy seems to radiate from the house, reaching her even as the car doors stay closed. Her dad looks tense and she notices the hairs on the back of his hands raise where they were clenched around the steering wheel, this time serious. He takes a deep breath and whooshes it out, plastering a smile on his face and turning to her.

"We're at your grandfather's - my father's - house," his simple reply spoke volumes. Normally her father would not hesitate to provide relevant information; names, relationships, commonalities to make social ingratiation easier, and the like. He does not get along with this person, she concludes.

Hermione turns, vinyl squeaking beneath her, and looks back at the house. Though the siding colour and shutters differed, the two-story home looks almost exactly like the two on either side of it, and - Hermione glances past her dad, ignoring the way he studies her - the ones across the road. Distantly, she registers they likely have the same or similar floor plans; convenient for both constructing and burglarizing.

"They were built to be cost-efficient, not extensions of self," her father's 'teacher' voice explains without prompting. She focuses on the house they were stopped at once more, absorbing his words.

"So your father is boring?" Paris laughs at that, the special laugh reserved just for her. Her chest warms and a smile blooms across her lips only to die a moment later as a thought occurs to her. "Or," she begins, turning to stare at her father assessingly. "He has something to hide." As his laughter slowly, awkwardly, tapers off, Paris turns wise, serious eyes on her.

"Hermione, your grandfather is far from boring, but he is also far from easy to read. Just don't take everything he says at its face value. He is a man of many layers. Do you understand what I mean, love?"

She nods back, putting her hand on his. "It's okay, Daddy. I know what to do." Without another word, she glances in the side view mirror to look for any traffic, meeting her own resolute stare. No traffic so she gets out and makes her way to the sidewalk, meeting her father's outstretched hand with her own.

Her first impression of Hector Dagworth-Granger is that he is a horrible sort.

"Paris," he greets her father gruffly. The slightly paunchy man radiates intense dislike for his own son. 'It wasn't always that way,' her dad had said of his relationship with her grandfather the one time she had asked before about the man. Looking at the disdain in the old man's eyes, though, she finds that difficult to believe.

Also difficult to believe is the look in those same cobalt blue eyes when they took a look at her. They glitter like the costume jewelry her Bubbe wears. Maybe that had been what the two had in common when they married and had her father. Internally, she judges that was all they must've had in common, as the rotund, red-cheeked man turns back to her father to drop another backhanded comment.

They take tea and sweets in the sitting room. She hates it already. The room itself isn't so bad if one ignored the clear reminders a single, elderly man lived here. She sniffs delicately. A single, elderly man who smelled of muscle rub and decay. Hermione avoids sitting too heavily on the settee her father chooses lest she accidentally inhale the inevitable dust cloud of dirt and Hector's skin particles.

He turns to her again, too-friendly and too-inviting with his smile. It reminds her of the man who cleaned the floors at her school before he was put in jail. He was friendly, too. Never to her, no one was friendly to her, but Hermione remembers the smiles the man would give to the younger students, the special gifts. Hector wears that same eagerness like a cloak. She sips her tea, choking at how sweet it is but smiling politely because she has manners and her dad is right there.

He asks about her. Her age, likes and dislikes, and she replies dutifully in a polite yet cold fashion. Adding a bit of a stutter gives her the benefit of looking shy and underwhelming.

"I- I'm nine, sir."

"I enjoy r-reading, and, uhm… I'm really good with, um, animals. Except angler fish." She adds for good measure. A well-placed ramble would make any adult mentally check-out.

"Good, good," Hector replies, and she can just see the mental image of him rubbing his hands together like a B-rate villain. He asks further about her studies and comments upon her exceptional grades and extra tutoring. The phone rings in the entry hall before her grandfather can speak another word, and he is out the door to answer it with a quickness she wasn't sure was healthy for a man his age.

"It's your wife," he grumbles to her father through the open entry. Her dad sighs and grunts as he stands, taking the handset from Hector with a restrained nod. A queer sensation fills her as Hector sits back down and looks at her once again with that smile and those eyes.

"So, Hermione." His voice is too smooth and she doesn't appreciate the undertones, the secretive way in which he leaned forward and places his gnarled hand on the edge of the table by her knee. He didn't touch her, but she recognizes the power play for what it is. "Your father says you're gifted."

She plays her part well, never once wavering from the socially awkward bookworm she wants him to see. "I- I suppose… sir."

"I bet you're also gifted in other ways," he replies, trying a bit too hard to seem like a confidant. She realizes what he means almost instantly. He knows she's different. Her gaze slowly rises to meet his and she lets the sight and sound of the telly when a channel is off-air fill her mind.

"Well," she starts, stopping to gnaw at her lip and shoot a slight look over her shoulder. "There was this one time." Hector leans close enough she can smell his oversteeped tea on his breath. "I wished and wished for a pet for my birthday. I let the wish fill me up. And when I woke up that morning, I had a fish. I really meant a cat, but daddy says 'beggars can't be choosers.' You mean like that Grandpa Hector?"

All at once, he sits straight in his chair, withdrawing his hand with shuttered eyes. "That's very special, Hermione," he responds in the same cold voice he used on her father, a hint of condescension peppering his tone. Her father sits back down a moment later and makes their excuses to leave. At the door, she makes sure to give Hector a large hug around his middle, over exuberant as only an annoying nine year old can be. He pats her head twice and her father sends her to wait in the car.

Her dad is red-faced when he gets in, but makes sure she knows she never has to see Hector again if she doesn't wish to. They turn at the cul-de-sac and start slowly back down the street when she catches Hector's eyes where he stands on the front porch. For a split second, she loathes him with her whole being, and then her dad takes hold of her hand and they head for ice cream. They are back in time for her programme and, if her mother makes her father's favourite meal that night with the same dreamy look, she doesn't comment.

Just like she doesn't comment almost a week later when the newspaper has a front page article about Hector's neighbourhood and a gas explosion caused by an overworked labourer. Hermione doesn't consider it a huge loss; he was kind of a jerk to her dad, after all.

A/N:

I DO allow use of things I may make up for this story, ONLY upon request and with proper credit given.

*glanadh domhainn - Gaelic housekeeping spell to lift deep stains.

-very noticeable, but handy when one has company drop by on the fly.

-fun fact: can be used offensively. Not super effective, but can cause something similar to rug burn.

*Shiko te kaluaren - Albanian Sight charm translating to "look at the past".

-When combined with the correct wandwork and intent, can last upwards of thirty minutes.

-Admissible in Wizengamot proceedings but rarely seen as it is not a common spell in Wizarding Britain.

-only shows events prior to the caster's involvement, i.e. Tom would only see his intended time frame up until he entered the room.

-cannot be altered in any way and is not influenced by emotion, either of the caster or the subjects involved.

Regarding Hector - it wasn't Hermione. Consider what else you know.

Regarding story updates - the kids go back to school soon and I'm only picking up an extra day or two of hours at work, so I should be able to work on this more. The next chapter is likely to be the culmination of a few mysteries with which the characters are dealing, and the real trouble shows itself. See you all in a month, maybe less.