Don't Ask Questions Chapter 1, a harry potter fanfic

Don't Ask Questions

By Opopanax

Note: This is a reboot of Harry Potter and the Adversary. Almost totally rewritten.

As with the previous story, the timeline is moved up so that Harry starts Hogwarts in 2001. This is done to bring things more in line with the series the story is crossed with.

As stated above, this is a crossover, like the former Adversary. It's crossed with F. Paul Wilson's Adversary Cycle and Repairman Jack series. Like the former story, you do not have to have knowledge of those series to enjoy this incarnation. Characters and situations from other universes may crop up from time to time too, and you get virtual house points if you spot them.

canon wil not always be followed terribly closely. There will also be original characters, violence, and death.

I will endeavour to keep notes to a minimum from this point on. Enjoy the story!…

Prologue

6 January, 1942

Jean Cole sighed to herself and slumped wearily against the wall of the kitchen for a moment. Snow flurried outside and spattered against the windows, drifting on the ledges and forming a rime of ice on the panes. It was bitterly cold outside and they still had to bring in more wood for the fires. The boiler was on the fritz-again-and a repairman wouldn't be out until January eighth. Luckily the blizzard was calming now, down to only a few flurries here and there.

It had been an exhausting day at the orphanage. Three kids sick, the milk running late, the usual food delivery putting an dent on the funding for the place, Martha the cook and Mrs Cole's all around girl Friday twisting her ankle on the snowy path-oh yes, it had been one exhausting thing after another.

Jean had been with the place since 1919, and she always felt like she wasn't doing enough, and especially on days like this one. The orphanage was a bottomless well of need that noone could ever fill, she was beginning to realize. Especially in the past twenty years or so. In the immediate aftermath of the Great War, many widows were left penniless and bereft. And many children were left without mothers or fathers.

When she arrived at the orphanage, it had almost thirty charges, up from ten back in 1916, according to the records.

The country had then started picking itself back up again, but now they were back at war, once again with Germany. What on earth was the world coming to?

Mrs Cole herself was a war widow. Her husband Richard had gone off with visions of heroic deeds dancing in his eyes and had come back in a pine box from Beleau Wood. Shortly before the end of the Great War, that had been, and Mrs Cole was doing her duty, being the dutiful wife, waiting for him to come back, keeping herself occupied with their little civarage in the farming country up in Yorkshire. Her tiny farming village was quite a different place from London. She had required quite a cultural adjustment when she'd first arrived in the back of a milk cart.

She was jerked out of her thoughts by the wailing of one of the infants living here. Straightening with the air of a woman picking up a heavy burden, Mrs Cole strode briskly out of the kitchen toward the front of the orphanage where the nursery was.

"There there, Eric," she crooned, rocking the child, who wailed even harder. "There there, now. Go to sleep, it's ok."

Eventually, Eric Whalley calmed, though he still hiccupped occasionally as his teething pains set in. Another infant, Billy Stubbs, was already asleep, sucking contentedly on his thumb and drooling slightly on a ratty teddybear.

"Need any help there, Mrs Cole?" Martha asked, leaning slightly on one foot as she stood in the doorway.

Martha Wellington had been abandoned here in 1899 at the age of two, when Her parents had decided to go off to America, following the rumors of gold being discovered in Alaska. She was now a rather hard faced forty-five, ten years younger than Mrs Cole, but a kind soul in spite of that.

"No," Mrs Cole sighed, mopping her forehead with a kerchief. "I think it's about as under control as it's ever going to be, dearie."

Martha smiled tiredly. "I hear that. D'you think-"

They were interrupted by a knocking at the front door.

"Who the blazes is out at this time of night?" Mrs Cole muttered, moving hurriedly down the worn hallway toward the door, Martha hobbling along in her wake.

Jerking the door open, Mrs Cole gasped as a woebegone girl dressed in rags and very obviously pregnant staggered on to the porch. Snow swirled around her on the biting

wind, which suddenly seemed to be picking up ferocity, and the girl was shivering like a leaf.

"Dear me, come inside, why don't you?" Mrs Cole fretted, taking the girls sticklike arm and guiding her into the foyer. Even over the roar of the wind she could hear the girl's teeth chattering like castanet's.

Mrs Cole slammed the door shut, causing the flurries of snow blowing about to settle to the worn floor. "What on earth are you doing out on a night like this?" she continued to scold the girl as she helped her into the steamy kitchen. "Could've frozen to death out there, you know. Well come now, off with those shoes and by the fire here. And fix her some tea, Martha dearie, why don't' you, that's a good lass."

The kitchen was bustling with activity while the girl huddled over her pregnant belly by the fire, lank dirty hair hiding her face. Mrs Cole could see though that under the dirt and grime of a life on the streets, no real beauty was going to emerge. Her eyes were set rather close together and stared in opposite directions and her face was rather dull looking.

"They told me I could come here," the girl muttered, clutching the mug of tea between dirty hands. "I have noplace else to turn to…"

Mrs Cole could see that the girl was sick, very sick indeed. Her skin had a yellowish cast and her fingers looked black. Frostbite. Her breathing had a thick undersea sound; she probably wasn't long for this world. As the old folks said, she was failing.

"How far along are you, dearie?" Mrs Cole asked, eyeing the girls' pregnancy.

"I should be having him any day now-"

But she was cut off by a sudden gush of fluid: her water had broken.

"Quick, get me hot water and towels," Mrs Cole snapped at Martha, who was already

busy. This girl wasn't the first one to have given birth at the orphanage in Martha's tenure, and she knew what to do.

The girl cried out in pain as the contractions hit, falling off the stool. Mrs Cole caught her and helped her limp over to a cot in the kitchen that they kept for times when babies were particularly needy.

"Here we are," Martha said, limping over with a pot of warm water and wet cloths. "Now let's get these, ah, clothes off and get the little chappy born."

The woman was scarred and skin and bones under her layers of rags. It looked as though she'd led a very hard life. Her belly stuck up almost comically from her gaunt frame

and it rippled as more contractions hit.

"This is gonna be a hard 'un," Mrs Cole muttered, washing her hands and pulling etermination around her almost visibly. "Let's get started!"

The wind picked up, howling like an angry spirit. Snow kicked against the windows, sounding like fine gravel.

They fought with the baby, who didn't appear to want to be born, for nearly two hours. And during the entire time, the storm increased in ferocity. The building rocked and shuddered, children wailed in terror. Shingles flew off the roof and a window upstairs shattered.

"What in the Lord's name," Mrs Cole said, looking around uneasily as the wind shrieked. "If I didn't know better, I'd say something didn't want this baby to be born."

Martha went to check on the children, who were wailing in fear as the building roared with the sound of shrieking nails from the roof and windows. Mrs Cole was left alone

with the girl, who was lying on the cot, sweating and bleeding. Lank strands of hair lay across her face. Her skin looked like parchment beneath the oil lamps in the kitchen.

And then the lamps, and the fires, and the candles on the counter all went out. At once.

The kitchen was plunged into stygian blackness.

From the cot, the girl wailed as another contraction hit. At the same time, another gust of wind rattled the building. More children screamed and Mrs Cole, thoroughly frightened herself now, lit another candle. Something otherworldly was going on.

The girl went into another contraction, causing her to arch off the bed. Over the shrieks from the children, the cry of the wind and the shaking of the building, Mrs Cole heard something tear inside the girl.

Thick arterial blood spurted from between her legs and Mrs Cole bit back a scream as it soaked her hands. The girl screamed in agony and appeared to have bitten through her own tongue; more blood was oozing out of her mouth.

Dimly, Mrs Cole heard Martha ushering the children into the dining room. Many of them were still crying. And the wind continued to howl.

The girl kept bleeding, she was not long for this world now. Mrs Cole bit back her revulsion and reached, reached for the crowning baby's head.

At last she had it and it came out, almost too easily. But just as she was going to set it on the cot, the building shook again and a heavy iron pot used for cooking big batches of stew and porridge fell off its hook, hurtling straight for the baby.

Mrs Cole gasped and jerked back, slipping in the blood that had dripped off the cot and falling on her rump. The massive iron pot clanged on the floor, gouging a dent in the stone, right where the baby had been a split second before. Something really did seem to not want this child to live.

Just as suddenly as it had begun, the storm died. The building stopped shaking, the windows stopped rattling and the snow stopped blowing. For a breathless five seconds, there was a deathly silence on the world. Something had changed, something was different.

A sense of foreboding stole across the orphanage. What had just happened here?

Then a child cried in relief and the girl who had just given birth gave a weak moan. Mrs Cole, terribly shaken by the previous events, leaned over her.

"He's delivered, dear. Now you just wait-"

The girl, exerting her last strength, reached up with a clawlike hand and seized the collar of Mrs Cole's dress.

"I hope he looks like his papa," she murmured, forcing the words out with what seemed like a massive effort. Her breath came out of her in a thick soft roar. Bright feverish splotches burned on her pale cheeks.

"His papa was about the handsomest man I ever seen," she muttered through the seaweed that seemed to have filled her lungs. "You'll name him Tom, after him, Marvolo after his grandfather, and his surname's to be Riddle. You'll do that, won't you? Wont…"

She drifted off into a delirious haze then, her grip on Jean's dress slackening.

"Aye," said Jean softly, patting the poor girl's cheek. "We'll name him so. Tom Marvolo Riddle, just as you wanted it.

The girl smiled and, with one last wheeze, died. Her chest flattened out slowly, like a deflated tire. Mrs cole wiped a tear and turned to the baby … and screamed. The baby boy was looking at her with black eyes. And he was aware, that was immediately obvious. Hideously aware.

"What have we done?" Mrs Cole murmured, shrinking back instinctively. "What have we loosed upon the world?"

Chapter 1: Questions

"You know, Cornelius, if you're dining with the headmaster, we'd better head back up to the castle," said Professor McGonagall.

One by one, the pairs of feet in front of Harry took the weight of their owners once more; hems of cloaks swung into sight, and Madam Rosemerta's glittering heels disappeared behind the bar. The door of the Three Broomsticks opened again, there was an other flurry of snow, and the teachers had disappeared.

"Harry?"

Ron's and Susan's faces appeared under the table. They were both staring at him, lost for words.

Harry barely noticed the cold and snow on his return journey through the secret passage under the candy store. He was thinking furiously and analytically, as was his way now. He had been filled in on a lot of information over the summer after his release from the hospital, but there were still gaps in his knowledge.

Harry made his way back to the entrance hall, where Ron and Susan were waiting for him, looking worried and scared. He hadn't filled them in on everything yet, due to their budding Occlumency, but he promised he would later. Bidding them goodnight, Harry went back to Gryffindor Tower, still thinking.

Ignoring the chattering crowds of students in the common room hovering over their acquisitions from Hogsmeade, trading candy, doing homework, and various other sundries, Harry trudged up to his dorm room.

Pulling the curtains on his four-poster, Harry took out his much treasured photo album and flipped through it until he came to a picture of his parents' wedding.

There he was. Looking a lot younger and healthier of course, but unmistakably Sirius Black. Harry recognized the eyes. He was standing with the wedding party, slyly making bunny ears behind James Potter's head while Lily laughed at him.

And Harry noticed something else. Standing off to one side in a Groomsman outfit and looking like he was trying to stay solemn but fighting back the urge to laugh, was Professor Lupin. Harry had of course known Lupin and his parents were friends, but he hadn't realized how close they really were. Up until this point he had been too busy with his new classes and meetings to flip through the album to find the man.

Harry was surprised to find out the true extent of their camaraderie. Thinking back, he now remembered that Lupin had been in almost every picture, and of course, he was important enough to be in the wedding party.

Where the hell had he been for the previous twelve years? If Lupin was such an important part of his parents' life, he should've been involved with their son. Why had he pretended to be a stranger all damn year? What the hell was going on?

Flipping toward the back of the album he saw a photo of himself as a baby cradled in Professor Lupin's arms. What the hell!

Momentarily forgetting about Black, Harry pulled the Marauder's Map out of his pocket and activated it, scanning for Lupin. He intended to go down there right now and ask him what the hell he was thinking.

But before he could, he spied Ron and Hermione sitting in the common room. Not together anymore though; Hermione was off by herself. Kind of sad, but it had to be that way.

He was about to look away when something caught his eye, something that drove almost everything out of his mind. He snapped instantly alert and stared, wide eyed, at a dot sitting on top of Ron, a dot that shouldn't be there. A dot that he was told would never, ever be anywhere. Icy waves of gooseflesh rose on his body, as connections were made and pieces fell into place. Staring at that dot, Harry felt his world crashing down around his ears.

The dot was labelled Peter Pettigrew.

Still staring, slack jawed at the dot, Harry reached slowly into his pocket and pulled out a notebook and carefully opened it, as though he were afraid it might explode. Then he began to write…

# # #

It all started at the end of first year for Harry. He had been recovering in the hospital wing after meeting Quirrell under the school. Dumbledore, Ron and Hermione had just left and Hagrid had sidled into the wing, as usual looking too big to be allowed. Harry had reassured Hagrid that he didn't blame him for Quirrell finding out how to get around that idiotic three-headed dog, and he had calmed Hagrid down from his mini crying fit.

Hagrid wiped his nose on the back of his hand and said, "That reminds me. I've got yeh a present."

"It's not a stoat sandwich, is it?" said Harry anxiously, and at last Hagrid gave a weak chuckle.

"Nah. Dumbledore gave me the day off yesterday ter fix it. 'Course, he shoulda sacked me instead-anyway, got yeh this …"

It seemed to be a handsome, leather-covered book. Harry opened it curiously. It was full of wizard photographs. Smiling and waving at him from every page were his mother and father.

"Sent owls off ter all yer parents' old school friends, askin' fer photos … knew yeh didn' have any … d'yeh like it?"

Harry couldn't speak, but Hagrid understood.

At last he got himself together and blurted out a question he'd wanted to ask ever since Christmas.

"Hagrid, d'you know where my parents are buried?

Hagrid blinked at him. "O' course I do. Yer wantin' to go there, righ'?"

Harry nodded, staring misty-eyed at the photos.

"Well, listen, I'll get permission from Professor Dumbledore and take yeh after school's out," he said kindly, patting Harry on the back.

"Thanks, Hagrid," Harry said, after sitting up again from his face plant in the photo album. "See you at the feast, ok?"

Hagrid nodded and shambled out of the hospital wing, leaving behind a thoughtful Harry.

# # #

The feast was over and Hagrid was studiously avoiding Harry's eyes, so Harry decided to approach the headmaster on his own.

"Professor Dumbledore, sir?" Harry asked, doing his best not to fidget as almost the entire staff table was watching, Snape with his usual sneer and McGonagall with thin lips, as if wanting to talk to the headmaster was a high crime..

"Yes, Harry?" Dumbledore responded, twinkling down at the small boy.

"C-can I talk to you about something, sir? In private?"

"Of course," said Dumbledore, putting his napkin on his empty plate. "Follow me to my office."

Ignoring the hiss from Snape and the huff from McGonagall, The headmaster led the way through the chattering crowd of students to a gargoyle on the second floor, which leapt aside at the mention of Acid Pops and revealed a spiral staircase rather like an escalator.

Dumbledore settled himself behind the massive oak desk and eyed Harry. The latter, however, had been distracted from his mission by the grandeur of the office and the magnificent swan-sized bird with red and gold plumage who trilled at him from his perch. The room was filled with countless odd tickings and whirrings from the numerous instruments puffing clouds of multi-coloured smoke on spindly-legged tables. Books lined the antique-looking shelves on the walls. Harry's much-suppressed scholastic side wanted to go and look at them, but he restrained himself.

"That is Fawkes, a phoenix," Dumbledore said, noticing Harry's curious look at the bird. "Marvelous companions, they are."

Fawkes trilled in agreement, and Harry cautiously went over to pet him, forgetting for a moment his purpose.

The bird arched his neck and Harry rubbed under his beak, the way Hedwig liked to have it done.

Dumbledore cleared his throat, bringing Harry back to the present.

"So, Harry. You had something you wished to discuss?"

Harry turned from the bird and went to sit in front of the massive oak desk. "Yes, sir. I was wondering if I could find out where my parents are buried."

Ever since that time in front of the Mirror of Erised, more, even before then, his origins had been a constant source of curiosity for the young Potter. Wanting to know about one's roots was a symptom of the human condition. For the previous ten years he had been told that they were no good drunks who died in a car crash and left him to be a burden on their decent, hardworking relatives to suffer through. In his later years Harry had come to seriously doubt this, since the Dursleys lied about everything else it made sense to him that they would lie about his parents, too. Then he had found out that they were in fact heroes, had died protecting him. The only reason he hadn't pressed for more details about them was that things had kept happening to distract him. The troll, the dog, the stone, Quidditch.

Late last night after Hagrid had left, Harry had sat in his bed, flipping slowly through the pages of the photo album he had been given. Fat tears had glistened in his eyes for the first time in many years. Here were his parents, laughing and smiling from every page. They were real people, not symbols or shadows in an enchanted mirror. They had lived, laughed, and loved. They had given him life, and, in a strange way, hope for an existence beyond his cupboard. And as he sat there flipping slowly through the pages, questions began to formulate in his mind.

Where were they buried? How come no one had taken him to see their graves? Why had not Hagrid told him anything about them? Where were all these people in the photographs? In particular, two men, one with long black hair and another with grey-flecked brown hair standing on either side of his father. The camaraderie between these three was glaringly obvious. They appeared as close as brothers because those two men appeared in almost every photograph in the album. Hagrid obviously knew how to get in touch with friends of his parents. Why had none of them ever tried to contact him? One could make the argument that just because they were friends in school didn't mean they had to necessarily keep in touch with them or him afterward, but that didn't hold a great deal of water.

Given the insular nature of the wizarding world and its rather small size (Harry remembered Hermione telling him that there were about seventy-five thousand magicals in the British Isles), and given the fact that James and Lily Potter had died in rather spectacular circumstances four years after they had left Hogwarts, it didn't make sense for every single one of their friends to forget about their son. Maybe none of them wanted to take him in, but they should have at least checked to make sure he was living in comfortable conditions. Why had none of them done so? And even if they hadn't, why had none of them tried to contact him when he was reintroduced back into the wizarding world?

All of these questions had fluttered in his mind, distracting him from the end of year festivities until he had to talk to the headmaster. Maybe Hagrid had been rebuffed, but how could a wizard of any decency deny him the opportunity to bring this chapter of his life to a close? Surely he would know where they were buried.

"I'm sorry, Harry, but I cannot allow you to visit their gravesites just yet," said Dumbledore, the twinkle in his eyes dimming. "Not all of Voldemort's supporters have been captured and some of them may be staking out the area hoping to find you. You will understand, I'm sure, that we cannot allow you to be captured."

Harry's immediate impulse was to start ranting, but he bit back a sharp retort and just nodded, not meeting Dumbledore's eyes. "I understand sir, thank you for letting me talk to you."

"Not a problem at all," said Dumbledore. "At some point you will be permitted to visit them, have no fear."

Harry nodded and headed out of the office. He was acquiescing for now, but he was angry. And he was going to get answers.

# # #

Sitting in his dorm later that night, Harry began writing down a list of questions he wanted answered. Wondering about his parents' graves had got him thinking about other things too.

1. Why did Dumbledore place me at the Dursleys? My parents gave their lives for me, would they want me living in the cupboard under the stairs and being bullied by them? Would they want me being starved and forced to wear rags? I saw my vault, surely there were provisions made for my upkeep.

He knew Dumbledore was the one to place him there because Hagrid had said so that fateful night on the rock when he had delivered the Hogwarts letter.

2. Nicholas Flamel has been alive for six hundred years. Why keep the Philosopher's Stone, the key to his immortality, the reason for his very survival, in a bank vault? Why bring it to a school full of children, and, especially, the year the Boy-Who-Lived is starting? Was the stone even real? Was it a test for me? A trap? All the obstacles were ridiculously easy, how were they supposed to stop a great and powerful wizard such as Voldemort? Dumbledore knows why Voldemort is after me but says I'm too young to know. Yet if these things were arranged for me, he obviously doesn't think I'm too young to face him. What's his agenda? If the easy traps were bait to lure Voldemort in, why set those traps in a school full of children?

3. Why did McGonagall send us into the Forbidden Forest where something powerful enough to kill and injure unicorns was running around? Or was it Hagrid's idea?

4. Where are all the people in those photographs?

5. Why deny me access to my parents' graves? After ten years it's doubtful any Voldemort supporters would still be looking for me there. What else is he denying me?

6. Why did Voldemort come after me in the first place? Why did he offer to spare my mother's life? From all reports that doesn't sound like him.

These might seem rather in depth questions for an eleven-year-old to ask, but Harry had grown up with the Dursleys. Even though he had been indoctrinated to not ask questions, he was highly observant of the world around him. You almost had to be, in that family. It was this trait, plus his nascent ability to manipulate which had almost led the hat into placing him in Slytherin House. Manipulating his relatives was necessary to gain necessities such as food and less time in his cupboard. Just because one did not ask the questions didn't mean the questions themselves didn't exist.

And so Harry, left to his own devices for the last part of term, had come up with the aforementioned list.

Using a spell Hermione had found for him, Harry blanked the parchment and stuck it in his bag, then finished packing for the train home. He was going to get answers tomorrow, and being locked in the cupboard under the stairs was not on his agenda.

# # #

Poppy Pomfrey sighed to herself as she closed her Muggle style notebook. It was filled with questions about young Harry Potter that she had jotted down over the course of the year. The first time she had raised concerns of malnutrition and outright neglect to Albus she had been brushed aside with an "I shall of course investigate with due diligence," twinkled at and dismissed. Albus could not Obliviate her; any healer worth the crest on her robes would know immediately that such a spell had been performed on her. Obliviating healers was a high crime in the wizarding world, almost as high as child abuse. Due to the rarity of wizards being born these days, laws had been passed in the Wizengamot that punished abusers with at least twenty years in Azkaban. Not that abuse had been all that common among wizarding families in the first place, due to the risk of accidental magic in retaliation. The only place were child abuse was still regrettably common was among the Muggle-born and half-bloods with Muggle parents.

Which brought Poppy back to Mr Potter.

Poppy Yarrofield had completed her healing education at St. Mungo's Hospital in 1958. She had met her husband, Richard Pomfrey, at Hyde Park where she had gone to listen to an outdoor concert. They had married in 1960 and had set off for the Middle East, where Richard, a Muggle, was working for the Iraq Petroleum Company, stationed in Baghdad. He had been delighted when he had found out she was a witch, but slightly crestfallen that she could not openly use her talents.

Iraq had been a very peaceful place for the British nationals who lived there from the fifties through the middle sixties. There were several good English schools there, and of course, a very rich magical heritage. Poppy had learned a lot of obscure magical knowledge, since that area was the supposed "cradle of civilization."

Then in July of 1968 the ba'ath Party had come into power, prompting a mass exodus of English nationals, including Poppy. Unfortunately her husband didn't make it. Richard had been stationed near Basra and, unable to use magic, had been caught up in a fire fight and killed. Bereft, Poppy had wandered around Europe for the next little while, throwing herself into her work and learning new skills for her profession in the rural vastnesses of mountains and the Black Forest.

On returning to England, she applied for and received the post of Hogwarts healer in 1979, just in time for the introduction of James Potter and his gang of rascals.

She never married again and threw herself into her work. Her children were the students of Hogwarts, her spouse the job itself. She was probably the most popular medi-witch the school had ever employed.

Now, she was sitting in her small office off the hospital wing, pondering Mr Potter. Had anyone not knowing her profession looked into this office, they would think it probably belonged to the darkest witch of modern times. Books outlining horrible curses and hexes lined the walls; more books on potions with truly gruesome effect were stacked on her desk. One had to know what one was dealing with in order to heal the damage done by the curses and potions. She was now flipping through one of the books on potions because, even with a steady diet of good food all year, Mr Potter was still as malnourished as ever. She was now seriously considering involving St. Mungo's and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. If what she suspected was true there would be some long overdue justice served on at least one individual.

She would have to be very, very careful, but she was confident in her abilities and in her discretion.

Grinning to herself in a slightly manic and predatory way that those who knew her would hardly recognize, Poppy started writing a letter. This would be fun indeed.

# # #

Albus Dumbledore sighed gratefully and settled into a comfy armchair in his personal quarters located off the main office on the second floor. The students were gone and summer peace would once more settle on the ancient castle.

As Dumbledore sipped his hot cocoa and idly perused end of year reports submitted by his staff and head boy and girl, he pondered, not for the first time, the issue of Harry Potter.

That the boy had come to him asking about his parents graves was unexpected, though it really should not have been, in hindsight. After permitting Hagrid to gather photographs of the Potters, he should've expected Harry to press for more information. That was not a concept the old wizard was comfortable with, sharing information.

The main thing Dumbledore was afraid of was the old "give him an inch, he'll take a mile" adage. If he allowed Harry to visit the grave, Harry would undoubtedly ask for more things. Then when he was denied he would rebel and maybe go off on his own and Dumbledore couldn't allow that to happen. He had sent a missive to the Dursleys urging them to not allow Harry out of the house. With the recent banishment of Voldemort, it was likely he might seek assistance from his followers and Harry would still be the number one target. Or so he said. He just couldn't allow Harry to receive more information than he needed to have. It was imperative that Dumbledore maintain control.

Yet still there were questions.

Just what had the Dursleys said to Harry about his parents? Hagrid had stormed into his office, indignant as you please, claiming that Harry told him the Dursleys had said that James and Lily had died in a car crash. So he had suggested that the staff drop hints about what wonderful people they were in subtle ways. Apparently all that, combined with Harry viewing them in the mirror, had engendered too much curiosity. If need be, Dumbledore could go to Privet Drive and Obliviate Harry, but he hated doing that; they were tricky at the best of times and could backfire in unexpected ways.

Another question was that of Poppy. Tampering with her memory was again not an option. She was a certified healer and would know instantly that such a spell had been cast. Yet she was raising troublesome questions about Harry's home life. If he was approached on the matter, he would claim that, while he was aware that the Dursleys provided a less than ideal child-rearing atmosphere, Lily's sacrifice made his placement with her sister necessary for his safety. He was Albus Dumbledore, his word would be taken for the unassailable fortress of truth that it was.

Certain that things were still well within his control, Dumbledore leaned back for a brief nap before dinner. He didn't know his world was going to unravel around him.

Ron Weasley looked up at his best mate Harry in shock. "He did what?"

"Yeah. He told me I couldn't visit my parents' graves. What's the idea?"

Harry and Ron were sitting in a compartment by themselves, Hermione having gone off to chat with some Ravenclaws. Ron had dropped his chess piece in surprise. "I need your help now, Ron," Harry said, fixing his friend with a determined gaze. "I need to find out what the bloody hell is going on here."

Ron was torn. Up until just now, all he had been able to see was the fact that his friend was the famous Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived. He had the adulation of the wizarding world and could have anything he could want.

Now, though, Harry had, with some reservations, told Ron the story of his life. About the cupboard and the abuse-though not all of it-and about how he had never got anything of his own. He had briefly touched on those things way back on their first train ride, but now he went into far more detail so that his friend would have a more accurate picture of what Harry was looking for.

Harry had decided on Ron because, of the two of them, Ron had leapt into the fray with him without hesitation. Hermione, while she was undoubtedly intelligent and an ally, would not be of much help here. She was all for following rules, whereas he, and to a slightly lesser extent Ron (due to his affiliation with his twin brothers), were more about doing things sneakily. Ron had impressed him deeply by his actions down under the school, sacrificing himself on that chessboard. Of course it wasn't a life-threatening trap, but it was still a good gesture and Harry appreciated the hell out of it. Most twelve-year-olds would have gone running at the daunting prospect of facing Voldemort, yet Ron had gone with him right away. That kind of loyalty had to count for something. Harry knew that Ron had a pretty deep jealous streak and, by sharing the story, he hoped to put a quick end to it. Sitting by Ron during dinnertime was like being front and centre at a Gallagher concert, but the guy had miles of heart if you could dig beneath the hard-headed black and white "I am a light wizard and there is only light and dark" exterior.

Now, having heard a slightly abbreviated version of Harry's life, Ron looked suitably appalled. To find out the hero of the wizarding world had been treated so was shocking. To find out that his close friend was treated so was saddening. It was only now when it was hitting him in the face that Ron Weasley began to see that he, in fact, had a far better life than his friend. He might not have gotten the newest and greatest brooms or top of the line clothing, but he had a family that loved him, even if they made him feel inferior sometimes. But now, given this fresh perspective, he felt rather stupid for ever having such an inferiority complex. He wasn't able to articulate these concepts in so many words-heavy emotional notions were far, far beyond his personal vocabulary and range of expression-but he was going to do his best to be there for him. Ron had taken the first steps to realizing that Harry was far more than a famous name and was a real human being and not a symbol.

"What do you need, mate?" Ron asked resolutely.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. He had taken a risk but he knew Ron's simple facial expressions well enough to know that the redhead wouldn't rat him out.

"I need you to tell me about the wizarding world, Ron. I need to find my place."

And so Ron told him what he knew, which was a surprising amount. His father had regaled his family with tales of the Ministry of Magic and Ron had a fair grounding of who was who in that body. They worked out a plan, backed with Harry's manipulative streak and Ron's strategic mind whereby Harry would be able to escape from the Dursleys without Dumbledore being able to do much about it. Even Ron, who by his own admission was not the brightest candle in the chandelier knew that Harry's particular case had been handled with a great degree of irregularity, and that most if not all those irregularities could be laid right at the feet of Professor Albus Dumbledore.

The only problem was, things had to be done slowly. Harry might be the Boy-Who-Lived, but Dumbledore was very high up in the government and, with the summer holidays here, he would be in a position to more closely watch things in the ministry and could block them before they did too much damage to his reputation. Harry would then be locked away in Privet Drive unable to do anything and Ron would be banned from talking to him.

"Right," said Harry. "I'll go home and head to Gringotts tomorrow. I shouldn't have to wear rags. I'll look into my parent's will, and you can start the ball rolling with your family."

"Sounds like a plan, mate," Ron said. "Fancy a game of chess?"

# # #

Vernon Dursley was not having a good day. He had received a letter (thankfully by normal mail) telling him that the freak would be at King's Cross Station at five pm on the twenty-sixth of June. Unfortunately on that day an important client meeting had been scheduled for four pm and Vernon had to decide which was more important: a useless freak or increasing his firm's profit by a magnitude of two, said act to be hopefully rewarded by Vernon getting Parker's job and sliding up another rung on the corporate ladder. He was only sales director, but if he did his job right he could be put in charge of the whole marketing department.

The decision was an easy one, and so Vernon had given Petunia keys to the car (he couldn't have the freak going to someone and having their home looked into) and set off in a cab to Grunnings.

Petunia, meanwhile, furious at the nerve of her husband in making her have anything to do with that freakish spawn of her equally freakish sister, slammed about in a bad temper and even snapped at her son, who, astonished, stared goggle-eyed at her and kept silent all the way to King's Cross.

The freak was there, standing in front of Platform Nine, with a band of other freaks and his freaky owl. Petunia pursed her lips and waited, looking around to make sure that no one who knew her would spot her in the company of such people.

At last he broke away and headed for her.

"Get in the car, boy," she hissed at him, urging him away with frantic shooing motions.

Harry sent a wink to Ron behind Petunia's back and headed for the car, where a pale Dudley was squeezed into one corner of the back seat. Petunia, looking like a hat stand wearing a dress that looked as though it had been cut from a wall hanging, climbed in behind the wheel and took off with a squeal of tires, shooting half fearful, half furious glances at Harry.

The drive home was made in complete silence, Dudley pretending to be small and invisible, continuously munching his fingernails and sneaking looks at Harry out of the sides of his eyes. Petunia said nothing, but looked as though she wanted to hurl a torrent of invectives at him. My loving, charming family, Harry thought to himself. What would James Dodgson say if he could see this bucolic picture?

Harry pushed aside the usual vitriol. He had people in his corner and he no longer felt alone. He was going to have some fun with the Dursleys.

Unfortunately, his plans went awry very fast.

Vernon was home when they got there and he set upon Harry the instant he stepped in the door, swinging a large purple fist at him as soon as the door closed.

Harry, thanks to reflexes honed on the Quidditch field, ducked, and his uncle's fist slammed into the window sill on the side of the door, with an audible crack of knuckles. Vernon, completely forgetting about Harry, howled in agony and hopped around like a walrus on crack. Dudley, seeing his father hurt, and forgetting about his pig tail, rushed at Harry, who stepped aside, sending Dudley crashing into the wall, resulting in a shower of broken glass and clattering picture frames, and further resulting in the window pane at the top of the door falling out with a crash of broken glass.

The embroidered hat-stand, also known as Aunt Petunia, shrieked and too charged at Harry, long fingernails extend at him like cat's claws. Harry, having positioned himself in front of the newly broken front door due to his dodging, pushed it open and slammed it shut after slipping through; catching Petunia across the face with the closing door. Harry heard her thump to the floor in the entranceway.

Somewhat bemused by the rapid fire sequence of events, Harry stood on the front step, listening to the various groans from inside the house. Standing on tiptoes, he peered cautiously through the broken window.

Vernon was sitting on the floor clutching his hand and crying. Petunia was lying on the floor, blood possibly running into the back of her throat. Her nose canted over to the left, looking like a crooked tombstone.

Dudley too was nursing a broken nose and wailing as though the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels. In short, complete devastation reigned in Number Four.

To make the scene more chaotic, two pops were heard and a witch wearing a monocle and a young woman with bright pink hair appeared on the front lawn.

"Wow. Bit boring, isn't it?" said the woman with pink hair, peering interestedly around at the neighbourhood.

"Priorities, Ms Tonks, please," said the monocle wearing woman severely.

"Right, sorry," Tonks said sheepishly.

Just then, Vernon had recovered enough of himself to fling open the door. Unfortunately, the door opened outward instead of inward and the door caught Harry straight in the back, the boy having turned to goggle at the arrivals on the lawn. Such was the force with which the door was flung open that Harry was catapulted off his feet and landed in a bone-jarring heap at the feet of the two women on the lawn. Adding to the indignity of the situation, his glasses snapped in the fall and he was left sitting in a green-stained heap on the grass, blinking up at the new arrivals like a stoned owl.

Vernon, meanwhile, tore out of the door, murder in his eyes, and a bellow of "Boy!" on his lips, only to be brought up short by the two women on his green lawn.

"What in the name of Merlin's bloody balls is going on here!" the woman with the monocle asked, with astonishment writ large on her face.

"Er, excuse me, but who are you?" Harry asked, holding his broken glasses to his face and getting off the ground.

"I am Amelia Bones and this is Auror Trainee Tonks," the stern looking witch said, indicating the pink haired girl, who was eyeing Vernon, who in turn was still frozen on the front stoop clutching his hand, which was now roughly the size of a baseball glove.

Petunia was peering out the window, blood caking her face and looking like a demented raccoon. The neighbours were all eyeballing the chaotic scene at Number Four with keen interest.

"Er, right. I don't mean to be rude, but what exactly are you doing here?"

"Get out of my garden at once!" Vernon managed to bellow. "Your kind is not welcome here!"

Amelia stared at Vernon with distaste and, keeping her back to the neighbours so that they wouldn't see, flicked her wand at him, causing him to be pushed back into the house. Harry, still somewhat bemused, followed, giving a nod of thanks to Tonks, who had repaired his glasses, and admiring the dent Dudley's face had made in the plaster of the wall.

"What the hell are you freaks doing here!" Vernon bellowed, still clutching his hand and his face a purple Harry had never seen before, like black currant ice cream.

"It's people like him who make me wonder about that Muggle Protection Act," Amelia muttered to herself. Then, raising her voice, "Mr Dursley, be quiet for once in your life. And, if you'll stop bellowing, I'll fix your hand."

Vernon fell silent. Petunia was huddled in the corner, clutching a towel to her broken nose and sending hateful glares at Harry. Dudley was hiding behind the banister, also nursing a broken nose.

"Did he hit you, Mr Potter?" Amelia asked, turning to him and frowning rather like Professor McGonagall.

Harry pointed to the cracked window sill. "He missed. Petunia hit the door and Dudley hit the wall," he finished, pointing at the respective dents. "I'm good at dodging," he added unnecessarily.

"I … see," said Amelia, pinning the Dursleys with a gaze full of dislike. "I am the head of Magical Law Enforcement and can help you."

"Not at this time, Ma'am. There are things that need to be done first."

"Such as?"

"Are you just going to stand here cluttering up my house or are you going to do something about us? The freak injured us!" Vernon hollered, still clutching his swollen hand.

Without saying a word, Tonks, who had been examining the pictures of Dudley with distaste, advanced on them, wand raised and a mad little smile on her heart-shaped face, the tip of the wand glowing with what Harry recognized as a healing charm.

Vernon made an "eep" sound and scuttled backward like a fat cockroach until his back was to the wall. A small puddle of water appeared between his feet and the foyer was suddenly filled with an ammoniac stench. Harry snorted with disgust and tried not to laugh.

Tonks tapped Vernon's swollen hand and it knitted back together with a wet snapping sound. Vernon howled and looked as though he wanted to use the other hand to smack the petite pink-haired girl, but she was already moving toward Petunia and Dudley. With similar snapping sounds, both were healed. All three, however, appeared too terrified to speak.

"Now then," Amelia said, vanishing the puddle at Vernon's feet, "shall we move to the parlour and discuss why exactly you do not wish to put these … people on trial?"

Vernon, Petunia and Dudley decided to make themselves scarce and scuttled into the kitchen, while harry, Amelia and Tonks adjourned to the parlour with Harry and settled on the uncomfortable looking furniture.

"First off, what exactly are you doing here?" Harry asked.

Amelia thought she should take offence at the rather blunt question, but she didn't. She was a woman who appreciated forwardness and no beating around the bush.

"I received a letter from Susan, my niece, yesterday, detailing a rather remarkable series of events taking place over this year," she said, eyeing Harry shrewdly through her monocle. "She further states that you were involved right in the middle of things. Care to elaborate on that, Mr Potter? By all indications, several things have happened that should fall under my department's jurisdiction."

Harry sat there, thinking furiously. This was not at all how he wanted things to go. If he told everything to Madam Bones, she would go tearing off to the Ministry and start an investigation and Harry would never get answers to his questions. Dumbledore would no doubt block everything since he was Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and Harry would henceforth be put under extreme scrutiny, never allowed to find any answers.

On the other hand, as Ron Weasley had told him, Bones could be one hell of an ally if he got her on his side. From gossip he had heard around school, she had lost a brother in the last war and would probably hear him out if he asked her to, if he used that angle.

"I can tell you some of it," he said, forcing just the right degree of hesitancy into his voice. "I don't know everything though, only what happened to me and what I personally saw."

Amelia, however, was a long time Auror and expert in the art of interrogation and she recognized an evasion tactic when she saw one. "Just what aren't you saying, Mr Potter?"

Harry suppressed a wince with great difficulty. This woman was cleverer than he had given her credit for. There was nothing for it but to tell everything.

"I have a lot of questions about things in my life and I don't want Dumbledore to necessarily find out that I'm investigating," he said, resigned. "He seems to have some kind of weird agendda of his own and doesn't like giving me straight answers. I don't like not having all the information at hand about my life, and too many people have not told me everything. So, I can tell you stuff but I don't want a full Ministry enquiry started because that would bring more scrutiny onto me than I am comfortable with."

"How about you tell me first and then I'll decide what to do? However it goes I can promise that I will do my utmost to both use only personnel I trust and to keep your name out of things wherever possible."

Harry realized that this was about the best deal he was going to get and nodded. "Okay, I can deal with that. Now this all started with Dumbledore telling us at the opening feast to avoid the third floor…"

Harry told the story to a rapt Amelia and Tonks, who was taking notes fast and furious. He shivered once again as he remembered the hideous face of Voldemort sticking out the back of Quirrell's head.

Then he got to the tricky bit. He paused here, trying to organize how he wanted to say this. The two women looked on, interested but patient. From the kitchen came the sound of the television and Petunia cooking dinner. The occasional mutter about freaks and abnormality came through too.

"I asked Dumbledore to let me visit my parents' graves. All my life I was told they died drunk, in a car crash. I also asked him why Voldemort came after me in the first place. He refused to answer both questions, and that got me wondering what else he was hiding."

He pulled the piece of parchment out of his pocket. "If you hit this with a Finite you'll see the list of questions I came up with."

Amelia tapped the parchment with her wand and blinked at the list of questions that appeared on it.

"These are very interesting questions, Mr Potter, and I don't really blame you for asking them. But what photos are you talking about?"

"I got a photo album which has pictures of my parents in it. They of course had a lot of friends and I was wondering where they all went."

"I see. Well it is getting late, how about we meet for lunch tomorrow and I can try and fill you in on some history. You might get a clearer picture on what's going on. I won't start an investigation without talking to you first, because you are right, Dumbledore is involved up to his neck in things and would try to block it. Similarly, I cannot remove you from here just yet. Dumbledore no doubt has monitoring charms to determine if something like that happens and we do not nearly have enough leverage to ensure your safety."

Harry nodded. "I figured as much, that's why I wanted to get as much information as I can. I grew up ignorant of the wizarding world, but I cannot let that continue. I need to learn."

"Until tomorrow, Mr Potter." And then, she paused, looking speculatively at him, then, with a sigh, shooting a look at the kitchen door behind which the Dursleys lurked. "I am going to do something I normally wouldn't even consider, but given the situation I think you will need it. Give me your wand."

Harry handed it over from inside his jeans pocket, hoping against hope that what he was suspecting was correct.

Amelia sighed, and tapped his wand with her own. A blue glow flared around it, then dissipated, and there was a slight snapping sound that was sensed rather than heard.

"I have broken the trace on you. In this … house, I feel you probably need all the protection you can get. Do not make me regret doing this, Mr Potter. There is a reason we watch Muggle areas more closely than wizarding areas. The Statute of Secrecy must be maintained. Am I in any way unclear?"

"No, Ma'am. Completely clear," Harry said solemnly, years of training at the Dursleys kicking in to help him hide his glee at being able to do magic. Dudley wouldn't know what hit him!

Amelia Bones muttered darkly to herself as she stormed through the Ministry, a cowed Tonks hurrying to keep up in her wake.

"That … that old bearded bastard!" Amelia muttered, throwing herself into her desk chair and throwing a glare at the wall, Tonks doing her best to be invisible.

"Oh stop it, Tonks," she snapped, turning her glare on the young trainee. "I won't bite you."

"Yes Ma'am," Tonks replied meekly.

"Now, go make yourself useful and get me the Potter file."

Tonks scuttled out of the office into the nearly deserted Department of Law Enforcement and toward the lifts.

Amelia sighed, took out her monocle and rubbed her eyes tiredly. She had been looking forward to spending some time with Susan and her parents tonight. Instead, she'd gotten that letter about rumours surrounding the Philosopher's Stone and three-headed dogs. Had it come from anyone but her niece, Amelia would have dismissed it out of hand. However, not five minutes after that letter arrived, another one showed up from Poppy Pomfrey, outlining concerns about Harry Potter's living situation, and further stating that Albus Dumbledore had just dismissed her out of hand when she brought it up to him in his capacity of headmaster.

Amelia, being head of the DMLE, knew that Harry had been sent off to live with Lily's Muggle sister. The area where Potter lived had always been carefully monitored for magical activity for his protection. It had never occurred to her, however, that the boy's relations would abuse him. In hindsight, she should've checked on him, if for no other reason than the fact that she had genuinely liked James Potter.

The boy had raised valid concerns. Absolutely none of his parents' friends had contacted him, including herself. It might have been a little awkward to have some unknown person send you a letter out of the blue, but it could've been handled. Now, she was going to make up for that oversight by doing the best she could for him. If all else failed, she could invite him to live with her brother and Susan. No wizarding child from one of the oldest families in Britain deserved to live in an abusive household and to wear rags.

Tonks knocked and entered, carrying a depressingly slim file.

"This was all I could find, Director," she said.

Amelia frowned at it. "Very well, Tonks. You can clock out now. I'll take it from here."

"See you in the morning, Director," the young trainee said, closing the door with a click.

Amelia sighed once more and opened the file. There were only a few pages in it-far too few pages for an orphan.

There was the magically updated birth certificate, signed, oddly enough, by Poppy Pomfrey. There were the two death certificates of Lily and James Potter. No last will and testament; those were held by Gringotts. Here was a basic medical summary sheet given by Pomfrey a week before the death of the Potters, and an acceptance letter for Hogwarts, plus a summary of his final marks, necessary in case Potter decided he wanted to change schools.

That was it. No assessments from wizarding child services. No medical records from before Hogwarts. No summary sheets from Gringotts detailing stipends for his guardianship.

Also of note was the fact that Dumbledore had had Voldemort running around in his school all year and had not bothered to report it to the Ministry. What in the name of Merlin was that man pulling? Didn't the DMLE deserve to know that he was still alive?

Something was really rotten in the state of Denmark and Amelia wanted to get to the bottom of it. Hopefully by interviewing Potter she could get some kind of idea, but for now she wanted to get home. She hoped she hadn't made a mistake by breaking the trace on Potter, but she got the feeling he would need every weapon he could lay his hands on, since it seemed the entire deck was stacked against him in the crapshoot he called his life.

Now there's a way to mix metaphors, she thought wryly as she got her traveling cloak off the back of the office door in preparation for going home. Either way, that young man would need a hell of a lot of luck, and he sure as hell didn't have any Felix Felicis.

# # #

Hermione Granger flipped a page in her History of Magic book and sipped lemonade. Her mind was not on her book, however; it was on her friend Harry Potter.

Hermione did not grow up in a very happy environment. Her parents were by-the-book people, which meant that they treated raising a child like something out of a manual. They were not mean, cruel or neglectful, it was more like performing a surgery. Step one: nurse baby. Step two: Teach baby how to walk. Step three: potty train baby. And so on. No love was present, they were just following a procedure, and when Hermione was old enough she would be chucked out into the world to fend for herself.

As a result, Hermione did her best to keep quiet at home, to learn as much as she could and to excel. She had spent endless hours in the school library after classes in primary school, gobbling up books on any subject she could get her hands on.

Then came the letter and the visit by Professor McGonagall. Her parents, for once, were shocked out of their complacency at learning that their daughter was a witch. However since they weren't all that emotionally involved with her it hadn't been too much of a stretch for them to give their consent for her to go to school at Hogwarts.

Now, she had thought, now I will find acceptance. She figured everybody else would be as eager to learn as she was, just as ready to make their mark on this new world.

Unfortunately, in her eagerness, she had overcompensated and turned herself into the thing that students hate most of all: a know it all. She had very quickly alienated the vast majority of her year mates. It had gotten bad enough that she had considered withdrawing from Hogwarts on Halloween.

Then Harry and Ron had come in on the back of that troll and she discovered there were worse things than being called a teacher's pet, which had caused her to tone down her over eagerness somewhat. Having your head almost bashed in by a five foot club was somehow scarier than failing a test.

At the end of term she had gone with Harry and Ron under the school to rescue the Philosopher's Stone, proving that the hat had placed her in Gryffindor for a reason. Doing something like that was far out of character for the logical Hermione Granger, who would've suggested calling the Aurors or at the very least a professor. That had all turned out well in the end though.

Now, as she sat on the back deck of her parents' home in Exeter, located in the southwest of England, she considered the train ride at the end of term.

Harry and Ron looked as though they were plotting something.

Picking up a quill, Hermione chewed thoughtfully on the end of it as she formulated what she was going to write. If they were plotting something as wild as the Philosopher's Stone caper, they ought to get outside help, like maybe from Professor Dumbledore. He was the greatest wizard of the age and could help them.

On the other hand, Hermione wasn't stupid. She had seen Harry shooting covert mistrustful looks at the Headmaster. Mightn't he see it as going behind his back if she wrote him asking about her concerns? Yes, it was much better to wait and see. After all, he wasn't even twelve years old; what damage could he cause? Also, she thought sheepishly, I don't have an owl, so I couldn't do anything anyway.

Nodding to herself, Hermione put her quills back and returned to her book. She was still troubled, but there wasn't much she could do. Maybe she would catch up with Ron and Harry in Diagon Alley. That would be nice.

Lucius Malfoy sipped from a fine Waterford crystal goblet filled with a good port. Say what you wanted about Muggles, but they knew how to make good alcohol.

Sitting on the desk in front of him was a small black leather diary. Embossed on its cover was the name Tom Marvolo Riddle, and the date, 1957.

Malfoy was not stupid, far from it. He knew that Tom Marvolo Riddle was the Dark Lord's real name. After all, who the hell name's their kid Voldemort? He also knew what this book was. He had known as soon as it passed through the manor's wards, which had been built upon since the very first Malfoy had set foot in here back in 1644.

The book was a Horcrux. It contained a piece of soul. The Dark Lord had told Malfoy that the book was enchanted to release the monster in the Chamber of Secrets in Hogwarts, and was a weapon in the war he would use to take control of the wards of the school. He was giving it to Malfoy to hold on to because he was the Death Eater he trusted above all others to keep this secret weapon safe.

But once Malfoy had taken it through the manor's wards, they had chimed urgently until he had consulted the book to discover which specific ward was jangling. Horcrux. The wards figured he was being possessed.

After silencing the ward he had hidden the deceptively innocent looking black book in the secret room under the drawing room floor as per his master's instructions. No way was he going to pick it apart with him still alive.

By the time the Dark Lord fell he had almost forgotten about that little black book, it having been pushed out of his mind by many other important matters; such as working from behind the scenes to overthrow the Ministry of Magic. A job that was almost done by that fateful Halloween nearly eleven years ago.

Then, afterwards, he had to work on clearing his name by liberal dispensation of Galleons. In fact almost a quarter of the Malfoy fortune was gone by January of 1992, paid off to various Wizengamot members.

Now, as he sat in his study with its golden oak furniture, he stared at the little black book and asked many questions of himself.

How many Horcruxes had the Dark Lord made? Was he aware of the side effects? Did he not care? Did he know that Horcruxes didn't really work?

But something was keeping the Dark Lord alive.

Malfoy rolled up his sleeve and stared at the faint outline of the Dark Mark etched onto his skin. Something, something possibly worse than Horcruxes, was keeping the man alive, but what?