Diary, 25th August, 1978

It's been two months since uncle Charlus gave James Ignotus' journal. And James is still sulking. I mean, I understand it must be a huge letdown to learn that his illustrious ancestors were arseholes having a prick measuring contest, but this has gone on long enough. So what if his fabled heirloom is basically a woman's robe? A tennyo's hagoromo might not be so rare since there are a couple dozen left in Japan, but it's still something priceless.

He's got nothing to whine about, really. The Peverells were brilliant before that whole Hallows fiasco blew up in their face. Professor Flitwick says there's nothing wrong with them being necromancers, and after reading that journal I agree with him. It's about understanding life and death, not making zombies. James can be so judgmental. If my ancestors were the leading experts on death magic, I'd be proud of my heritage and want to continue their legacy.

They did craft the Elder Wand, and it was still amazing even if it was the only thing the Peverells actually made. Who cares if the other two so-called Hallows were items Cadmus and Ignotus found after they embarked on a journey to foreign lands? Yes, Antioch got greedy and backstabbed his brothers and took the wand for his own. Yes, Cadmus and Ignotus couldn't make something as great with only the two of them, probably because they lacked whatever Antioch brought to the table. Maybe it was the power of three that enabled the creation of the wand? Hm, food for thought.

Bottom line is they did make the Elder Wand. I just wish Ignotus had written down exactly how they made it. But then Antioch went and declared himself a dark lord, and I think Ignotus blamed the wand in part. I'd still love to study it. And James is still ranting about that, as if Antioch was the only dark lord in his family tree when I've counted three so far. Distant relations, my left foot. He should just be glad Antioch got stopped by the other two and it's not common knowledge these days. Ignotus was a genius, asking for his brother's memory to be preserved as just an arsehole and not a murdering arsehole for the sake of their family name after they defeated him. James should be satisfied with that and look at the positive side of things.

Although, I wonder who had the brilliant idea of throwing bits and pieces of the muggle Revelation in there. The last enemy to be destroyed is death and all that biblical shite. This is why you shouldn't mix up religion with magic. Master of Death, my arse. Professor Flitwick was right. The arrogance of wizards knows no bounds. Even if everyone agreed to keep mum about it, these things have a tendency to be blown way out of proportion with all the lies they made up to hide the truth.

And as for the truth, I keep wondering… Where is the ancient archway that started it all? The Peverells were so taken with it, they even took its symbol as their family crest. Ignotus wrote they would have never been able to craft the wand without the understanding they gained by studying that archway. Its symbol looks an awful lot like Grindelwald's too. Coincidence? I think not. If only James could get his head out of his arse and search for the Elder Wand. That's the true Peverell heirloom, after all.

Harry closes his mother's journal and places it on top of the nightstand. The last enemy to be destroyed is death…that line, like an itch in his brain he can't help but scratch. If it is a biblical reference… Bitterly, he thanks Petunia for all those wasted, endless hours he spent reading the New Testament under her gimlet eye.

Drowning a sigh, he rises from the bed and walks to the bookcase, scanning titles until he finds the old-worn copy he should have thrown away but hadn't. Somehow, Harry couldn't bring himself to be rid of a book, even one as casuistic as the Bible. Perhaps because in spite of context, there is an archaic, absolute symmetry to the words and concepts explored within. Ah, yes…there it is: 1 Corinthians 15:26.

But Christ has indeed been raised from the dead, the firstfruits of those who have fallen asleep. 21For since death came through a man, the resurrection of the dead comes also through a man. 22For as in Adam all die, so in Christ all will be made alive. 23But each in turn: Christ, the firstfruits; then, when he comes, those who belong to him. 24Then the end will come, when he hands over the kingdom to God the Father after he has destroyed all dominion, authority and power. 25For he must reign until he has put all his enemies under his feet. 26The last enemy to be destroyed is death. 27For he "has put everything under his feet." Now when it says that "everything" has been put under him, it is clear that this does not include God himself, who put everything under Christ. 28When he has done this, then the Son himself will be made subject to him who put everything under him, so that God may be all in all.

The Peverells fancied themselves conquerors of death then. Or perhaps that is the popular interpretation nowadays. Apropos to a family of necromancers, even if only a few are aware of their esoteric areas of study. Professor Flitwick certainly, but what about the headmaster? Why did his father entrust the Peverell heirloom to that man? Knowing what he knows about his father now… A prank? If the headmaster falls in the category of people searching for the mystical artifacts said to overcome death, then it is quite possible. Cruel, but who cares? The old man is too nosy for his own good, prying into old family secrets and scheming to control the life of the last Potter.

His mouth curls, a slow, crooked fox-smile. Harry hums and eyes the Bible speculatively. Well, he did promise to reciprocate the headmaster's kind gesture, and now that he suspects the old man's hidden interests… What better gift than an insight into the Peverell family motto?

His father would approve. Pranking runs in the blood, after all.

The cemetery in Godric's Hollow is eerie but quaint, a throng of cool, marmoreal headstones and silence. The air dizzies with the smell of incense and floral odors—damp soil sticks to the soles of his shoes. Everything seems to move with somnolent rhythms, as if there is no time to pass, no need to breathe. The chirping of birds is mere white noise in Harry's ears, the morning chill sharp and prickling at the nape of his neck. He raises a hand absentmindedly—the pads of his fingers brush the soft locks tickling his skin above the fur-lined collar of his jacket. It is a strange sensation but not unpleasant, a light, insistent press, the wind at his back urging him forward with invisible hands. A cold, dead welcome.

Slowly, the noise fades, but the chill is still sharp, burrowing under his skin and in his blood. Harry slows his steps once he reaches the place he seeks. Mist clings to the ground, swirling around his ankles in hazy patterns. The spot where his parents have been laid to rest is empty save for one lone passerby. His eyes flit over the woman's hunched frame, then dismiss her when he notes no suspicious behavior.

The surface of the gravestone shimmers bluish white under the morning light, a simple, square cut of stone, scoured smooth, with calligraphic letters etched into the marble. A smile creeps over his lips when he sees the Peverell motto under their names. He still has no words to say. There are no souls beneath the earth, only truth and bones, the hard, physical proof of the way things are meant to be. As Ignotus Peverell spoke on his deathbed: It is I who come unto death, for what begins must end, yet death comes for nothing.

Coming here was pointless, not a mistake, never a mistake, just…unnecessarily necessary. Something that had to be done, if only for the mere sake of it. Harry exhales a heavy breath, a regret he didn't know he harbored until now—

"Bless my heart, is that—it is you! Those eyes, yes…Lily's sweet boy… Oh, how much you've grown."

Startled, Harry jerks back, angling his body to better defend himself, magic rushing to his fingertips. The old woman he earlier dismissed stands close, though not close enough to feel threatening. She's frail, shivering, wrapped up in woolen shawls, two small bouquets of daisies and lilies in her arms. Her eyes are almost the same color as the gravestone, but murky, dim with cataracts.

She seems harmless, probably an old neighbor of his parents. Tension uncoils in his muscles, magic flowing back into his system. Harry sighs, then smiles at her. "You knew my parents, madam?"

"Oh, none of that, young man. You may not remember old Bathilda Bagshot, but you will call me aunt Tilda. I've changed your nappies more than once." The old woman's hands are bony and ridged with calluses but warm when they grasp Harry's for a quick squeeze. Her bouquets sway precariously, spilling out of her arms. He hurries to catch them before they fall in the mud, and she pats his cheek. "Be a nice lad and help me with your mum's and little Ariana's flowers. We'll have tea and you'll tell me where you've been then."

Nodding, Harry kneels and arranges the lilies below the inscription. The name she gives…niggles at the back of his mind. He's sure he has heard it before, somewhere. Maybe he's read it in his mother's journal? When he straightens up, she's watching him with blurry eyes and a soft, sad smile. "Thank you for remembering my parents."

"I'm not the only one." Madam Bagshot starts walking with gimping steps as she speaks. Harry offers her his arm before she can go too far, chuckling when he feels her patting his elbow. At least this time it isn't his cheek. "Lily's wee master and the Scottish lassie who used to show with James come every year, and sometimes that scruffy werewolf boy." A frown pulls at the folded skin above her brows, and she tsk's under her tongue. "Don't let that scare you. A kinder boy than him you won't find."

Harry is tempted to tell her she's right only because he won't go looking for someone who couldn't be bothered with him, but holds his tongue. They pass by many gravestones on their way, Ignotus Peverell's among them. Harry notices the runic carvings around the edges and the absence of the Peverell family motto. Who had the grand idea of adding it to his parents' headstones? Certainly no Potter—they all knew the truth, and should they wish to honor their ancestors, they'd have chosen Ignotus' last words. Not that there was any Potter left alive by then. But the runes…Elder Futhark…he needs to study—

Madam Bagshot comes to a halt, and Harry's gaze widens. The girl's surname… "Dumbledore?"

"Abe's and Albus' sister, bless her soul. Didn't deserve what happened to her." Grief quivers in her voice, old and deep, the milky white of her eyes glazed. "Those muggle boys ruined the girl's magic. She never was right after that."

Harry places the daisies on the gravestone, quietly mulling over her words. Taking advantage of an old lady to gather intelligence on the headmaster stabs at his conscience. But when will an opportunity like this come again? Madam Bagshot seems like a lonely old woman, forgotten in a village built by ghosts that never left. She's too happy to meet the son of people who died over ten years ago, too eager to treat him as the baby she once doted on. Does anyone ever visit her? Does anyone even care about her like she does for the dead?

He shakes his head and links their arms as they begin walking again. He'll let her lead, Harry decides, both the way and the conversation. If she wants to share things, he will listen, but he won't manipulate her for answers. Just ask. "Were they punished?"

"Oh, no. The girl's father attacked them, spent his life in Azkaban for what he did and never spoke a word of it. They moved here to hide the girl's state, but you can't hide these things for long. Damaged magic will show in a child. Gellert even thought she was an Obscurial when he met the girl."

The term is unfamiliar, but the name—she can't possibly mean… "Gellert Grindelwald?"

Even as she nods, Harry still hovers between doubt and incredulity. He thought she'd deny it up until the moment she opens her mouth and shatters his disbelief.

"Aye, my great-nephew." A tremor enters her voice, brittle as her grip on his arm. "He came to live with me when he was expelled from Durmstrang, met Albus that summer and they became thick as thieves. Clever boys, they were, wanted to rule the world together. Poor Abe didn't like it, didn't want Ariana getting swept up in their plans. They had a big row, all three of them. Spells were thrown around, and well…the lassie didn't make it. Nobody could tell whose spell did it, but Abe never forgave Albus. He left and never came back home, and Albus broke it off with Gellert."

Harry keeps his gaze straight ahead while she gets it all off her chest. The Potter Cottage stands out like a parody of a haunted house, half the roof blown away, bricks charred, plastered with thanks, accolades, platitudes, warnings, threats. Property of the ministry now, sold for the cheap price of two pure souls and the sullied slice of another. Revolted, Harry turns his gaze away and follows the old woman into her home. She takes his hand in hers, guides him into the living room and toward the wall laden with framed photographs. Two boys pose in one, blue-eyed, bright-haired, no older than seventeen.

"It's old history now, but I remember. Bringing flowers to little Ariana is the least I can do for…for what m-my…my boy…did." She stares at the golden-haired boy in the picture, choking up, words mangled and wet like her tears, a low, guilty admission. Patting the back of his hand, she draws away from the wall and limps to the couch. "Eh, enough about that. Come, sit. Tell me where you've been, dear boy. I haven't seen you since your parents passed away."

There's a rose-patterned tea set on the table, and bowls with tea leaves, lemon slices, ginger biscuits, water, milk, and honey. Harry guesses it must be easier for someone her age to have everything under stasis charms nearby. Smiling, he takes over the task of making the tea, in part because he wants time to digest what he's learned.

"I grew up with mum's sister in the muggle world. I could only visit this year."

Despite his casual tone, inside he's thinking furiously, shuffling the cards he's been dealt until he gets a winning hand. It all makes sense—the headmaster's quest for redemption, the way he runs Hogwarts, how he shapes the political landscape. Fear drives him, and the need to believe all is redeemable. Because if it isn't…he can't live with himself and the cost of his adolescent choices. What an irony…by striving to erase the ambitions of his younger self, he has placed himself in the best position to achieve them.

What can Harry do with this knowledge…besides put it in a little black book? Because it is the perfect blackmail material, and he's always been more proactive than reactive. Rita Skeeter would sell her firstborn for this kind of provocative scoop. Even if Harry refuses to reveal his source, that vulture won't care for veracity, only for the chance to drag the headmaster through the mud. Neither will her readers, for that matter. The real issue is…Harry doesn't want to become involved. He doesn't care for politics. He cares for magic. He wants out.

In the midst of his inner conflict between hamstringing the headmaster and keeping a wary silence, Harry realizes Madam Bagshot has been quiet for too long. He carries their cups to the couch, his mouth curving just a little, and that appears to be the sign she's been waiting for.

"The muggles…didn't hurt you, did they?" A whisper, raspy…concerned.

It brings a tight, warm feeling low in his belly. "No…aunt Tilda." His reply is more for her sake than his, a genuine, pure thing like his smile, even if it is a lie.

"Good, that's good." She smiles back, sipping at her tea, and Harry lets his gaze wander.

What holds his attention is the bookcase. It spreads across one wall, from floor to ceiling, shelves crammed with thick tomes and—it hits him then. Bathilda Bagshot, the author of A History of Magic. He whips round to stare at her, pupils blown wide, and she erupts in a fit of coughing laughter.

"Figured it out, have you? Just like Lily." Her laughter ebbs into dry, heaving sounds. "Not many your age have read my book. Mind you, I wrote others, just not as well received."

Thrilled, Harry grins. "I'm very interested in magical history, but the class leaves something to be desired." Both comments are understatement.

"Keh, I know." She half-coughs, half-laughs again. It sounds painful, but alive. Harry reckons she hasn't laughed in a long, long time. "Who ever heard of a ghost teaching? The dead should stay dead, I say." Massaging her throat, she stands with some effort and hobbles to the bookcase. "Come here and take a look, take whatever you like. You can bring them back when the school closes."

"I couldn't—"

"You won't break an old woman's heart, will you?"

Harry snickers. "You did change my nappies."

"That I did." Her pale blue eyes gleam wetly. She's patting his cheek again, but Harry doesn't mind this time. "Go on now. Pick what you like."

"Thank you, aunt Tilda."

In the end, he's chosen so many books, or more like chosen for him—I insist, dear boy, take one more, and this one, and that one, and and and—she has to shrink them to fit into the pockets of his jacket. Before Harry leaves, she slips one last into his hands. Unshrunk, unlike the rest, her fingers lingering, caressing the black leather of its cover.

"My Gellert was a lot of things I wish he weren't, but that boy was a marvel to see with a wand. If you want to know how to duel, this'll show you the proper way, not the fancy stick-waving they teach at Hogwarts nowadays. You don't have to return this one, if you promise to take good care of it."

Harry opens it and reads Property of Gellert Grindelwald inked on the first page and knows how priceless her gift is.

"I promise, aunt Tilda." He leaves with his promise throbbing in the flesh of his tongue and the skin on his cheek tingling from the warmth of her hand.

Tom rubs the bridge of his nose and sighs. Seven conversations with Draco have yielded a wealth of information, but the boy is such a handful.

Are you sure I have to do this?

Yes, Draco. Remember, we talked about this. Nothing in this world is free. If you want power, you have to make sacrifices. You do want to outshine Potter, don't you?

No reply follows, nothing but a surly silence as Draco carries on with his appointed task. It would have been so much easier if he could take full control of Draco's body. Unfortunately, Tom needs him—needs him alive and healthy. A conclusion that still rankles. But Draco makes an invaluable pawn in this game and bears the promise of a loyal follower. Lucius Malfoy is an incompetent sycophant, as far as Tom has gleaned from Draco's ramblings, and yet his maker continues to depend on him. His son will be the perfect little spy, above suspicion due to his age and ignorance.

I drew the runes. Now what, Tom?

Cede control to me, Draco. It will only be for a few minutes, and I promise you will feel the effects as soon as the ritual is done.

And it is not even a lie. The residual magic from the ritual should bolster Draco's system for several months. Should, not will, because the ritual itself is theoretical in its concept. After fifty years trapped in this void, Tom is aware of what he can and cannot do. He can never gain form without leeching another—their magic, their life, their soul—but changing vessels should be possible by tweaking the original ritual and harvesting the raw magic released from a sacrifice.

Why can't I do this on my own?

Because you don't know how to manipulate magic, and even if I were to start teaching you now, it would take you years to become proficient for this kind of ritual.

Again, not a lie, not that Draco appreciates the depths of Tom's patience. Another silence, stubborn, petulant.

Have I ever lied to you, Draco? Did I not help you with your studies? Did I not promise to keep helping you?

Finally, a thrum of acceptance, and then, I give you permission.

Tom doesn't waste another moment—it feels incredible to have flesh and blood and bones, but that is a goal further ahead in the future. What he needs now is freedom of action.

One slow, deep cut. The peacock's blood spills from its torn throat and over Gebo, and the rune lights up. Tom directs the magic into the lines that form the runic matrix until Raidō glows an incandescent blood-red. It hooks onto his soul and pulls him out, pulls him in. Right as the ritual is reaching completion, Tom severs a small part of himself, no larger than his little finger, ruthlessly discarded as his maker once discarded him. A deception, the opening act of his vengeance, intoxicating as it is agonizing.

Slowly, he feels the drain. Tom stretches out in his new vessel, testing the boundaries, pleased with his success.

Tom? Are you here? Did it work? Because that felt amazing!

A subtle brush against the boy's magic confirms Tom's hypothesis. Draco did benefit from the ritual.

Yes, Draco. Do you trust me now?

You were right! I'll never doubt you again.

Good. Now clean up the mess and put my old diary back where you found it before your father realizes it's missing.

Spent, satisfied, Tom laughs and curls up. This is only the beginning.

Voldemort comes out of the ritual chamber to find Lucius not ten feet away. He slips a hand over his face and presses the backs of his fingers against his eyelids and he—he can't feel his skin. Quirinus' body is breaking down fast. There's no more time to play the old fool's game. If the Philosopher's Stone hasn't turned up by mid-February… Not that he has absolute need of it anymore. It is more a matter of pride now.

"I have left instructions for you, Lucius. The second stage of the ritual is simple enough that even a first year student could do it."

Lucius bows and follows behind him silently as he ascends the stairs to the man's study. His diary is where he left it. Voldemort reaches out with a tendril of magic. It feels weaker, fainter, but the signature of his soul saturates the pages. Perhaps because he is no longer feeding it?

A light shuffle draws his attention back to Lucius.

"Should I contact you when it is done, my Lord?"

Why is he surrounded by imbeciles? He sighs, closes his eyes, and opens them again. Lucius is still staring at him with well-masked confusion. Voldemort pours himself a drink he can't even taste and all but growls.

"The gestation lasts exactly forty days. All you have to do is feed it, Lucius. If you find yourself incapable of such a simple task, you can assign it to Narcissa. There is no need to contact me—unless you somehow mess it all up. Don't. Mess. Up."