Chapter 215 - Return to School
"Caw—"
"Caw—"
Two dark figures appeared with a crack among the graveyard headstones, under the church's shadow. A crow perched on a nearby branch startled, spread its wings, and shot into the sky like an arrow.
"Let us see, "
Voldemort's voice was as hoarse as the crow's cry. He walked slowly toward the tombstone engraved with the name "Albus Dumbledore" and spotted at once the gold-painted letters: Resurgam.
"Resurgam?" Voldemort sneered. "Dumbledore, the sun has set. It will never rise again."
The words had barely left his mouth before he gave his wand a light flick. With a boom, the entire patch of earth before the grave tore upward. The marble coffin lid slammed down onto the broken soil, and clouds of dust billowed up.
Some of Godric's Hollow's wizarding residents must have heard the commotion. Voldemort did not care in the slightest.
The Ministry of Magic was already under Death Eater control. Hogwarts had Snape and the Carrow siblings to watch over it.
As for the few Order of the Phoenix members still on the run, and Harry Potter? In Voldemort's eyes, they were no longer worth fearing.
Yet Voldemort's heart would not settle. He had not a single Horcrux at his side, and the wizard who had attempted to assassinate Nagini that night remained unidentified. Both facts fed a restless, gnawing unease.
He was desperate. Desperate to grow stronger. Desperate to kill Potter and be done with it.
The dust thinned and dispersed, and Dumbledore's face emerged, kindly, peaceful, undisturbed. His students, colleagues, and friends had tended to his remains, dressing him in robes suited to his tastes, so that even his ashen face looked merely like a man ill and asleep.
Dumbledore's body meant nothing to Voldemort. But the Elder Wand lying beside him shone brighter in Voldemort's eyes than the moon at night.
"Ah, " Voldemort drew out the sound, his voice warm with satisfaction. "You really have given me a surprise, Prince."
Sylvia stood behind him. She looked even more haggard than the man in the coffin, rigid and motionless, like a hollow tree by the roadside.
Voldemort picked up the Elder Wand and ran his fingers slowly along its grain, matching it against the memory he had torn from Gregorovitch.
The flamboyant, blond-haired intruder in that memory, the uninvited thief, Voldemort had searched for him and had not yet found him.
The fear of being outmatched kept Voldemort's nerves pulled tight. Fortunately, Sylvia had provided two cards, sparing him from sifting through a sea of faces for a thief who had changed beyond recognition over the decades.
Voldemort had earned twelve "O"s on his O.W.L. exams. But Divination offered no single clear answer. It could point this way, or that way. Different Seers, faced with the same object, would not necessarily reach the same conclusions.
There were even cases where the final outcome proved every Seer's reading correct, each one had simply seen a different facet of the future.
Voldemort had his followers capture a wizard who had earned "O"s in both Divination and Arithmancy at N.E.W.T. level. A rare find. He demanded the man analyze both cards and determine where the thing Voldemort sought was located.
The unfortunate wizard racked his brains and said cautiously: "This Hermit, he faces left. It may indicate a place somewhere to the west, connected to an elderly, wise figure. The place may be hidden. But it is likely not unfamiliar to you. Another influence has simply obscured it, it will take a flash of insight to recall."
Voldemort narrowed his eyes. He said nothing about whether it was right or wrong, and demanded the Seer move on to the second card.
The King of Swords was far less cooperative. The Seer could not decipher it. After the Death Eaters had subjected him to prolonged, bone-grinding torture, he finally broke and begged: "The King! The King! It may be in the hands of someone powerful, someone high-ranking, or perhaps in a place of authority!"
In Voldemort's estimation, the Horcruxes still likely to be intact were the diadem and the locket.
The diadem was obviously at Hogwarts. He only needed his followers to retrieve it from the school when the time came. But someone high-ranking and powerful, he could not determine whether that pointed to the Ministry of Magic, or to a Muggle ruler.
And so, after much deliberation, his thoughts arrived at Dumbledore's grave. The reason Dumbledore had been so formidable must have been the Elder Wand. The Deathly Hallows. It could be no other way.
The realization spread through him like light through fog. His old wariness of Dumbledore, perhaps it had never been about the man himself.
Dumbledore's power had rested on external objects all along. On the Deathly Hallows.
Once Voldemort possessed the Elder Wand, he would be equally formidable. The twin-core problem would cease to bind him. And Harry Potter, that persistent thorn in his side, could be killed without difficulty.
Voldemort raised the Elder Wand and looked down at Dumbledore's "corpse" with cold contempt. His fingers moved slightly. A jet of green light struck the body.
"Avada Kedavra!"
BOOM!
Dumbledore's "corpse" exploded. In its place: a ragged, tattered scarecrow. In the hollow of the scarecrow's chest lay a piece of parchment with torn edges.
Voldemort's expression shifted. He snatched the parchment and ran his eyes down it in one sweep.
Voldemort,
By the time you read this note, the drama I directed has been successfully staged, performed by my wife and me, playing the benevolent version of Burke and Hare.
I knew long ago that even with Dumbledore gone, you would never let matters rest. But we will not permit anyone to desecrate Dumbledore's body.
So, regrettably, you have made the trip for nothing.
Nicolas Flamel & Perenelle Flamel
Jointly, with respect
Voldemort's chest heaved. A scream tore out of him, raw and wordless with fury. He flailed the Elder Wand in all directions, hurling jets of green light at the graves, the earth, the dark air around him.
When the rage had burned itself out, Voldemort spun toward Sylvia, who stood motionless to one side. He seized her by both shoulders. "Tell me where the Flamels are hiding. Tell me!"
He shook her so hard her head snapped back and forth. Her face was ghastly white, a face that looked like it had crawled out of a pile of corpses.
Voldemort's demand twisted her expression into agony. But she gave no prophecy. Instead, a low, rasping sound escaped her throat, and she went limp and fainted.
The fake corpse had thrown Voldemort into disarray. He had already split his soul too many times. He could not create any more Horcruxes.
Without seeing Dumbledore's actual body, he could not confirm whether Dumbledore was truly, irreversibly dead. Which meant he could not put his mind at ease.
Nicolas Flamel had lived for centuries and possessed the Philosopher's Stone. There was no way to know whether the Flamels were genuinely protecting a dead man's remains, or whether Dumbledore had never died at all.
Voldemort looked around the empty graveyard. Nowhere felt safe. He could not stop the thought from surfacing: could it have been Dumbledore who had tried to kill Nagini that night? But if Dumbledore were still alive, how could he bear to leave the Elder Wand behind? A wand that powerful, surrendered without a fight?
The questions had no answers. A shadow by the name of Dumbledore clung to Voldemort's heels like a wraith, following him out of the graveyard and refusing to let go. He could not eat. He could not sleep. The agitation only grew.
---
2 days later, Praeris arrived at King's Cross Station in the most Muggle way imaginable.
By taxi.
The strange thing was, she reached Platform 9¾ without incident. No Death Eaters. No pursuit. Nothing.
Her best guess: when she had been attacked, the Death Eaters had been in the middle of staging their coup at the Ministry of Magic. They hadn't yet finished seizing control. They'd had bigger things to worry about.
But now the Ministry had already appointed Death Eaters as the new headmaster and professors. Rounding up individuals was no longer necessary, especially when the new headmaster happened to be her mentor.
"Praeris!"
Pansy came sprinting from the far end of the platform, trunk rattling behind her. She was running so fast she nearly slipped. Praeris stepped forward and grabbed her arm before she went down.
Pansy barely registered the near-fall. Both hands landed on Praeris's arm instead, and she looked her up and down, then grabbed her by the shoulders and physically spun her around once for good measure.
"Phew." Pansy exhaled hard. "You're all right. That's all that matters."
Praeris laughed. "What could possibly happen to me?"
"What do you mean, what could happen to you!" Pansy's eyes were red. She glared at Praeris. "You didn't reply to a single letter. Not one. And you're still — you're still—"
She choked up. Her right hand curled into a fist and pressed against her mouth. "I was worried sick."
The moment the Muggle-born Registration Commission's arrest warrants had gone out, it was like someone had set a bell jar over Pansy's head and struck it hard.
She had invented excuse after excuse. She had sent letter after letter to the usual owl post station. Not one reply came back.
Then in mid-to-late August, Pansy went to Diagon Alley for school supplies and ran into Daphne and Astoria.
Astoria was hanging her head. She was being dragged along by Daphne, absent and listless, every bit of her energy extinguished.
Pansy mustered a smile and teased her. "Has our little Lia been heartbroken?"
Astoria's head snapped up. She threw off Daphne's hand and shouted straight at Pansy: "If you don't know anything, then shut up!"
She turned and ran, shoving her way into Flourish and Blotts.
"What in the, " Pansy stared after her, then turned to Daphne. "Has your sister swallowed ten pounds of gunpowder or something?"
Daphne looked pained. "She's heartbroken over that Mudblood," she said, irritation worn thin.
As it turned out, the Muggle-born witch named Grace had been "investigated" by the Ministry in early August.
Under the current Ministry, there was no difference between "investigated" and convicted.
And even without the investigation, Grace would have had no place at Hogwarts regardless. Every wizarding student still permitted to attend had at least one provably wizarding-blooded close relative on record.
Pansy had felt her heart lodge in her throat. Where was Praeris? Had she been investigated? She was an orphan. Where was she supposed to produce a wizarding-blooded relative from?
Every time Pansy thought back on those years of cheerfully singing the praises of pure-blood supremacy just to fall in line with Draco, she felt as though she had been slowly poisoning her best friend with her own hands.
Jacob kept asking what was wrong. Pansy kept deflecting, saying she was just worried about Millicent being so far from home. She couldn't say what she was really thinking. She was afraid that a careless word from her might put Praeris in danger.
Praeris opened her arms and pulled Pansy into a hug. "I'm back now, aren't I?" she said quietly. "Don't worry, Panpan. The new headmaster is Professor Snape. Who's going to bully me?"
Pansy pressed her face against Praeris's shoulder. "Mm."
They boarded the train hand in hand. The difference from previous years was obvious the moment they stepped inside. The corridors were quieter than they had any right to be. The departure time was close, and several compartments sat entirely empty. Even the occupied ones were sparse, rarely a full 4 people. The students who did pass through the corridor moved with their heads down, not a word exchanged, as though they'd forgotten how to call out to old friends.
They found Daphne quickly enough. Astoria was in the same compartment, which brought them to 4.
Daphne looked up when Praeris walked in and said, "Oh. You're not dead."
There are things you can say, and things you shouldn't.
Pansy had said you're all right, that's all that matters. Daphne had said you're not dead. The gap between those two sentences said everything.
Pansy rolled her eyes. "Could you say something that doesn't sound like that?"
"She didn't reply to a single one of our letters," Daphne said, chin lifted, unrepentant. "Either heartless or dead, I'd rather believe she couldn't reply."
"You've all forgotten." Praeris's tone was unhurried. "I went to Devon to visit relatives. How was I supposed to reply to letters you sent to London?"
She left it at that, breezing past the whole subject without a word of explanation for why, once she was back in London, she still hadn't bothered to collect them.
Pansy and Daphne didn't push. As long as Praeris was here and more or less intact, the rest was secondary.
BANG!
The compartment door slid open. A tall, thin figure stood at the threshold in silence, a mute black shadow framed in the doorway.
Praeris stood immediately. She turned to Pansy, Daphne, and Astoria. "I have something to, "
"Go," Pansy said.
Draco walked ahead. Praeris followed. His steps were rushed, a little uneven, like someone trying to outpace something that kept pace with him regardless.
But he'd come to find her. Why come to find her, then refuse to say a single word? He just kept moving, head down, pushing forward.
Praeris didn't ask. She followed. They passed through more than half the train before she finally said: "If you want to buy something to eat, you could just wait for the trolley witch."
This train had been sourced from the Muggles. On a Muggle train, the last carriage was traditionally the guard's van, but a magical train had no need for one, so it had been repurposed as the food carriage, where the trolley witch set up her cart.
Draco stopped.
He opened the compartment door on his left and walked in. Both hands braced on the table, fingers pushed up into his hair, head hanging.
"You've been clear on everything that's happened from the end of June until now, haven't you." It wasn't a question. "You know it was me who let them into Hogwarts." He laughed, short and humorless. "I'm not what you imagined. I'm capable of anything when it comes to power. The things you care about, I don't care about at all — for example—"
"For example," Praeris said, calm, "your soul?"
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