Now that the precious skin and venom had finally been obtained, our conspirators were very, very busy. A certain party (who shall remain unnamed) wanted to make the dryad's gloves as quickly as possible and begin, with her help, relieving certain select useful individuals of their Marks. His "closest friend" wanted the same, but intended to relieve everyone—starting, Andrei had in mind, with those who were least inclined to want relieving. Chief among these was Barty Crouch—the younger, naturally. As for the elder, he intended to have an educational conversation with him, involving a compulsory dose of "sanity porridge." And possibly some mushrooms.
Which was not at all what you, dear readers, are thinking! It was simply that Snape, in Ninochka's company, had been venturing ever deeper into the Forbidden Forest and finding ever more of interest there. With the dryad's assistance he had located a considerable quantity of entheogens—specifically, Psilocybe semilanceata, Inocybe aeruginascens, and a number of fascinating plants including Salvia divinorum, Argyreia nervosa, Sweet Flag, and… no, we will not list them all here; that is a subject unto itself, and those who seek will find.
Snape was searching—at Hagrid's request, as it happened. Andrei had no intention of killing anyone, but he had no desire to discover what the most advanced wizards might do to him—or rather, to the half-giant body—and intended to keep a couple of aces up his sleeve. Just in case. Better they lose themselves in pleasant daydreams than pester him. Snape would see to the antidotes in any case—he'd trained him well enough. And he'd monitor things himself. Besides, the question of what to do with Crouch senior remained open. Killing him was out of the question. The old man was a piece of work, certainly, but he'd suffered his share in life too—what it had cost him alone to carry out his beloved wife's dying wish. And he'd never once looked at another woman, despite several years of widowhood! They'd checked. Crouch's reputation remained spotless. Perhaps she was the only one he'd ever loved? Only a personal meeting could clarify that, and even then not certainly. But a meeting over a certain little tincture…
Given the half-giant body's immunity to all forms of charm and practically all forms of magic, except certain individual potions, he stood a chance. The remaining question was finding out where the Crouches actually lived—many senior Ministry employees, like magical aristocrats, concealed their residences. Though was that news to anyone, in any world?
The others—Sirius, Remus, and Regulus—were burning to begin destroying the Horcruxes, though for now they only had one in hand: Slytherin's locket. Or rather, the former locket. And not quite in hand—it was with Lady Walburga in a special case, in the form of the ingot that had been neutralised by Fiendfyre. Because the little notebook—the first Horcrux—had naturally given up the ghost upon incarnating Tom. Tom himself naturally joined the young men: he wanted to see the Mark for himself, and even honestly admitted that he'd had thoughts along those lines, but hadn't even begun developing the magic yet, so he couldn't remove it himself, but he was very, very curious. The others believed him, or made a convincing show of doing so.
As it later turned out, Tom hadn't lied—he'd merely understated things a little. But he genuinely hadn't placed a single Mark yet. Meanwhile he was increasingly and contemptuously snorting about his older version: what a ridiculous idea—making a great ugly brand across the entire forearm of his people? So everyone could spot them from a distance, perhaps, to make the Aurors' job easier? Why not at least make it tiny and conceal it somewhere? Lupin, who was distinguished from the rest not only by the keenest nose but by the sharpest ears, caught in Tom Riddle's mutterings, on more than one occasion, something along the lines of "idiot, what an idiot I was" and even "senile old Voldemort"—but at first decided he'd misheard. Then understood and told Hagrid, after which Andrei felt a little better: Tom was increasingly distancing himself from his "version 1.0."
Snape, beyond everything else, also wanted to brew a potion—one shouldn't rely on a single method, he argued. Hagrid fully approved of the idea and even managed to redirect Regulus and channel his mind and energy away from the search for the diadem and into Snape's laboratory—the owner being, fortunately, not at all opposed. Only Tom Riddle modestly dropped his eyes—uncharacteristically. Not that anyone failed to notice, and he had nowhere to go in any case: Harry, who had effectively acquired a second godfather who understood him better than anyone else—hissing was easier for the child than talking—practically never got down from Tom. So Riddle had plenty to keep him occupied.
In addition, after an examination by Walburga's personal Healer, poor Tom received the highly unpleasant news of his own sterility.
"You shouldn't have gone around manufacturing Horcruxes," Lady Black commented with some venom—by way of consolation, apparently. "Might have had children, if you hadn't."
So Mr Riddle had begun thinking rather seriously about adoption. In a way, it was even just. He thought so. Or at least, it seemed to work out that way in the head of a sixteen-year-old. The only question was what he'd do when Harry grew up. Own up to killing his parents? This question, posed by Snape—still addressed as "mama" by the small perpetual-motion machine who was everyone's favourite—was one Tom could not answer. And "mama" was, to put it mildly, less than delighted—that damned Sirius kept tormenting him with enquiries about when Snape was finally going to get married and provide the child with a proper father.
But beyond personal matters, there were a great many shared concerns of considerable seriousness. Arguments about where to begin didn't last long. Andrei divided the tasks into groups. Snape and Regulus Black were naturally assigned the job of producing and testing the Mark-removal potion, which was exactly what Severus had wanted; Madam Walburga and Madam Longbottom took charge of the gloves—not because the ladies were particularly gifted seamstresses (they were rather the opposite), but because it turned out to be quite a ritual, and there were no other specialists. It was precisely this encounter that made Andrei think seriously about Crouch Junior and his possible rehabilitation.
The cheerful company that remained from the former Marauders was despatched to search for the diadem at Hogwarts. With Polyjuice, naturally. However, after their very first excursion the operation had to be temporarily suspended: Sirius and Lupin came back delighted, helpless with laughter over the Headmaster's face when he encountered Argus Filch in the corridor for the third time. Fortunately for them, the third was the real caretaker, from whom the Headmaster naturally couldn't get a word of sense.
After this they were issued only a single dose of potion each. Despite the fact that the enterprising pair had brought back no small quantity of biological material belonging to various students, Snape refused to brew anything with it, and Hagrid backed him up. Because when asked what they proposed to do if, in the form of a given student, they ran into that student's friends—or the student himself—nobody could give a sensible answer. So the pair was despatched back to the Weasleys. Temporarily, of course.
"Serves you right," Hagrid said, with a stern lowering of brows that all present could not help but take seriously—especially with Lady Black frowning beside him still more formidably.
Andrei understood that keeping these particular individuals sitting still for long was not realistic, but going near the school for the time being was inadvisable.
But the Headmaster should not have spoken to the caretaker the way he had—Filch took offence. And Lupin, with his wolf-sharp senses, caught it. And shared it with Sirius, who gave him no peace for several days until his friend agreed to a new plan.
* * *
The disgruntled Argus Filch, on his evening round, discovered… himself—sitting modestly on the steps of the first-floor staircase.
"And who's breaking the rules?" he loomed over what he assumed was yet another delinquent student.
"Fancy a pint?" the other one asked.
And pressed into the hands of the thoroughly staggered Filch a bottle of dark ale in one and a bag of sharp crisps in the other—and while he was gaping, swore on his own magic that he meant him no harm whatsoever.
"Not a student. Just feel like having a bit of fun."
No one had ever sworn to old Squib Filch before, let alone on something like that. But what clinched the matter was watching his double take a sip from his own bottle, carefully wipe the neck, and set to crunching with great relish on what he'd pulled from the bag. Filch slowly settled onto the step beside him. After which he received a personal amulet against Legilimency. A family one. The Blacks'.
He'd never in his life held anything so expensive and beautiful. And all he had to do was tease the Headmaster! After all, who knew the secret passages better than Argus himself. But they even gave him a map! The ale lent a strange lightness—not to say courage—the thin little potato slices turned out to be extraordinarily delicious, and his new companion was a true tempter, nudging him toward exactly what Filch himself had always wanted. He could never have managed it on his own, of course, but with company, and under cover… And the map was the final missing piece.
"D'you think the Headmaster knows about it?"
"Nope," his double shook his head. "We were terrible troublemakers, I'll grant you that, but we knew how to keep our own secrets."
Something stirred in the bleak and lightless life of the old caretaker.
* * *
Dumbledore was encountering Filch in the corridors with increasing frequency, until he finally lost patience and seized him by the arm and hauled him to his office—convinced, by that point, that this was some unknown wizard wandering the school in disguise and for unknown reasons. He didn't notice something crackle quietly in the captive's pocket. But those lurking under the roots of the Whomping Willow got the signal. And while the Headmaster attempted to sort out the actual Filch—trying first to cancel a supposed Transfiguration, then force-feeding him antidote, then attempting Legilimency—two more "caretakers" made it to the Room of Requirement and had a thorough rummage.
Not that they struck gold exactly—but as everyone knows, no map and no spell shows a person if they're inside the Room of Requirement, so by the following evening the famous diadem had indeed been found. And the Room itself had been partially tidied—simply to avoid picking their way through the same rubble twice. Remus's contribution.
Hungry, exhausted, and triumphant, the former Marauders returned with their haul. They were mildly told off, fed, told off again, the diadem was confiscated and passed to Lady Black, who stored it in the vault for particularly dangerous artefacts. They didn't let Tom near it—too risky. He understood perfectly well, of course, but the thing drew him with almost irresistible force, so it had to be treated with venom urgently. What held them back was the concern that a memory or fragment of Voldemort's personality might go straight into the new version of its owner and corrupt him. Tom took offence, attempted to argue, but try winning an argument when the people around you no longer consider you the cleverest person in the room—and you're not entirely certain yourself.
Suggestions were floated: protection amulets against Legilimency—the Blacks had more, naturally; taking Tom as far away as possible, even under Hogwarts' protection; putting him to sleep, stunning him, and so forth.
"Killing me would be considerably simpler, I imagine," Tom said at last, with the beginnings of a snarl.
He was thoroughly tired of being the youngest in this company, with practically no say. And he had the mind of that sixteen-year-old, while these people who had once been his servants now treated him as barely worth consulting. And all of them older than him! Insufferable!
"Right, and throw away everything we spent doing your resurrection," Snape said with a grimace, while everyone else arranged their faces in expressions of collective blankness. "Were we wasting our time?"
"You have a gift for reassurance," Tom said, with a faint smile—oddly enough, he did feel better.
"Any time."
"Feed him a decent portion of porridge," Hagrid delivered his verdict. "And the rest he'll manage himself. Won't you, Tom?"
And received from Tom a look of startled gratitude. No one appreciated how much this actually meant to him: no one had ever trusted him before. And then, all of a sudden…
It was decided, for the duration of destroying the Horcruxes, to isolate Tom in the Room of Requirement. In good company. Andrei was torn—he wanted to be in two places at once, which magic was regrettably unable to accomplish. In the end he decided that a living person mattered more; Walburga, Regulus, Severus, and Augusta could be trusted, so he set off for Hogwarts with Tom, Sirius, and Remus.
Hogwarts had never seen so many caretakers per square metre.
* * *
Albus Dumbledore, having with enormous difficulty dug out Filch's memory of looking at himself in the Mirror of Erised, spat into his own beard for not having concealed the artefact more carefully, dismissed the caretaker, and ordered the house-elves to move the cumbersome mirror to his own home in Godric's Hollow.
Though the mirror had often helped him understand others' desires and weaknesses, it shouldn't have remained in the school so long. After all, imagine… Who would have thought—it turned out Filch was simply a thwarted schoolboy prankster! Albus snorted and smiled. There are no greater enemies of those with certain abilities than those without them. Let the students tremble—it would do them good. Besides, the old Squib was hardly dangerous to anyone—if anything, quite the opposite. He'd give them a fright, nothing more.
* * *
Whatever dark thoughts Tom Riddle might have entertained, the moment he saw the accumulated chaos of the Room of Requirement they abandoned him entirely. In fact, almost all thoughts abandoned him, except the one about how best to organise things. Specifically, how to get things a bit closer to hand.
They were greedily scanning the shelves full of "all sorts of interesting things" when Andrei thought to ask how much his colleagues had already taken during their previous visit. As it turned out—nothing. They'd been exhausted that time, and the only thing on their minds had been getting home as quickly as possible, or rather getting to breakfast. Boys.
The moment they received the signal that the Horcruxes had been neutralised, all eyes turned to Tom. But nothing happened—he simply went on methodically sorting through the nearest pile of old scrolls. He didn't quite manage to conceal his exhale of relief, though—or perhaps he didn't try.
"How are you?" Sirius touched his arm.
Tom shrugged.
"Didn't feel anything at all?"
"Should I have?"
"Well… they were parts of you, weren't they?" Remus suggested. "Something should have registered."
"Are you certain?" Tom curled his lip with a contempt remarkably similar to Snape's. "I am thoroughly disappointed in your logic."
"Wait. If we resurrected him from a Horcrux… he was a fragment, and all the others… definitely not his! I mean, they're other fragments!" Sirius was beaming—he'd worked it out, he was the cleverest!
Andrei nodded silently, but remained on alert. What logic had to do with it when magic was involved was beyond him—anything could happen, he'd read enough to know. Whether Rowling or fan fiction. Or in his own still-brief but already rather extensive personal practice.
But time went on, the four "Filches" quietly plundered the shelves, and Hagrid happened to end up next to Tom sorting through one particular cabinet—and listening to the young man's mutterings, understood what problem Tom had set himself this time. And quietly applauded. He had decided to make a thorough study of the fundamental differences between Light and Dark magic.
A theoretical wizard is far preferable to someone clawing after power at any cost, Andrei decided. Here's hoping it stays that way.
The covert raids on Hogwarts continued with the full connivance of Filch and the indifference of the Headmaster, who quickly grew accustomed to the caretaker turning up constantly in secret passages and appearing in the most unexpected places with implausible speed. A hobby, apparently. Actually, all for the best: Filch would be materialising seemingly from nowhere in front of students. Let him practice. He'd have to ask for a new map at some point—have Filch draw one for him. Just in case.
The Headmaster had been interested in secret passages—in his distant and almost forgotten youth. And was quite certain the number could hardly have grown since, but apparently Filch had found something. Not that it was at all urgent for Albus himself—if he needed to get somewhere quickly, he had Fawkes.
* * *
No great riches were found in "the Room," as they'd taken to calling it—graduating students had naturally taken anything valuable with them. But there were a fair number of genuinely old and rare things. It appeared wizards were no worse at losing things than ordinary people—perhaps rather better, especially in a boarding school where hiding something to spite someone was entirely common practice. So before long our heroes were faced with an interesting question—or rather three. How to divide it all, whom to sell to, and how. And so after the next raid on the school, everyone assembled in the drawing room at Grimmauld.
Unfortunately, Walburga had always exclusively bought, never sold, and any connections with the criminal world, if they'd ever existed, had belonged to her late husband. Madam Longbottom had connections, but far too specialised—herbologists and plant people. The Auror Office had its channels, but they were hardly suited to commerce—better not to involve them at all. Arthur Weasley, whom Andrei had considered and even spoken to, was no help either—he worked in "art for art's sake" mode, so that if it hadn't been for Lupin and Black's new artefact workshop, the Weasley family would barely have kept their heads above water. No connections with reputable antiquarian booksellers, historians, or well-read scholars existed, and where to find them was unclear. The thought of sending the heritage of the motherland—even if not his own motherland—abroad gave Andrei's inner Scrooge severe palpitations.
When did I get so attached to Britain? he wondered. But apparently Russian roots remained Russian wherever they were transplanted.
Snape, pressing to his chest a bag full of ancient scrolls on potionmaking, clearly had no intention of sharing them with anyone—though fortunately no one else particularly coveted his haul. To the Potions master what belongs to the Potions master, to the artefact-maker what belongs to the artefact-maker—as Hagrid timely put it, reminding everyone that they could share books to read in any case. And it was time they all learned to make copies—they were wizards, after all. The first furious passions of dividing the spoils subsided, and Severus made a proposal.
"Malfoy would be the person for this… I could set aside anything likely to interest him personally, and his wife. Could I arrange a meeting?"
From Severus's expression, he wasn't particularly keen to tear himself away from work—the new parchments were unread, and the Mark-removal potion with basilisk blood (yes, it turned out the enterprising Potions master had risked asking the serpent for that too—and received it) was just entering the most interesting phase, with the most promising prospects. But since it was in the Room of Requirement that Severus had found what had inspired the potion idea in the first place, he continued to participate in the expeditions.
"I'll give it a try myself," Hagrid replied. "And who else is friendly with the Malfoys?"
"The Malfoys have no friends," Walburga declared. "They have their interests, and those connected to them. But I can introduce you," she narrowed her eyes and smiled with a certain anticipation. "An interesting little scene it should make."
"Should I write Lucius a letter first?"
"Invite them here," Walburga said, with casual authority. "Any evening this week—let him choose."
"Briefly," Hagrid nodded, and set off for Magical London, while Severus settled at the table—he didn't like putting things off.
* * *
As luck would have it, right in the alley beside the Leaky Cauldron, Hagrid came almost nose-to-nose with Lucius Malfoy. After all the serious talk about potions, further Horcrux hunting, and everything else, Andrei had long been wanting to let off steam. So the aristocratically straight spine, and above all the particularly haughty expression, was the last straw.
Lucius Malfoy, lord in two worlds, looked with bafflement at an unusually well-groomed half-giant who was producing a strange whistling sound and rapidly tapping three fingers visible below his coat hem somewhere between his own stomach and chest. And staring at him with absolutely extraordinary impudence.
Lucius restrained himself from a contemptuous snort—beneath his dignity—and looked away, but found himself seized by the elbow, and then the familiar sensation of an Apparition current washed over him.
The moment his feet touched solid ground, he levelled his wand at the half-giant with a furious hiss:
"Sectumsempra!"
"Beg pardon? Did the great lord not attend school either?" Hagrid said in mock commiseration.
Lucius went pale.
"What do you want from me?"
"A mutual friend of ours mentioned you have an interest in certain literature…"
The spine of an ancient volume appeared from Hagrid's bag, and Lucius couldn't believe his eyes. But then the book was in his hands, and the jokes were over.
"Twenty Galleons!" Lucius waited for the semi-literate Hagrid to begin thanking him—but instead received a loud, mocking laugh. The book was taken back. And Hagrid made it as if to leave.
There was no way out.