Eldritch

Gratitude owed to Heart of Spells for the excellent beta-work she has been doing for this story.

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"Lemon-drop?"

It was 1934 and Albus Dumbledore was the pride of wizard-kind. He was courted by Grindelwald and Minister both. He was pioneering cutting-edge research in Alchemy and Transfiguration. He was in the prime of his life and hallowed by popular goodwill. Drunk on the nectar of his power over magic and men alike, he was a force unconquerable.

It was 1934, and Castle Albus was offering me a lemon-drop. I stowed away Aberforth's rosary beads in one of the many pockets of my coat and took the sweet. I could not daunt this man before me with power, nor could I lie with impunity. Age had softened my Legilimency to a smoother, less painful approach that at least allowed my opponents to throw me out of their minds if they registered the invasion. In 1934, I had gloried in the dark sensuality of the mind arts and taken particular pleasure in ripping apart the minds of Grindelwald's supporters until all their secrets were gathered in my hands.

"Curious. Most curious," Castle Albus murmured, his eyes darting up and down my visage.

I weighed my options. I could attempt to overpower Castle Albus in a duel. While his youth and power would benefit him, I had the canniness that comes to a duellist only by experience. It would not be a matched duel, but I still stood a fair chance of winning. What next? Could I take on the Dementors of Azkaban single-handedly and rescue Aberforth? Could I convince the Wizengamot and the Aurors that I was Castle Albus? Could I free Tom from the clutches of the Mysteries Department? What of Ollivander? I could overpower my companion, but that would lead me no closer to salvaging the situation.

I needed an alliance.

It was 1934, and Albus Dumbledore had a reputation for being rather narcissistic. He was also vulnerable on the side of flattery.

So I asked, with the right note of wonder in my voice, "How did you find Ollivander so easily?"

He laughed; a generous full-bellied laugh that I well remembered had been the cause of many a seventh year girl's crush.

"I sent Ollivander."

Fawkes had always trusted Ollivander. In 1934, Albus Dumbledore had been one of Ollivander's closest friends. Ollivander would have mentioned the phoenix to his friend. Albus would have investigated.

"Curious," Castle Albus remarked again. "The phoenix took to me remarkably quickly. We wondered. Strange events, one following another. A mishap at Madam Malkin's which sent the Aurors into a flurry. A powerful Obliviation spell and I was called in by the Ministry. Imagine my surprise when I realised that the magic was not unfamiliar, not in the least. Breaking the Memory Charm resulted in the most illuminating revelation."

"Tom," I murmured, remembering his panic and the outburst of his powerful magic.

"I called in Ollivander, and he was able to confirm what I suspected. Firstly, that the magic which had tethered the Memory Charm on the poor woman had been my own. Secondly, that your young charge seems to be an untapped reservoir of dark magic. Ollivander said that the boy is the most dangerous example of inbreeding he has seen: an unstable mind and uncontrolled magic. The Senior Aurors in the Ministry were equally worried by the boy's nature. It took us months, but we finally traced the magic to London, to an orphanage."

He chuckled and continued, "And there the woman asks me, Are you Solicitor Whitney's brother?"

Mrs. Cole had been persuaded to talk about the uncle who had adopted Tom, by a silver tongue or a coaxing spell or both.

"We spoke to a few children there. Why, they had the most interesting opinions about young Mr. Riddle!"

Freak, they had labelled the boy.

"Ollivander and I went to visit the charming Mr. Gaunt. We ran into Aberforth's not very creative wards. Then again, Aberforth has shown an appalling lack of originality in any matter that does not concern goats."

Aberforth, in 1934, had been twice the man I had been. It had taken me more than half-a-century, two Dark Lords and countless deaths on my conscience to realise that.

"I am afraid that Ollivander came away from that experience with quite an aversion to Parselmouths and snakes. You see, Mr. Gaunt has an affinity for stirring his serpentine companions into cruelty."

Ollivander had learnt of Tom's matrilineage. He had seen for himself Gaunt speaking Parseltongue to order snakes to attack. Ollivander's father had died of a[Author ID1: at Sat Apr 23 02:14:00 2011 ] snakebite while on an expedition to a marsh in China for procuring fresh dragon heartstring.

"Questions have been asked in the Ministry chambers ever since the Malkins incident. They say the boy will be the next Dark Lord. He is a Parselmouth. His magic is layered with hatred and ambition. There is something unnatural about him."

I had felt the same. Aberforth had not.

"We did not know about you," Castle Albus mused. "Aloysius would not let me take chances and arrived with a full team early this evening. The phoenix, we had established, would be our portal to your hideout here, since its attachment to me proved that it would be equally attached to you. We frightened it and the bird flew to the safest haven it knew - to you. The wards were broken enough for me to deconstruct them easily." His face hardened then and he said, "By the time we broke through, your little assassin had already set Ollivander on fire. It will be Azkaban for him if Ollivander does not make it."

They harmed Fawkes in a bid to break the wards? How dared they touch a phoenix? At least, Ollivander should have known better. Yet, I lamented silently, not many could withstand the will of Albus Dumbledore. Certainly not Ollivander.

"Ollivander killed Tom's snake," I said tersely. "I don't know if he meant to. He set it on fire. By the time Abe and I reached here from the house, Tom's anger had resulted in a spurt of wild magic."

Not strictly true, since my brother and I had set Shield Charms to save Ollivander. They had not served the purpose. Yet telling Castle Albus of that would only result in condemning Tom further. I had to get the boy released into my care. Aberforth was strong enough to endure Azkaban whereas being exposed to the Department of Mysteries might be what snapped Tom's tenuous grip on integrity and sent him careening into the Dark Arts.

"Wild magic?" Castle Albus was asking. "That boy is a psychopath. He meant to kill Ollivander and you know it."

Did I? Did the boy mean to kill Ollivander? Yes. The boy had believed that the life of a snake was worth the life of a human-being.

"He is not a psychopath," I said quietly. "He is young. Too young to know what he is doing."

"Genghis Khan killed his brother when he was a ten-year-old."

"Ollivander should not have set the snake on fire."

"It was just a snake," Castle Albus remarked. "Did he try to kill the children who stole his toys, too?"

I can make things happen, Tom had said. I can make animals obey me. There had been more. He had not given up the rest of his secrets.

Castle Albus had fallen silent and was now looking at me expectantly. I lowered my eyes to Tom's sundial and asked, "You are not curious as to my identity?"

"I paid a surprise visit to Aberforth last week," Castle Albus said cheerfully.

Using Legilimency on my brother, and on all my informants, had helped me build the Order of the Phoenix during the Voldemort wars. I had known whom to trust.

"You are me," Castle Albus was saying, as he walked to the kitchen-door. I followed him. He said, "You were me. Such a pity that you have lost the Time-Turner."

I would be made to disappear. With his influence, Castle Albus would have little trouble in feeding the Aurors a suitably tailored story.

He threw open the door. I could see the tree, with its broken angel looking accusingly at the pair of us. Castle Albus faltered. Inside hung heavy and smothering the thousand injustices that had happened to a young girl. Outside were the stars and the sundial left by a boy who talked to snakes. Castle Albus stepped out, closed the door with a soft thud of finality, cleared his throat and turned his gaze to the sundial.

Closure. Tom had found Ariana's grave, lured me there and unwittingly brought me a degree of closure.

"Grindelwald," I said.

Castle Albus flinched, as I had known he would. He might have the strength to carefully cloak his emotions and thoughts anywhere else, but not here, not after he had returned here for the first time since Ariana's funeral.

"What of him?" he asked in a low, dangerous voice.

"You think you can defeat him." I dangled the bait.

He narrowed his eyes.

"What he has dabbled in constitutes more than a street-conjuror's tricks," I remarked. "Power you have."

"And skill to match," he said coolly. "If I had not survived him, you would not have lived to see your old age."

"Who said that I survived him intact?" I demurred.

Suspicion. Anger. Resentment. And, ah, there it came - fear. Then came his probing mind seeking my secrets. I adopted something I had seen Severus do many a time whenever we played games of Legilimency as others played Scrabble: I played coy. Teasing the invader with glimpses that trailed away into wisps of murky confusion, randomly yielding a significant memory and following that siren-call with a hundred odd trivialities - it was a delicate exercise to keep the questing mind eager, satisfied and trustful of what it registered. At the moment, I was grateful for Severus's quirks, one of which was that he preferred these strange games of the mind over board-games or duelling. Wands, he often had insisted, are meant for teenagers and Aurors.

Castle Albus might be lacking in experience, but he had a healthy intuition and was now glaring at me suspiciously. I hummed Good King Wenceslas because I hated that tune and it was extremely satisfying to watch my companion fidget and scowl.

"Riddles," he muttered. Once, so long ago, Father had taught me fishing. The first time I had felt the line tugging, I had known what true euphoria was. Now there it was again. The bait had been taken. "You are only as useful as your riddles remain."

"I want Abe and the boy," I said calmly. "I want protection."

"Aberforth will be fine," Castle Albus said dismissively. "If I could save his hide in that matter about whatever happened with the goat, I can cajole the Wizengamot into letting him scot-free now. There might be a fine involved."

"The boy," I pressed on.

"The boy," Castle Albus repeated. "What is your interest in him? Tell me, why all this bother for a boy who is far down the path of darkness? You are not as naive as to believe that he can be saved."

"No," I said frankly. "I don't think he can be saved."

But Aberforth hoped. Tom had sung Lacrymosa for his dead serpentine friend, and he had tried to kill Ollivander. He had not minded being harmed or degraded as long as Father Sebastian taught him. He had been a cowering wreck of an orphan in the playground biting his wrist to stifle his cries. He had peeled potatoes at Aberforth's kitchen-table and debated with me about Robinson Crusoe. He had sung my father's favourite Irish lay and grievously harmed the boy who had called him a freak. I had bought him his first ice-cream and helped him make his sundial.

"He gave Aberforth and you a common purpose," Castle Albus observed. Amusement played in his eyes. He was so young. I had been so young. Then, I had not realised how the rift with my brother would haunt me in my twilight days. I was so grateful for what I had with Aberforth now. For this renewed, stronger bond.

"I want the boy released into my care, immediately," I stipulated in a tone that brooked no debate.

He would always put his motives about those of the Ministry. If he found me intriguing enough, he would allow my terms.

"We can't want him running unfettered," Castle Albus said. "He is a potential danger to our community. The Aurors know that. I know that, and you know that."

I remembered the anger that had harpooned into my mind when I had sought to employ Legilimency on the boy.

"Look into his mind," I told Castle Albus. "Tell the Ministry that you see nothing dangerous. Your word will be enough for them to release the boy."

"I will see something dangerous," he said darkly.

Yes, he would. Tom bore grudges, fantasised about revenge, hated many people passionately and was curious about power and control. Perhaps that was why I had not tried to invade his mind after the first time. He was only a child. I could have pinned his mind and extracted his secrets had I wanted to. I did not do that. I had not wanted to see.

"You have warped the flow of time," Castle Albus said thoughtfully. His eyes were not twinkling now. "It will be futile to use old markers to measure new lengths. I will choose caution over action for now. I shall look into the boy's mind. What I see, I shall keep to myself. For now. Yet if in the future I see him acting upon the darkness emanating from his mind, then-"

"I understand," I said quickly, trying and failing to hide my doubt under a veneer of calm.

"Protection," he said. "A Ministry-vetted identity. I will see what I can do. I am going to the Mysteries Department now. You will wait here."

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Waiting was not, had never been, one of my strong suits. That week, with only the snow and the sepulchral creaking of the old house for company, I was slowly being driven out of my wits. Castle Albus did not deem it a prime concern to update me about Aberforth's trial or Tom's status or Ollivander's condition.

Christmas Eve saw me dolefully standing by the hearth and glaring at the broken angel figurine. Its blue eyes remained distant and accusing.

Crisp knocking broke me from my dreary thoughts. Shooting the angel one last glare, I swept around and made for the front-door.

I opened it to find myself facing Hyperion Malfoy. His dramatic widow's peak and rapidly thinning once-luxurious mane lent his pale features a distinctly cadaverous look. I had only seen him once or twice before at the Ministry. Now clad in fine robes of green silk and clutching a scroll, he was peering at me myopically. Of course, he would consider a monocle beneath his elegance.

"Mr. Percival Dumbledore?" he asked in a high, quavering voice.

Had Castle Albus a hand in this? Keeping my suspicions off my features, weighing a hundred possibilities in my mind, I nodded assent and asked, "You have the advantage of me, good sir."

"Hyperion Malfoy," he replied. His eyes were quickly darting to and fro, taking in the yard and whatever he could see of the house over my shoulder. A faint scowl marred his features before he schooled into aristocratic blandness. "I was visiting a chum in the Department of Mysteries." He was greasing their hands with bribe, no doubt. He continued, "I have been told to give you this by young Riddle."

He extended the scroll.

Casting him a wary glance, I took the proffered scroll and unfurled it.

A hike in the import duty on Magical Carpets would considerably hamper...

"Blood-magic, I am afraid," Hyperion Malfoy deigned to explain with a smirk. "It would not have passed the Security otherwise. They are being cautious, unusually so, given that they believe they are keeping the next Dark Lord in their department."

Of all the people whom Tom could have met in that Unspeakable pit, it had to be Hyperion Malfoy who excelled at blood-magic whom he trusted with a scroll. What had he done to impress Malfoy? For the man was impressed, unduly so, since he had lowered himself to deliver a message. Was this the first seed sown to raise a dark army?

I made a small cut on my palm with my wand, let a drop of blood drip onto the parchment and healed my palm. The observations on the import duty placed on Magical Carpets vanished leaving behind a sentence in the cramped cursive of Tom Riddle.

Am I a Lilliputian in a man's world or a man in Lilliput?

Gulliver's Travels. The little imp. The little, clever imp. I could well visualise the Ministry as Lilliput, and the Minister as the ridiculous Emperor. I could also see in my mind's eye the boy's puckish half-smile.

"He looked exceptionally pleased with himself," Malfoy said curiously. He was too well-bred to outright ask about the contents.

"It is a reference from a Muggle novel," I said smugly, delighting in Malfoy's displeased scowl.

"Muggle?" he demanded.

"Didn't he tell you, then?" I asked. Had the boy done some grandstanding or the other about his mysterious wizarding lineage?

"I didn't ask," Malfoy muttered. "He is only a frightened child."

"Frightened?" I asked. Panic and disbelief fought for precedence. Tom, frightened? I tried not to think about the state I had found him in when I had followed his wild magic to the playground.

"Yes," he said. His eyes softened and he continued hastily, "He is fine. New surroundings and new people unsettled him. My son is the same. They all are."

The son. Abraxas. The child of Hyperion's waning years. The same age as Tom. That explained why Malfoy had deigned to act messenger without bothering to ask about blood purity. Though, I would not put it past him to assume that all budding Dark Lords were compulsorily of pure wizarding lineage.

However, this was an opportunity. Malfoys rarely had Achilles's heels, being the self-absorbed creatures they were.

"My cousin is working on fetching him home," I said quietly, taking care to trace Tom's cursive with appropriate wistfulness. "It is the boy's first Christmas away from that horrid orphanage."

Malfoy looked conflicted. Then he cleared his throat and said briskly, "The Wizengamot is closed for the holidays. I expect they shall convene to hear your brother's charges and decide on the boy's future only after the New Year."

My knuckles tightened on the scroll and I turned half-way to look at the Christmas tree. Malfoy cleared his throat again and said, "Such a charming boy. Polite and clever. The Ministry are being idiots. If you hadn't told me otherwise, Mr. Dumbledore, I would have assumed your cousin has had a hand in stalling the boy's discharge from the Mysteries Department."

"He was justifiably worried by the boy's actions," I demurred. "He works so hard to protect us from the darkness."

That last line probably exceeded the limits of acceptable exaggeration. Malfoy looked dubious.

"Tom made the sundial," I digressed. "He is a very clever boy, sir."

"I know," Malfoy said. He was being truthful, I realised. This was not the usual flattery one expected from a Malfoy. "Your boy will be home for his birthday, Mr. Dumbledore."

"Birthday?"

Of course. The boy had been born on New Year's Eve. I had forgotten all about that.

Malfoy offered me a wan smile, and said, "It must be a nightmare."

Aberforth was in Azkaban. Tom, Malfoy had told me, had been frightened by whatever was happening in the Department of Mysteries. Ollivander might not survive. I was stuck in this house with the ghosts. Castle Albus was an unknown card in the game that could make or break us. Now, on Christmas Eve, there was a balding Malfoy on my doorstep trying to empathise. Perhaps this was his one good deed for the year. Yes, it was a nightmare.

"I will take some of my son's storybooks with me the next time I pop into the Ministry," Malfoy said.

Tom did not like wizarding books because of the moving pictures. The sort of books Malfoy children read were certainly likely to involve moving pictures to an unacceptable degree, if only because the publishers embellished with artwork custom copies of children's books ordered by the cream of society.

"If you give me a second," I told Malfoy, "I shall get some of his books."

I retrieved Peter Pan from Tom's bed on the attic. Carefully, I placed the bright orange marker I had conjured on the page he had left it open. Scanning the other books on the little desk Aberforth had made for the boy, I chose The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Tom might have preferred Andersen's stories but I considered most of them morbid, if not judgemental, and not suited for the environs of the Mysteries Department.

Malfoy had a sour expression on his face. I ought to have invited him in. When he saw the tomes in my hands, his face darkened further. Lips pursed, he extended a gloved hand rather unwillingly, probably fearing the contagious diseases borne via Muggle books. I decided that taking my frustration out on him was not appropriate Christmas Eve behaviour. He had vaguely promised to see to Tom's plight, after all. That was more assurance than Castle Albus had given. I did suspect that Malfoy was hoping to earn the suspected little Dark Lord's favourable notice by running this errand. It would be par on the course. He was a Malfoy. His fingers made a twitch as they came into contact with the books. Taking pity, I conjured a voluminous purple handbag adorned with pearls and placed the books in it. He looked horrified, but considered this an improvement over direct contact.

"Thank you," I said sincerely.

"It is nothing," he managed, looking extremely appalled by the accessory. He made a ridiculous sight with his foppish gloves, expensive robes and the purple handbag. Such a pity that he did not carry a cane to complete the picture.

With a pained nod, he started down the path to the gate and I watched him with perverse glee until he Apparated out of sight. Pettiness was more comfortable than the depressing thoughts of how Aberforth would spend the holiday in prison. Tom, at least, was cynical by nature and would not be as heartbroken as my brother would be. Aberforth had hoped to have a real Christmas for the first time since our mother's death.

Castle Albus was right. The timeline had been warped. Never meddle with time or women, Father had once told me.

Seeking distraction, I read the scroll once again. Tom's script flowed impish on the parchment as it teased me with the reference to the children's classic.

"Wretched boy," I muttered. Then I conjured a plush armchair and followed that by casting a charm to fetch my dog-eared copy of Gulliver's Travels.

My father had a small estate in Nottinghamshire: I was the third of five sons. He sent me to Emanuel College in Cambridge at fourteen years old, where I resided three years, and applied myself close to my studies; but the charge of maintaining me, although I had a very scanty allowance, being too great for a narrow fortune, I was bound apprentice to Mr. James Bates, an eminent surgeon in London, with whom I continued four years.

In 1934, on Christmas Eve, I fled to the land of Lilliput.

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External Source Text:

Gulliver's Travels - a classic novel written by Jonathan Swift.

Good King Wenceslas - popular Christmas carol

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