Borrowed Time

November 21, 1967

London

10:43 pm

Winter hung over the London skyline like a rancid fog. A chill ran through the maze of streets and alleyways, causing all the denizens of the ancient city to shiver and pull their coats tighter around them. It was going to be a long winter, they could already tell.

The winds blew a veil of gray clouds in front of the dimming sun, the only reminder of the pleasant autumn. They all shivered again...

Deep in the bowels of the Underground, a cloaked figure crawled through the tunnels, his hands shivering as he desperately searched for his wand...

It looked like a storm was brewing to the west. The clouds only became thicker and more menacing...

The wand! Where is it? The man panicked and continued to bleed from the nasty wound on his side...

The wind swept through the London streets with more venom this time...

Apparate, you fool! Apparate! His fingers dug into his coat, desperately searching for the wand. He wanted to cry, but there was no time for it. Adrenaline surged painfully through his system as a cold sweat poured down his back. He had to Apparate; he had to get out of there.

He suddenly heard a series of "pops" and saw, with a sickening lurch in his stomach, three more cloaked figures emerge from the shadows of the Underground. One of them, wide and bear-like stepped forward from the pack.

"Mine," was all he said as he drew upon his victim.

His victim gave up all hope for finding his wand and tried to speed away. The trio's leader drew forth his wand and, with an authoritative hiss, commanded "Crucio!" The wand-less man fell to the ground, but before he could scream, another one of his attackers yelled "Silencio!" He writhed in agonizing pain without making a sound.

The leader of this unholy pack drew forth from his cloak a shimmering dagger and descended upon the screaming man. The Killing Curse was too good for this one. The whole time, not a sound was made, save the grunts of the attacker as he plunged deeper into the flesh.

The wind died down as quickly as it had arisen. Only the winter's chill remained.

November 22, 1967

Ministry of Magic, London

9:52 am

Chief Auror Marcus Weisel leaned over the body that had been brought to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement earlier that morning. Two department employees Apparated it in after a witness, a witch, had heard the Cruciatus Curse uttered. From the outset, the department had assumed that this was simply a particularly brutal mugging. Which only made Weisel wonder why Department Head, Bartemius Crouch, personally called him in to investigate what seemed to be a simple case.

Weisel lifted the crisp, white sheet to reveal the man's face, or what remained of it. The nose had been hacked of and the throat cut so deep that the head was nearly severed. Lifting the sheet further, Weisel saw a series of gashes along the chest. He pursed his lips in disgust; this man was merely stabbed to death, he was hacked like a slab of meat.

"Pretty gruesome, eh?" a raspy voice uttered behind Weisel. Weisel turned to see fellow Auror Alastor Moody walk up beside him. Moody looked rough, as usual, and his grizzled features made him seem much older than he truly was.

Weisel let the sheet fall. "Disgusting if you ask me," he replied. He shook his head. "All this brutality for what? A bag of sickles or galleons?"

"You think this was a robbery?"

Weisel shrugged. "That's what I've been told." When Moody did not respond, he turned to his companion and asked, "Do you think it's something else?"

Moody's lips became a thin line. He procured from the folds of his robe a scroll of parchment and handed it to Weisel. "This is the preliminary crime report. Aurors could find no evidence of a robbery. In fact, the poor bloke still had a good amount of galleons on him as well as his wand."

Weisel scanned the report. "If not robbery then what?"

Moody smirked. "Surely you must be curious why Crouch would call us down for such a petty crime?" Weisel's eyebrows perked up. "This was found on the man." He handed Weisel a flat, shimmering object.

Weisel looked at it. It was a Ministry of Magic identification card. He looked at the picture. Sure enough, it was the same man, Weisel could tell even after the disfigurement. The name read Thomas Hawn and he was listed on the card as working in the Department of Mysteries. "Was he an Unspeakable?"

"No," Moody replied. "He was a Junior Assistant in the department, just graduated from Hogwarts two years ago."

"Sad."

"Yeah. But Crouch wants to keep this as quiet as possible, so not to cause a panic in the Ministry."

Weisel smiled bitterly. "Which is why he called us in."

Moody nodded. "That and the victim worked in the Department of Mysteries. Anything dealing with him will be case sensitive, no matter how junior he was in the department."

"Indeed," Weisel muttered. He rolled the scroll back up. "This is starting to look like a hit or something."

Moody stared down at the body, modestly covered by the sheet. "Yeah. Kind of makes one worry. Makes you wonder if you're next."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves here," Weisel chided. "We don't know anything yet." He paused. "Did Muggles do this?"

Moody took a deep sigh and shook his head. "No," he said, "a witch came forward and said that she heard an Unforgivable being used on the lad." Once again he sighed and shook his head. "I need to get back to work. See you around, Marcus."

"Do you want this?" Weisel asked, holding out the crime report.

"Nah, I already have copy at my desk." He chuckled. "My desk. Still can't believe that they have me stuck behind one of those."

"They've got all of us old warriors behind desks now," Weisel answered. "See you later."

"Indeed," Moody replied. With that he slipped out of the room.

Weisel turned back to the corpse. "Rest in peace, friend. That's about all you can do now." He tucked the parchment into his robe pocket and wandered into the corridors of the Ministry of Magic. The Ministry had almost become a home to the experienced Auror, as he often spent more hours here than at his handsome flat. He found his office, just down the hall from the sprawling quarters of Barty Crouch. He sat down at his desk and pulled the crime report scroll out of his robe. Setting it down on the desk, he unrolled it and began to read. Thomas Hawn, nineteen years old, Ravenclaw at Hogwarts with top NEWTS in Charms, Potions, Transfiguration, Arithmancy, and Divination. He was hired right out of school, right into the Department of Mysteries. Weisel looked up the name of the boy's supervisor here at the Ministry. The name sounded familiar: Augustus Rookwood. Another Unspeakable, Weisel supposed. He made a note to himself to meet with Rookwood as soon as he had the time. In the meantime, there were other reports to be reviewed.

3:01 pm

Weisel had only ventured down into the Department of Mysteries only a handful of times during his career with the Ministry. Actually, he had never been inside the department proper, only the Unspeakables and their assistants were actually allowed behind the impressive wooden door that separated the Ministry from its shadowy bureau. Visitors to the department, like Weisel, were directed to the offices and conference rooms to the left and right of the door. But Weisel knew that no one actually worked in these offices, they were just a ruse set up to keep nosy visitors out.

He stopped at the office cluster labeled "Ostelhoff and Rookwood" and entered. The offices seemed oddly sterile and blank. The walls were whitewashed and the mahogany furniture looked brand new. He knocked on Rookwood's office door. He hoped that Rookwood had remembered the appointment he made to meet with him.

"Come in," a voice muffled through the door answered.

Weisel entered and saw Augustus Rookwood seated at his desk. The desk was spotless and the filing cabinet beside it was locked shut. Not that there would be anything of importance within the cabinet. The Department of Mysteries was too careful with its secrets. Weisel took a seat before the desk.

Rookwood's lean face was drawn into a somber expression. "I suppose you're here about poor Thomas Hawn," he said, his voice dropping a pitch.

"So you've heard," Weisel murmured.

Rookwood's mouth creased into a sly grin. "I work in the Department of Mysteries, Mr. Weisel, I know just about everything that goes on in the Ministry." He became serious once again. "He was a good lad, a hard worker. Thomas loved his job and would've been a great asset to the Ministry had he...er...had he lived."

Weisel nodded. "He indeed sounded like a good worker. Seeing as you were his supervisor, do you have any idea who would've wanted to kill him?"

Rookwood pursed his lips and shook his head slowly. "I can't give you any specific names, but I will tell you this: working in the Department of Mysteries has its inherent dangers. Department employees, no matter how junior, are privy to information that many enemies of the Ministry would easily kill for. It's dangerous work; we all have to watch our backs. We all come into the department knowing that." He shrugged slightly. "My only guess is that poor Thomas opened himself up to the wrong people."

"Would anyone within the Ministry, or within the Department, want him killed?"

Rookwood was taken aback a bit by the question. "Mr. Weisel, I can assure you that no one within the Department of Mysteries would want Thomas Hawn killed. There would be no purpose for it. Thomas was not an important enough figure for anyone to want to see him killed." He paused for a moment and peered at Weisel. "From what I have been told, Thomas was stabbed to death. It looks to me like he was killed by Muggles."

Weisel nodded. "That's what we thought as well, until a witness, a witch, came forward and said that she had heard the Cruciatus Curse being used on Mr. Hawn."

Rookwood's eyebrows shot up in surprise. After a long pause, he simply shook his head. "You have me lost now, Mr. Weisel. I wish that I could help you more." He held out his palms in a gesture of defeat.

Weisel stood. "I'm sorry to have bothered you," he said. "If you come up with any more information, you know where to find me."

"Will do," Rookwood replied. "Good day, Mr. Weisel."

"To you as well," Weisel half muttered as he stepped out of the office and back into the hall. He felt his shoulders slump. He had no more information about this case than he had when the poor boy's body had been wheeled into the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. But something was still rubbing him the wrong way about this case. No matter all the evidence that indicated otherwise, Weisel had a gut feeling that the murder of Thomas Hawn was far from ordinary.

January 30, 1968

Ministry of Magic, London

1:53 pm

Minister of Magic Franklin Beauclerc was just finishing up his lunch with Barty Crouch in his private parlor at the Ministry when none other than Albus Dumbledore, the newly instated Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry arrived late. The Headmaster swept calmly into the room, white beard and blue robes flowing.

"Ah! Dumbledore!" the Minister said, rising to meet his guest and shaking his hand. Crouch rose as well and gave a curt nod to Dumbledore. "Good to see you, even if you are a little late."

"My apologies, Minister," Dumbledore replied, "but I had an urgent meeting with my deputy headmistress just before I arrived." He sat down beside the Minister and Crouch. "I hope I haven't missed too much of lunch."

"No, Dumbledore, there's still some left," Crouch replied as he proceeded to refill his plate.

Dumbledore only placed a few morsels on his own plate and filled his glass with the fine brandy the Minister had provided. "How are things at the Ministry?" he began quietly. "It seems like it's been a long time since I took the headmaster position."

Beauclerc sighed. "Not much, I'm glad to say. Just the same old paperwork to get done."

Dumbledore smiled. "Sounds good to me."

"Makes my job almost boring," Crouch added with a chuckle. The Minister and Dumbledore joined in with him.

"Yes indeed, Barty," Dumbledore agreed. He took a swig of the brandy. "That reminds me, how's the investigation of poor Mr. Hawn going?"

Crouch nearly choked on his own drink. "How do you know about that?"

"It's a pretty well known secret around Ministry," Dumbledore replied calmly. Crouch and Beauclerc exchanged a nondescript look. "I just want to know if you have found any suspects."

"Unfortunately no," Crouch answered with a gruff. "It looks like the case has gone cold. Every lead we've looked into has led to a dead end."

"Who is looking into the case, by the way?"

"Marcus Weisel and Alastor Moody."

"Really?" Dumbledore exclaimed. "How is dear Marcus? I haven't seen him in ages."

"He seems to be doing fine," Crouch replied quickly. "He's working hard on the case, I can assure you."

"Oh, I don't need reassurance," Dumbledore said with a sparkling chuckle. "I knew Marcus when he first came to Britain. He's grown a lot since then. He has to be one of the best Aurors we have in the Ministry."

"Which is why I put him on the case," Crouch explained. "If anyone's going to close that horrendous crime, it's Weisel and Moody."

"But the case remains unsolved," Beauclerc sighed, taking a sip of his own brandy. "You'll have to get on those boys, Barty."

"They're working on it," Dumbledore said, "I know those two."

May 6. 1968

Outskirts of Little Hangleton, Britain

10:56 pm

Little Hangleton was nothing more than a blot on the map of Britain. Tucked among the silent moors of the green country, it could not be any farther from the cosmopolitan London. It was mostly a community of poor farmers and tradesmen who gathered together only at church or for a soothing drink at the Hanged Man pub in town. Not much happened here, in fact the only interesting news was very old news. The little hamlet's claim to fame was the fantastic and baffling deaths of the town's wealthiest denizens, the Riddles. Both Mr. and Mrs. Riddle, along with their son, Tom, were found dead in their own home, just as they were eating dinner. Foul play was immediately suspected and the Riddles' gardener, a disgruntled old veteran by the name of Frank Bryce, was taken in for questioning. But ultimately all charges had to be dropped after the forensics report could find no evidence to support a murder. The Riddles seemed to have dropped dead with no apparent reason. But this did not stop the residents of Little Hangleton from growing suspicious of Bryce and avoiding the Riddle estate he so proudly cared for.

But the mysterious deaths of the Riddles were old news, nearly three decades old by now. Nothing much else happened since then, save the occasional drought or blighted crop. So in the end, the legacy of the Riddles just never seemed to die and was discussed with almost as much fervor as it did thirty years ago.

Titus Mortimer had heard the story long before he came to Little Hangleton. But unlike the quaint and simple citizens of the village, Titus learned of the story straight from the source: Tom Riddle's estranged son, also called Tom. No one in the village had ever heard of this younger Riddle, not even the Riddles themselves. And no one knew that it was Tom Riddle, Jr. who had actually committed what was to be the perfect crime. But Titus knew. Titus had known for years, since early 1965 when he ran across a brilliant young scholar going by the name Trotsky studying in the Soviet Union. The two quickly shared a rapport and a dangerous knowledge of the Dark Arts. Among the wilds of the Russian frontier, far away from any prying eyes, people like Riddle and Titus could learn the forbidden charms, potions, and curses freely. Dangerous ideas were traded during those times; ideas about the future of wizard kind. Ideas that led to one conclusion: purification. Like the timeless metal gold, Riddle planned to purify the wizard race. He would run them through the fire, slowly skimming off the debris, the Muggle debris. All that would be left were the purebloods, those truly worthy to study the magical arts.

Titus was enthralled by the ambitious plans of Riddle, who by that time was going by the name Lord Voldemort. He enlisted himself in Voldemort's growing list of followers and soon established himself as the Dark Lord's top aide. Together they joined the Knights of Walpurgis, a Dark Arts group that has been around for centuries. But they took control of the group and revamped it. With Voldemort as the mysterious figurehead, Titus created an intricate cell system and led expert covert operations. Titus preferred to work in the shadows, dealing in secrets and lies. He preferred conspiracy to war. He even coined the name for this growing legion of dark wizards: Hadethanasia, the Hidden Death. A fitting description, he thought.

Titus waited at the far end of Little Hangleton, resting below the boughs of the handsome yew tree in the town cemetery. The dim lights from the village glowed behind him and the dark Riddle estate loomed ahead of him. He pulled out his pocket watch from his robe pocket. It would be any minute now.

A faint "pop" indicated an Apparition just behind him. Titus turned to see a robed figure, tall and slim, enter into view. The woman came to his side, but did not look him in the face. Her blond hair gleamed silver in the moonlight. "What reason do you have to call me out here?" her low voice asked in a flat American accent. "Couldn't we have just used the fireplaces?"

"They may not be secure," Titus replied.

The woman finally looked him in the face with a surprised expression on her face. "I thought you had secured the fireplaces."

"I did, but there was a leak in the system."

"What do you mean?"

"One of our moles in the Ministry seems to have wanted to double-cross us."

The woman nodded. "Has that been taken care of?"

Titus sighed. "To a degree, yes."

Her eyes narrowed. "To what degree?"

"There was a witness. Crank botched it."

"Does the Ministry suspect?" Her dark eyes watched her companion closely.

"Not that I know of," Titus replied quickly. "It seems they let the case go cold."

She pursed her lips. "It won't stay that way for long, you know."

"I know." Titus kicked the dirt absent-mindedly. "I just wanted to warn you of that. I don't think this will make anything trace back to you, I just wanted you to know anyway."

The woman nodded. "Would you like me to do anything about it?"

Titus shook his head. "Not now, it's too early. But I would like to request one favor from you."

"Shoot."

"The man leading the investigation is Marcus Weisel. Apparently he's a top Auror in the Ministry." He looked gravely down upon his companion. "I want you to gather as much information as you can on this man."

"What do you know about him already?" she inquired.

"I hear that he's Polish in origin and emigrated to Britain after the War. Other than that I can't tell you much more."

The woman smiled. "Sounds interesting. I'll look into as soon as I get back to the States."

There was a long and pregnant pause. "When can I see you again?" Titus blurted out, more mumbling it that actually speaking.

The woman gave a sly grin. "As soon as I get the information you need." She started to walk out from under the yew tree. "See you around, Traveler," with that, she Disapparated.