Chapter Text
Tom Marvolo Riddle had done everything he had set out to do. He had killed Harry Potter, he had utterly crushed the pitiful remnants of the resistance, and he had taken his rightful, undisputed place as High Chancellor of Magical Britain. The mudbloods and blood traitors who refused to bow to his new world order had fled the country, scattering like terrified vermin into the shadows of the continent. He had allowed those who surrendered and remained to live in relative peace, so long as they implicitly understood and obeyed the new, unyielding hierarchy of magical Britain. He had constructed a society of control, an empire where magic was revered, and weakness was eradicated, but as he looked over the burning fields of that week’s dead, he knew, though he would never admit it out loud, that he had made a fatal flaw.
He stood at the edge of the destruction, watching the colossal wall of orange flames consume the tall, dry stalks of the field. The blaze roared with a deafening intensity, sending immense pillars of thick black smoke rolling high into the twilight sky, blotting out the fading light of the sun. The blistering heat radiated against his skin, yet he remained perfectly still, a picture of immaculate composure.
He possessed the face of a breathtakingly handsome young man once more. The sharp, aristocratic angles of his jaw, the pale, flawless skin, and the thick, artfully dishevelled dark hair that fell across his forehead betrayed no hint of the monster within. He wore a set of dark robes and heavy leather gloves. He looked human, whole, but it was a carefully constructed deception.
He had been too arrogant. He had usurped death, he had cheated the fundamental laws of nature, but he had not fully understood the magnitude of what it truly meant to conquer death. The lack of Horcruxes after Potter and his miserable gang of blood traitors had destroyed them had left him vulnerable. He had been forced to resort to blood rites to ensure his continued existence. They were dark, ancient bonds that required unspeakable sacrifices, magic that forcefully tied him to the very earth he stood upon. The ritual had reverted him to his younger form, healing the torn, ragged edges of his soul, only to warp it all over again to fulfil his desperate, consuming need for immortality.
And now, that very earth was burning.
Now, something or someone far more ancient and terrible than he was was punishing them all. It was all because he had been short sighted. There was absolutely no point in the immense power he wielded, no point in possessing true immortality, when his very people were unable to die. The consequences of his actions had plunged the country into a brand of horror that even he had not anticipated. Now, when a witch or wizard reached the end of their natural life or succumbed to fatal injuries, they did not find peace. Their souls remained permanently tethered to the earth, securely trapped within their own rotting, decaying bodies. They became violent, deranged shells. They went mad as they suffered the sheer agony of physical decomposition while retaining a horrific, trapped awareness, begging endlessly for the sweet release of death that simply would not come. The only way to grant them that release, the only way to sever the tether, was to physically destroy the body with fire and even then their souls did not cross to Death.
"Twenty seven, my Lord."
The voice of Lucius Malfoy cut sharply through the grotesque crackling of bodies burning on the huge funeral pyre. Tom turned his head slightly to look at his lieutenant.
Lucius had aged dramatically over the past few years, the toll of the new world pressing heavily upon his shoulders. His long, pristine white hair hung straight down, a stark contrast to his black, high-collared velvet robes. Silver buttons trailed down the front of his garments, and a silver medallion rested flat against his chest. His black gloved hands gripped the silver serpent head of his walking cane with white knuckled intensity. He stood stiffly against the backdrop of the bleak, smoky landscape, projecting an air of pureblood dignity that felt increasingly fragile. There was a hollow exhaustion in his posture, no doubt because he knew that two months prior, his own wife’s body had been burned in this exact field, yet Narcissa's soul was still wandering somewhere in the ether, utterly lost and unreachable.
The widespread panic of the undying had brought zealots and worshippers of death crawling out of the woodwork. They gathered in the dark corners of Knockturn Alley and the damp cellars of forgotten manors, spitting and hissing over how Voldemort had doomed them all. He could not die; he had made sure of that. So now, they were angry. They viewed him not as a saviour, but as the architect of their eternal suffering.
"And how many the week before?" Voldemort asked, his voice a smooth, deadly whisper that barely carried over the roaring flames.
"Fifteen, my Lord," Lucius replied, his gaze fixed respectfully on the ash covered ground.
"All natural causes?"
"Most," Lucius said, his voice tight with suppressed emotion. "Though some were accidents. People are afraid to die, my Lord. They do not travel, they do not duel. The fear is paralysing them."
"And is there any word on our mudblood?" Voldemort asked, seamlessly shifting the conversation to the singular obsession that plagued his mind day and night.
"No, my Lord," Lucius said, a note of resignation in his tone. "Wherever she is hiding, she has hidden herself well. Given the circumstances, she will be near impossible to find."
"I need her," Voldemort said, turning his cold gaze back to the inferno. "She has the most extensive knowledge of Beedle the Bard, and she possesses the original texts."
Hermione Granger had been a constant, infuriating irritation, a parasite that burrowed deeply under his skin and simply refused to leave. She was a phantom itch he couldn't scratch. During the war, she had always been much too clever, too different from the rest of her pathetic, short sighted order. She was constantly one step ahead, analysing his movements, forcing him to work harder, think smarter, and desperately try to stay in control of his own board. During the final battle, while the castle crumbled around them, she had been the one to miraculously smuggle dozens of people out of the ruins, slipping them away right under the noses of his most ruthless Death Eaters.
After his victory, he had decided she would be his living prize. Potter was dead. The ginger blood traitor had surrendered like a snivelling coward the very second Potter's body had hit the stone floor, demoralised and broken. But Granger was the true prize. She was the one he wanted to parade through the streets, a living symbol of his ultimate conquest over intellect and defiance. Then she had disappeared. She vanished so completely that his most talented trackers couldn't find a single trace of her. In the four long years since Potter's death, she had only popped up now and again. There were fleeting moments captured in recovered memories, whispered sightings in the shadowed alleys of the continent. Yet, as soon as his Death Eaters arrived to capture her, she would be gone, leaving nothing behind but frustration.
"I understand, my Lord," Lucius said carefully, interrupting his thoughts. "We did bring in some of the blood traitors you have allowed to remain. Though they are reluctant to give her up."
"Like who?" Voldemort asked, his interest suddenly piqued.
"Ginny Weasley for one," Lucius listed off, his tone laced with standard pureblood disdain. "Ron Weasley, and a boy named Dean Thomas."
"Have you tried legilimency?"
"The mudblood was exceptionally clever," Lucius admitted, a note of grim, undeniable respect bleeding into his aristocratic drawl. "We found a memory. A fragment of her visiting them recently, but she is not the same witch who fought in a small war. Wherever she has been, she has become a true witch. She blocked their memories somehow."
Tom pictured the phantom he chased, imagining how she must look now, hardened by years on the run in the harsh wilderness. He envisioned a solitary figure draped in dark woollen cloaks, standing against a bleak, bruised grey sky. Gloved hands clasped tightly together in the freezing air, guarding ancient secrets that could unravel his empire or, perhaps, save it.
"A mudblood, a true witch?" Voldemort said, a cruel, mocking smile playing on his lips as he looked at his oldest follower. "Lucius, have you have truly lost your blood purist views with age. I wish to see them myself. I will see this memory in case you missed anything in your senility. Where are they being held?"
"In Malfoy Manor, my Lord," Lucius said, stiffening slightly at the insult but keeping his head respectfully bowed.
Tom looked at the burning bodies one last time. He watched the flames lick the dark sky, watched the smoke choke the stars, and felt the terrible, suffocating weight of the earth he had permanently chained himself to. And then, with a sharp crack that echoed over the crackling fire, he apparated to Malfoy Manor.
Tom Marvolo Riddle arrived at Malfoy Manor with a soundless, undetectable shift in the atmosphere. The sky over Wiltshire formed a dark, ominous backdrop behind him, a churning expanse of bruised purples and charcoal greys that threatened a storm that never quite managed to break. He stood perfectly still for a moment, taking in the immense, oppressive scale of the estate. From a distance, the massive structure of the manor sat nestled deeply within a sprawling, suffocating expanse of dense, shadowed woods. Thick, creeping mist clung to the ancient trees like a rotting shroud, obscuring the boundaries of the grounds.
Before him stretched a long, flawlessly straight path paved with smooth, dark stone, flanked on either side by sheer, towering walls of meticulously manicured evergreen hedges. The path led towards an imposing set of elaborate wrought-iron gates, beyond which the severe, sharp-peaked facade of the manor house loomed. The air was cold and still, devoid of the natural sounds of wildlife that had long since abandoned the corrupted magical epicentres of Britain.
A second crack of apparition followed behind him, the sound sharp and too loud compared to Tom’s own seamless transition through space. The sudden noise sent a handful of albino peacocks scattering in different directions, their pristine white feathers flashing like ghosts against the dark, manicured lawns.
Tom didn't bother to turn around to acknowledge the arrival. He knew precisely who it was. He slowly began to remove his black leather gloves, pulling the material free finger by finger with deliberate, unhurried precision. He stepped onto the crushed gravel beyond the iron gates and walked towards the heavy, ornate front doors. The stones crunched softly beneath his polished shoes, the only sound breaking the heavy silence of the grounds.
As he approached, the massive double doors swung open heavily, pulled back by unseen servants. Standing on the threshold was Astoria Greengrass, the simpering, endlessly tiresome Lady Malfoy. She was a woman almost universally hated by her husband and the vast majority of the surviving purebloods for her relentlessly grating, tone deaf attitude. She wore elaborate, heavy robes of emerald silk that seemed out of place in a world that was currently burning itself to ash.
Beside her stood her utterly miserable and rigidly stoic husband, Draco. Lucius had wisely passed the mantle of Lord of the Manor to his son a year prior, sensing his own fraying nerves, and the young man now perpetually carried a look about him that suggested he would genuinely rather be anywhere else in the world, perhaps even dead, if death were still an option. Draco was dressed for the harsh, unyielding reality of their new society. He wore a severe, dark, militaristic uniform that fit his sharp frame perfectly. A black cloak was fastened tightly across his high collar. A cluster of medals hung precisely on his left breast pocket, and a heavy, ornate sword hilt rested securely at his belt. He looked every bit the ruthless enforcer of the High Chancellor’s regime, yet his pale, pointed face was hollowed out, his grey eyes dead and flat.
Draco inclined his head in a stiff, perfectly measured motion. "My Lord."
Astoria sank into a deep, overly theatrical curtsy, the skirts of her emerald robes pooling around her on the dark stone floor. "My Lord," she said, her voice a grating, saccharine pitch that immediately made Tom’s jaw tighten. "We did not expect you. What an absolute honour. Isn’t it, Draco?"
Draco stared straight ahead, his jaw clenching briefly. "Yes, Astoria. An honour."
Tom looked at the woman with a gaze so devoid of warmth it could have frozen the blood in her veins, though she seemed too deeply absorbed in her own performance to notice. "I am only here to see our prisoners."
Astoria fluttered her eyelashes, clasping her hands together. "You won't stop for tea, my Lord? We hardly get any guests these days, it’s all so terribly quiet."
Tom felt an urge to draw his wand, hit the simpering bitch with the Cruciatus Curse, and coldly inform her that the lack of social calls was most likely because the country was in the middle of an apocalyptic pandemic of rotting, undying corpses. He held the urge back, letting the silence stretch until it became suffocating. Before Tom had to waste his breath on her, Draco stepped forward, his dark uniform rustling heavily.
"Astoria, go to the parlour. I will escort our Lord to the dungeons."
She faltered, her painted smile slipping as she looked at her husband’s unyielding profile. "But-"
"Now," Draco snapped, the single word carrying a cold, cutting finality.
Astoria flushed an ugly, mottled red. She turned sharply on her heel and walked away, her footsteps echoing loudly, almost stomping down the grand hallway as she disappeared into the opulent depths of the manor.
Draco turned his dead, grey eyes back to Tom, his voice devoid of any emotion. "Apologies, my Lord."
Tom ignored him, stalking past the young Lord Malfoy and moved through the grand, cavernous halls of the manor, heading directly towards the servant corridors at the back of the house. He opened the heavy oak door that led down to the holding cells and began his descent. The air grew cooler, carrying the damp, metallic tang of deep earth and ancient stone. The sconces mounted on the walls flickered to life as he passed, the orange flames casting long, dancing shadows across his pale, sharp features. He walked through a long, repetitive sequence of brick-lined archways, the curved ceilings pressing down close above him. Torches burned brightly in heavy iron brackets along the walls, illuminating the uneven, worn cobblestones beneath his feet.
There was no stench of death down here anymore. During the war, these cells had reeked of blood, fear, and rotting flesh. Now, bodies had to be burnt the very second they died, lest their trapped souls tear the corpses apart from the inside out. The air in the dungeons was merely stale and cold. He reached the iron bars of the first large holding cell. Sitting on simple wooden chairs in the centre of the room were Ronald Weasley, Ginevra Weasley, and a dark skinned boy he vaguely recognised as Dean Thomas.
The moment Tom stepped into the flickering light of the torches, all three of them immediately stood up. There was no hesitation, no rebellious spark in their movements. They knew perfectly well that there was no point in resisting. There was no point even chaining them to the damp walls anymore, because they knew their exact place in this new world.
They had aged significantly from the starved, war-hardened teenagers they had been when the resistance fell. An actual diet of consistent food and the mundane, heavily monitored lives they had been permitted to lead since surrendering had allowed them to grow into almost normal adult wizards and witches. They looked healthy, though their eyes carried the heavy, permanent exhaustion of the defeated.
"My Lord," they mumbled in rough unison, bowing their heads.
He knew they despised saying it. He could taste the bitter, acidic resentment rolling off them in waves. He had, after all, slaughtered their precious saviour in front of them, breaking their spirits on the cold stones of Hogwarts. He relished the fact that they had to force the title from their throats to survive. Draco and Lucius stepped silently out of the shadows, taking up their positions standing respectfully behind Tom’s shoulders.
Tom didn't bother to return their greeting. He looked through the iron bars, his dark eyes sweeping over the trio. "Which of them had the memory of the mudblood?"
Ronald Weasley was the one who shifted his weight, his large hands twitching nervously at his sides. Lucius raised a gloved hand and pointed a single, elegant finger directly at the redhead.
Tom turned his attention to the tall, ginger man. "Do any of you have information on Miss Granger?"
They all rigidly shook their heads, their expressions tightening defensively.
Ginevra stepped slightly in front of her brother, lifting her chin. "She blocked our minds, apparently. We don't even remember seeing her. If your Death Eaters hadn't pulled the fragment out, we wouldn't even know she'd been there."
Tom tilted his head, his face an impassive mask. "Yet I have verified reports of her near the Burrow seven months ago."
Ronald swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his thick throat. "We can't remember. Hermione was always cleverer than us. If she wanted to come back and check on us, she wouldn't leave a loose end for your people to find."
"Mudbloods are permitted in our society," Tom lied smoothly, his voice a quiet, hypnotic murmur. "So long as they register and know their designated place. Why do you think she wouldn't surrender and come back to the fold? Her life would be far easier than scavenging in the wilderness."
They all looked slightly awkward, exchanging guarded, uncomfortable glances.
Tom stepped closer to the bars. "Speak freely. You are not under arrest. I simply want answers."
In his current state of desperation, he genuinely didn't even care about threatening them anymore. He didn't have the time or the energy to bother with torturing them. The world above them was literally burning to the ground, souls screaming in the ether, and he just needed the answers that would fix his fatal mistake.
Dean Thomas cleared his throat, stepping forward beside Ronald. "Because she's not like me. She's been hunted for years, my Lord. She is a symbol. I do not think she believes she will be treated the same as we are if she were to fully return. She knows you wouldn't just let her work a mundane job."
Tom considered the boy’s words. "That is correct, I suppose. She is far too intelligent to be treated like the masses. She requires a different touch."
Tom stepped forward, raising his hand. He seamlessly slipped the long, pale wood of the Elder Wand from his sleeve. He pointed it deliberately through the bars, pressing the tip gently against Ronald’s temple. The man flinched, closing his eyes tightly, but he didn't pull away.
"Legilimens," Tom whispered.
He didn't bother to be gentle. He tore through the man's mental defences with the force of a hurricane, diving deep into the sprawling, unorganised labyrinth of the Weasley boy's brain. Images flashed rapidly past his mind's eye. He saw fragments of Ronald's mundane, pathetic life. He saw the overgrown gardens at the Burrow, bathed in afternoon sunlight. He saw the man's dark-haired wife laughing in the kitchen. He saw Ronald drinking cheap firewhisky with his remaining brothers, laughing loudly over some inconsequential joke. He saw him working his assigned job, sweeping the stone corridors as a caretaker at Hogwarts, subservient and broken. Boring, utterly useless things.
Then, Tom pushed deeper, slicing through the mundane static, aggressively hunting for the phantom he needed.
He found it hidden beneath a thick, artificial fog of magical suppression. It was a tiny, perfectly preserved fragment of time. The memory opened in the overgrown garden of the Burrow. It was dark, the sky a deep, starless black. A hooded figure stood near the edge of the wards. The figure reached out, handing over a small woven basket. The heavy hood fell back, and her face was suddenly illuminated in the pale, cold moonlight.
It was a basket filled with neatly organised potion ingredients. Nothing volatile, nothing that could be used for an uprising. Just simple, practical things for healing. Dittany, powdered moonstone, dried nettles. But he wasn't looking at the basket. He was looking at her face.
She was different. The harsh years on the run had stripped away the soft, rounded edges of the schoolgirl she had been. Her eyes were noticeably brighter, burning with an intense, hardened intelligence, missing the naive warmth they used to hold. Her hair, once a chaotic, untameable mass of frizz, now fell in glossy, controlled waves over her shoulders. She had a delicate face with sharp, refined features, a dusting of faint freckles across the bridge of her nose. But what captivated him was the distinct, pulsating aura of incredibly strong magic radiating from her skin. It was far more potent than anything she had possessed during the war. It wasn't just raw power; it was deep, ancient, and settled. It looked as though she truly understood magic now, breathing it in like air, rather than simply regurgitating what she had frantically memorised from the Hogwarts library. It was purely instinctual. She looked dangerous.
He watched the memory play out.
He watched again, forcing Ronald's mind to replay the exact moment the moonlight hit her face. He watched it again. And then he caught something. A tiny detail his obsessive mind latched onto instantly. As she handed the basket over, her heavy sleeve slipped back just an inch. There was a tattoo on the delicate skin of her inner wrist.
At first passing glance, it looked like a simple, meaningless collection of intersecting lines. But he knew Granger. She wasn't the type of woman to frivolously ink her own skin for aesthetic pleasure. No, she was too precise and incredibly deliberate for that. Every action she took had a calculated purpose.
He froze the memory, zooming in on the exposed wrist.
It was a rune.
Hagall.
It was the ninth rune of the Elder Futhark, and a key character in the Younger Futhark. It represented the letter "H," and its ancient name translated directly to "hail". His encyclopaedic knowledge of dark, ancient magic provided the context instantly. It was widely considered a powerful, dangerous rune. A symbol of sudden disruption, of uncontrollable natural forces, and, most importantly, necessary transformation.
He pulled out of Ronald Weasley's mind with a sharp, gasping breath. He’d got her.
He knew precisely what that rune meant, and more importantly, he knew of someone who exclusively gifted that particular mark to those they deemed worthy of their dangerous knowledge. The phantom was finally solidifying into something he could catch.
Tom lowered the Elder Wand. He looked at the terrified ginger man, and a slow, purely predatory smile stretched across his handsome face. It was a wicked, genuinely cruel expression that made the Weasley boy stagger backwards until his shoulders hit the damp brick wall of the cell. Tom turned smoothly on his heel, his dark robes flaring around his legs.
"Lucius. Draco," he commanded, his voice ringing with absolute, triumphant certainty as he began the long walk back up the dungeon corridor. "Release them."