Chapter Text
The kitchen of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place was a far cry from the dreary, shadow-filled dungeon it had been a decade ago. Over the past few years, it had been scrubbed, brightened, and infused with the kind of chaotic warmth that only came from housing a makeshift, deeply stubborn family.
Currently, it smelled like absolute heaven.
Harry stood by the large, cast-iron stove, focused intently on the heavy skillet in front of him. He was busy helping Remus with the cooking, carefully using a pair of long silver tongs to flip several pieces of chicken that were sizzling merrily in hot oil. Across the large wooden island, Remus was methodically working a large block of aged cheddar against a grater, his movements precise and practiced.
They were making excellent progress, or at least they would have been, if not for the two vultures currently circling the kitchen island.
Sirius, clad in a leather jacket that he absolutely refused to take off indoors, leaned casually against the counter. When he thought Remus wasn’t looking, his hand darted out, swiping a large pinch of the freshly grated cheese.
Remus paused, his sharp amber eyes flicking toward his partner. He didn't scold him. Instead, he just shook his head, a fond, wildly indulgent smile touching the corners of his scarred mouth as Sirius popped the cheese into his mouth with a look of utter triumph.
Emboldened by his mentor's successful heist, Ron made his move. He crept up behind Harry, his long arm snaking out toward the plate of freshly fried chicken resting on a paper towel beside the stove.
Harry didn’t even look. His Seeker reflexes kicked in instantly. With a swift flick of his wrist, he brought the wooden spoon in his left hand down in a sharp arc.
Smack.
"Ow!" Ron snatched his hand back, cradling his knuckles against his chest. "Bloody hell, Harry!"
"I haven't even seasoned it yet, Ron," Harry said without missing a beat, keeping his eyes firmly on the sizzling pan. "Have some patience. It’s completely bland."
Ron let out a long, dramatic whine, slouching against the counter and looking at the chicken as if it had personally betrayed him. "You shouldn't be mean to me. I need the comfort food. I've had a completely awful day."
Remus paused his grating, resting his hands on the counter. He looked up, a familiar, knowing grin spreading across his face. "Has it really been awful, Ron?"
Predictably, that was the spark that ignited the powder keg.
"Awful? Awful is an understatement!" Sirius exploded, violently pushing off the counter and beginning to pace the length of the kitchen, his dramatic flair taking center stage. "Rufus is completely out of his mind! Assigning me under Moody? Me! As if I need constant, hovering supervision from a man who thinks his own shadow is a Death Eater in disguise!"
Sirius threw his hands up in exasperation, nearly knocking over a jar of dried rosemary. "I am a Senior Auror, for Merlin’s sake! I have decades of experience! I don't need a babysitter!"
"You did go completely off on your own, Sirius," Remus pointed out mildly, returning to his cheese. "And, if I recall the report correctly, you almost got both yourself and Ron killed in the process."
Sirius stopped pacing, turning to point an accusing finger at Remus. "I was following a hunch! A very good hunch, I might add. So, fine, maybe it didn't go exactly according to plan, but we were incredibly close to catching those Death Eaters!"
"Yeah, right."
The kitchen door swung shut as Hermione stepped into the room. She was still wearing her pristine Ministry robes, a heavy leather briefcase slung over one shoulder that practically overflowed with her casework as a formidable Magical Barrister. She looked exhausted, but her brown eyes were sharp as she leveled a deeply unimpressed glare at Sirius.
"You were only 'close' if you consider being cornered in an exploding warehouse close," Hermione scoffed, dropping her bag onto a chair. "And if Cormac McLaggen hadn't gone running straight to Scrimgeour to tattle on you both that would have been the end of you."
At the sound of the name, Ron’s face darkened into a fierce scowl. He abandoned his quest for the unseasoned chicken and threw himself into a chair at the kitchen table.
"The only good thing about this whole colossal mess," Ron muttered darkly, "is that I don't have to work with McLaggen anymore. It was the absolute worst being his partner. The bloke doesn't know the front end of a wand from the back. He's an insult to Gryffindor. Actually, he’s an insult to wizarding kind in general."
Hermione walked up behind Ron, placing her hands on his shoulders. She leaned down to press a quick, affectionate kiss to the top of his red hair before delivering the killing blow.
"You're only spared from being his partner, Ronald, because you were technically demoted back into being a trainee."
Ron stiffened, his ears instantly turning the color of a warning hex. He sank lower in his chair, folding his arms across his chest in a world-class sulk. "That was really not deserved. Totally unfair, really."
"Unfair," Remus repeated dryly. He tapped his grater against the rim of the bowl, then picked up a wooden spatula and gestured directly at Sirius. "That is exactly what you get for blindly following after this idiot."
"Hey!" Sirius barked, pressing a hand to his chest in mock-outrage.
Remus ignored him entirely, keeping his mild, questioning gaze fixed on Ron. "Seriously, Ron. You know what Sirius is like when he gets an idea in his head. What were you thinking?"
Ron groaned, burying his face in his hands. His voice came out muffled through his fingers, vibrating with genuine despair. "I don't know! He just... he gave a really compelling speech! There was all this brilliant stuff about bravery, and justice, and not waiting for the Ministry's red tape to clear before doing what’s right..."
Harry snorted, turning away from the stove just in time to see Hermione close her eyes and tilt her head back toward the ceiling.
She let out a long, long sigh.
"I honestly can't believe," Hermione said to the kitchen at large, her voice caught perfectly between utter exasperation and profound affection, "that I am dating this gullible idiot."
***
Once the chaotic preparation finally concluded, the five of them settled around the long, scarred wooden dining table. The platters of perfectly fried chicken, creamy mashed potatoes, and roasted vegetables—now properly seasoned, much to Ron’s relief—were passed around in a flurry of reaching arms and clinking silverware.
For a few minutes, the only sounds in the kitchen were the scrape of cutlery and the satisfied hums of hungry people. But as the meal progressed, Remus’s sharp gaze drifted across the table, landing on Harry, who was idly pushing a piece of chicken around his plate with the tines of his fork.
"Finish your plate, Harry," Remus instructed, his voice slipping effortlessly into the stern, authoritative tone he usually reserved for unruly subordinates.
Harry paused mid-poke, looking up with a deeply unimpressed expression. He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "Honestly, Moony. You’re worse than Mum."
"If Lily knew I was letting you miss lunches on a regular basis, she wouldn't just scold me," Remus replied, taking a calm sip of his pumpkin juice. "She would kill us both, and probably resurrect us just to kill me a second time while making you watch."
Harry rolled his eyes again, but he obligingly picked up his chicken.
Across the table, Hermione’s fork froze halfway to her mouth. Her brow furrowed, the protective, mother-hen instincts that had defined her Hogwarts years flaring to life. She looked up from her plate, her dark eyes locking onto Harry. "Wait. Why are you missing lunch, Harry?"
Harry released a heavy sigh, realizing he had just walked right into a trap. "I lost track of time. I was working on disassembling a Portkey we found in the last raid at Knockturn Alley."
Hermione’s expression immediately shifted from maternal concern to sharp, intellectual curiosity. "I heard about that raid," she said, leaning forward slightly. "Is it like the Portkeys you found in the previous raids?"
For the past year, Harry had been working in the ROCC—the Rare, Obscure, and Confounding Case Division of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. A highly specialized branch of the DMLE, it was a far cry from dodging curses in dark alleys. Although Harry had initially completed Auror training, Remus—who had taken over as Head of the ROCC’s Research Department three years prior—had swiftly recruited him. It was a move that brought Lily Potter immense relief, sparing her the terror of watching her son follow his father into an early grave via the exact same career. Ultimately, the ROCC was the perfect compromise. It fed Harry's insatiable hunger for solving complex mysteries, while keeping him just busy enough to curb that reckless, deeply ingrained urge to throw himself headfirst into danger alongside his godfather.
Before Harry could answer, he sighed, turning his head as Remus set his goblet down and answered for him.
"It is," Remus confirmed, his tone shifting into his professional, departmental voice. "Though Harry has been attempting a completely new approach to breaking the enchantments."
Hermione looked between them, her mind clearly already racing through magical theories. "Is it likely to work?"
Remus hesitated. He shot a cautious, measured look at Harry before turning back to Hermione. "It’s… complicated. The artifact relies on highly intrinsic time-work. The spell matrices are layered so tightly that it’s set to trigger total self-destruction at the absolute slightest misstep in the counter-curse. I had our senior Curse-Breakers try with a few of the others we confiscated earlier last month, and it simply wasn't working. They all dissolved into ash."
Harry sighed in frustration, his grip tightening on his fork. "I know I’m close, though. The arithmancy translates, Hermione. I can feel the anchor points. If I can just get it solved, if I can just trace the magical signature back to the creator… I know I can pin him."
Simultaneously, a collective, heavy groan echoed around the dining table. They all knew exactly who 'him' was.
"Merlin, not this again," Ron groaned, dropping his head back and staring at the ceiling as if begging the heavens for mercy.
Sirius set his chicken down, his gray eyes suddenly serious as he looked at his godson. "Pup, you have got to let this go. It's becoming an obsession."
Remus offered a small, indulgently weary smile, though his amber eyes remained serious. "Harry, we’ve talked about this at length, both at work and at home. You cannot throw accusations around without definitive, irrefutable proof. Especially not about someone with the kind of political standing Lord Gaunt is developing."
Harry’s jaw tightened, his temper flaring at the mere mention of the title. He scowled deeply, glaring down at his plate. "Like I care what Riddle could do."
He spat the name like a curse. Harry always made it a point to call him Riddle in private, knowing full well how much the wizard supposedly despised going by his Muggle father’s surname.
"If only that were true," Hermione said softly, but firmly. "If only you actually could not care. But you have to be careful. And it is Lord Gaunt, Harry, whether you like it or not. He got it legally changed the moment he claimed the Gaunt Lordship seat at the Wizengamot."
"It’s like Malfoy all over again," Ron chimed in, a sudden grin breaking through his previous exasperation. He pointed a half-eaten drumstick at Harry. "Remember fifth year? And sixth year? Someone dropped a goblet in the Great Hall, and it was Malfoy’s fault. It rained on a Quidditch match, and it was Malfoy’s fault."
Hermione rolled her eyes, shooting Ron a highly unimpressed look. "You say that, Ronald, as if you didn't go along with his theories every single time."
"That’s entirely different!" Ron argued defensively, swallowing his mouthful of food. "That’s because everyone in the castle knew Malfoy was a slimy git! It wasn't hard to believe he was up to something." He turned back to look at Harry, his expression softening into genuine confusion. "But even I can't see why you're so utterly obsessed with Gaunt, mate. The bloke is a politician. A stuffy, rich politician. What makes you think he's behind the Knockturn rings?"
That was all the prompting Harry needed. He dropped his fork entirely, leaning forward with a sudden, fiery intensity that made the surrounding silverware rattle.
"It’s so obvious if you just look at the facts, Ron!" Harry began, his hands animating his frustration. "Look at the man's finances. How does a guy like that have so much galleons to just throw around? He’s funding entire political campaigns, buying up property in Diagon Alley, and making massive 'charitable' donations to the Ministry. Everyone knows the Gaunt line was entirely destitute by the turn of the century. They had absolutely nothing. So where did all this sudden, exorbitant wealth come from?"
Hermione frowned, gently setting her goblet down. Her analytical mind instantly sought the counter-argument. "You can't know that for sure, Harry. A lot of the Sacred Twenty-Eight families have private vaults that haven't been audited in centuries. They could have had hoarded wealth and simply chosen not to live lavishly. Not everyone flaunts their money like the Malfoys."
"No, Hermione, that doesn't fit," Harry said quickly, shaking his head with absolute certainty. "I looked into it. The Gaunts had almost nothing left but a crumbling shack in Little Hangleton and a couple of stolen family heirlooms. Not to mention their deeply questionable history with Muggles and their absolute obsession with pureblood supremacy. If they had any money to their name, there is no way on earth they would have lived in utter squalor just to blend in or hide. They would have paraded it."
Ron paused with a spoonful of mashed potatoes halfway to his mouth, staring at Harry with a mixture of awe and deep concern. "You know a deeply disturbing amount about that guy, mate. Have you been stalking him in the archives?"
Harry ignored the question, his jaw set stubbornly.
Remus, however, remained completely unruffled. He neatly sliced a piece of chicken, his demeanor infuriatingly calm. "Lord Gaunt was, by all accounts, a remarkably gifted student, Harry. It’s entirely possible he accumulated his wealth legally. He may have just made some incredibly smart investments after his schooling."
"That’s not it," Harry insisted, his voice dropping a register. "There is something completely shady going on there. I can feel it."
Remus finally smiled, a slow, knowing expression that made Harry instantly suspicious. "Harry, all you have to go on is a single anti-Apparition ward. The one we dismantled at the suspected smuggling warehouse last year. Yes, it was functionally identical to the warding matrix Lord Gaunt authored for his Mastery in Ancient Runes. But his Mastery thesis is filed in the Ministry archives. You know as well as I do that it’s highly likely someone simply copied his work."
"It wasn't a copy," Harry fired back, shaking his head vehemently. "I analyzed that matrix for three weeks, Remus. The arithmantic sequencing, the anchor ties, the sheer, flawless precision of the runic clusters—it was too detailed. Too perfect. A copycat would have left residual magical fractures. That was original spellwork, and he cast it himself."
Remus’s smile widened, his amber eyes gleaming with a sudden, mischievous light. "Are you absolutely sure, Harry, that this isn't just a case of you professionally admiring the man?"
Before Harry could even process the absurdity of the question, Sirius let out a sharp, barking laugh that echoed off the stone walls of the kitchen.
"Maybe not just professionally, Moony," Sirius chimed in, leaning back in his chair and balancing it precariously on two legs. His grey eyes danced with wicked amusement. "I mean, let's be honest. The guy is dangerously good-looking. High cheekbones, dark hair, that whole mysterious, brooding lord aesthetic—"
Harry inhaled his pumpkin juice directly into his windpipe.
He bent over the table, hacking and coughing violently, his face turning an alarming shade of puce as he slammed a fist against his own chest. "What the hell, Padfoot!" he finally wheezed, his voice cracking.
Sirius brought his chair back down on all four legs with a solid thump, grinning unrepentantly. "Hey, I'm just trying to find a healthy, psychological explanation for this intense obsession of yours, pup! There's a thin line between love and hate. I certainly can't blame a guy for noticing a handsome bloke."
Sirius then turned his head, his rakish grin softening into something entirely devoted as he looked at Remus. He fired off an exaggerated, dramatic wink. "But, of course, I have eyes only for you, Moony."
With a theatrical swoop, Sirius leaned over the corner of the table, puckering his lips and aiming directly for Remus's cheek.
Remus didn't even miss a beat. Without looking away from his plate, he smoothly leaned two inches to the left, letting Sirius’s lips meet empty air. He merely rolled his eyes, a fond exasperation bleeding into his features as Sirius pulled back with a massive, dramatically wounded pout.
"Ugh, please," Ron groaned, dropping his spoon into his bowl with a clatter and shielding his eyes with one hand. "Not at the dinner table. I’m trying to eat here. There are laws against this kind of psychological torture."
Sirius immediately dropped the pout, shooting Ron a mock sneer. "Moochers can't be choosers, Weasley. I certainly didn't invite you to come over and steal my food every single night. If you want a dinner without a show, go eat at the Burrow."
Ron let out a long, pitiful whine, slouching back in his chair. "Aww, that's mean, Sirius. And completely unfair. We're adults now, you know. We can't exactly keep living with our parents. It's a matter of pride."
Sirius let out a sharp bark of laughter, his grey eyes flashing with amusement. "Right. Because permanently crashing in the spare bedroom of your best mate's godfather's house is such a massive, independent step up in the world."
Ron's pout vanished, instantly replaced by a wide, thoroughly unrepentant grin. He scooped up another massive bite of mashed potatoes. "Come off it, Padfoot. You know you absolutely love having us around. This massive, drafty house would be dreadfully boring without us here to keep you young."
Sirius narrowed his eyes, pointing a heavily ringed finger across the table at the redhead. "You are incredibly lucky Moony doesn't let me kick you out into the street, Weasley."
"I'm the only thing standing between you and homelessness," Remus agreed mildly, not looking up from his meal, which only made Ron's grin widen.
***
The following morning, the Ministry of Magic’s Department of Magical Law Enforcement was bustling with its usual chaotic energy, but Ron Weasley was entirely immune to the excitement.
Ron was having a horrible day. In fact, if he were cataloging them, this would easily rank in the top ten most miserable days of his life.
Being demoted back to an Auror Trainee was a humiliating pill to swallow, but being relegated strictly to paperwork was an absolute nightmare. He sat at a cramped, wobbly desk in the outer bullpen, glaring murderously at a towering stack of Standardized Incident Report forms. His hand cramped, his ink was smudging, and he was bored out of his mind. This was a massive, insulting step down from running through the shadows, dodging curses, and tracking down Death Eaters.
That was the entire reason he had joined the forces in the first place. He had dreamed of the glory of it all—taking down evil, battling the insidious ranks of the Death Eaters, and bringing down the upcoming Dark Lord Voldemort. Hell, in his most private, grandiose daydreams, he had even imagined taking out Grindelwald , if he were aiming high enough.
Now, that glory felt like a distant, unreachable fantasy, all thanks to bloody McLaggen running his mouth to Scrimgeour.
Though, as Ron dipped his quill back into his inkwell with a heavy sigh, a small, begrudging voice in the back of his head forced him to be fair. If he was being entirely honest with himself, it was highly likely that both he and Sirius would be lying dead in a ditch right now if Ministry reinforcements hadn't arrived when they did. Damn Sirius and his stupid, reckless, adrenaline-fueled ideas.
Ron looked up from his parchment, seeking a distraction, and immediately found his silver lining. As awful as this situation was for him, it was deeply satisfying to know that it was significantly worse for Sirius.
Across the bullpen, Sirius was crammed into a desk that looked far too small for his long limbs. Looming directly behind him, both his magical and normal eye fixed intently on the back of Sirius’s head, was Alastor Moody. Sirius looked exactly as if he were being held under a low-level Cruciatus Curse. He was tapping his quill against his desk at a manic pace, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like his teeth might shatter.
Which was exactly why, when a crisp, enchanted paper airplane zoomed into the bullpen and announced that both of them were summoned to the office of Crescent Flump, the Head of ROCC, neither man could move fast enough. Sirius nearly knocked his chair over in his haste to stand, and Ron abandoned his half-written sentence without a second thought. Escaping the bullpen was a mercy they were both desperate for.
With Moody clanking heavily behind them, Ron and Sirius stepped into the spacious, dimly lit office of Crescent Flump.
The atmosphere inside the room was entirely unexpected. Harry was standing near Flump's massive mahogany desk, grinning from ear to ear. He looked practically radiant, vibrating with a smug, victorious energy. Beside him, Remus looked completely shell-shocked, his amber eyes wide and fixed on a piece of parchment in his hands.
Flump, a stern-faced wizard with receding hair and a perpetually stressed expression, stood behind his desk. He pinched the bridge of his nose, looking between the Aurors who had just entered and the two ROCC employees before him.
"Lupin," Flump sighed heavily, gesturing to Remus. "Explain it to them, please. Before I develop a migraine."
Remus blinked, finally looking up from the parchment. He looked at Moody, then at Sirius and Ron, his voice remarkably hollow. "Harry cracked it. He cracked the Portkey from the Knockturn Alley raid."
Ron’s jaw dropped, forgetting his misery for a moment. Sirius’s face immediately broke into a massive, fiercely proud grin.
"Way to go, pup!" Sirius barked, clapping Harry heavily on the shoulder. "I knew you had it in you! Absolute genius!"
Flump cleared his throat loudly, a sharp, warning sound. "Yes, well. The achievement of breaking the matrix is commendable, Potter, certainly. However..."
"We have a destination address," Remus interrupted softly, holding the parchment up. Even as he said the words, he looked as though he couldn't quite believe them himself. "The magical signature tethered to the Portkey... we were able to isolate the geographical coordinates it was designed to jump to."
Harry’s grin widened into something sharp and undeniably triumphant. He looked right at Ron and Sirius. "You will never guess where it leads."
Sirius raised his eyebrows, leaning forward, completely hooked. "Where?"
"Riddle Manor," Harry said, enunciating every single syllable with deep satisfaction. "As in, Lord Gaunt's Muggle father's ancestral home in Little Hangleton."
"Bloody hell," Ron breathed, his eyes darting to Harry in shock.
For a second, the room descended into a heavy silence. Harry had been right. The crazy, obsessive theory Harry had been ranting about at dinner the night before was suddenly sitting on the Head of ROCC’s desk as a very real, very tangible piece of evidence.
"Now, wait just a moment," Flump interjected sharply, his bureaucratic instincts kicking into overdrive as he slapped a hand flat against his desk. "Let us be very clear. This does not prove anything definitive. A Portkey leading to a property does not inherently mean the property owner is the one who created it, nor does it mean they are harboring illegal goods. Absolutely no accusations are to be made at this point. None. Not until we have absolute, irrefutable proof."
Flump turned his severe gaze on Moody, his tone turning grave. "Alastor, this situation is incredibly delicate. Given the political circles Gaunt moves in, and his current standing in the Wizengamot, we cannot afford to accuse him of anything. A misstep here could cost us our department's funding, or worse. But... given the circumstances, and the established tether, we do have to question him."
Flump leaned forward, stressing his next words heavily. "You will go to his office at the Ministry. You will politely question him regarding the wards on his ancestral property. Is that perfectly clear?"
Alastor Moody let out a low, gravelly grunt. Both of his eyes fixed on Flump. "Crystal clear, Flump. I'll handle the politician." Moody then slowly turned his head, his magical eye whizzing madly in its socket before locking onto Sirius. "And I will keep a very tight leash on Black while we do it."
Sirius let out a loud, indignant huff, crossing his arms over his leather jacket. "I can be perfectly diplomatic, Alastor."
"I am coming too," Harry stated, taking a step forward, his previous grin replaced by a look of stubborn determination.
"Absolutely not," Remus said instantly, his voice snapping back to its authoritative, departmental tone.
Harry opened his mouth, a protest already forming on his lips, but Moody beat him to it. The scarred Auror slammed his walking stick into the floor, the heavy thud echoing in the quiet office.
"Lupin is right," Moody growled, glaring at Harry. "You are not a field agent, Potter. You are ROCC. We have chains of command and protocols here for a reason. You found the evidence, but the Auror Office executes the inquiry."
Harry looked incredibly annoyed, his hands balling into fists at his sides. He looked from Moody to Remus, and finally to Flump, hoping for an override. But all three older men held firm, an impenetrable wall of Ministry protocol.
Harry let out a sharp breath through his nose, his shoulders slumping just a fraction. "Fine," he bit out. "But you better get a confession out of him."
***
The missive from Lord Gaunt’s office arrived briskly, scheduling a meeting for that very afternoon at his private Wizengamot suite.
Trailing behind Moody’s heavy, rhythmic limping, Ron looked around the opulent, marble-lined corridors of the Ministry’s upper levels in mild disbelief. He hadn’t even been aware that Lords possessed private offices in the Wizengamot sector. Apparently, the privilege was exclusively reserved for the Ancient and Noble Houses, a fact that made the sheer grandeur of the heavy oak doors and silver fixtures feel all the more oppressive.
As they rounded the final corner, they found their suspect standing outside his office. He was not alone.
Lord Thomas Gaunt was deep in conversation with none other than Lucius Malfoy.
Seeing the two of them together, a cold knot of dread formed in Ron’s stomach. He was seriously starting to regret doubting his best friend the night before. If Gaunt was willingly associating with any Malfoy, then the man was unequivocally shady.
Yet, as the Aurors approached, it was the physical dynamic between the two men that truly unsettled Ron. Malfoy was decades older and, by all public accounts, vastly richer than the relatively new Lord Gaunt. But as Ron watched, Malfoy’s posture was slightly bowed, his chin tucked, his body language practically screaming deference. He looked like a subordinate receiving orders.
Gaunt caught sight of the approaching Aurors, and his demeanor shifted instantly. He was the absolute picture of aristocratic charm, offering them a pleasant, welcoming smile. It was a masterful display of charisma, though it was entirely wasted on Alastor Moody, whose magical eye whizzed madly, tracking every micro-expression on Gaunt's face.
Gaunt nodded dismissively to Lucius. "We will conclude this later, Lucius. Good day."
Malfoy gave a stiff, obedient nod and swept away down the corridor without a single sneer directed at the Aurors, which was perhaps the most alarming thing Ron had seen all day.
"Auror Moody. Auror Black. Trainee Weasley," Gaunt greeted smoothly, pulling open the heavy door to his office. "Please, step inside."
The office was predictably lavish, lined with dark wood bookshelves and plush leather seating. Moody wasted absolutely no time. He bypassed the offered chairs entirely, planting his walking stick firmly into the Persian rug, and got straight to the point with a blunt, if technically diplomatic, recounting of the Portkey’s destination.
For a fraction of a second, Gaunt looked genuinely shocked. His dark eyes widened slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his handsome features before he schooled his expression into one of deep, civic-minded concern.
"I understand perfectly why this would seem highly suspicious to your department, Auror Moody," Gaunt said, his voice a calm, even baritone. "However, I do not, in fact, own that property."
"What the hell does that mean?" Sirius snapped, abandoning the polite protocol immediately. "According to the Ministry registry, Riddle Manor belongs to you."
Gaunt smiled politely, not reacting in the slightest to Sirius’s aggressive tone. "The registration change was made within the Muggle bureaucratic system, Auror Black. It does not always reflect as fast as it should within our magical databases. It is actually an inefficiency I have been meaning to take up with the Department of Magical Records."
Gaunt moved behind his desk, resting his fingertips lightly on the polished mahogany. "I can assure you, the property deed was transferred to the estate's long-term caretaker, a man named Elias Thorne. I was never truly accepted by my Muggle father's family, and I have absolutely no connection to that house. I felt it best to give it away to a poor man who has maintained it for decades."
Gaunt sighed, a masterclass in feigned regret. "Elias is, in fact, a secret Squib. He lives entirely as a Muggle, as far as I knew. But given these recent, troubling developments... it is entirely possible he has retained connections to the wizarding underworld after all, and used the manor for this smuggling ring."
"We will be verifying every word of that, Gaunt," Moody growled, his scarred face stoic.
"I expect nothing less," Gaunt replied, his smile returning. "I have nothing to hide, of course. I would be more than happy to testify to that effect to clear up this misunderstanding."
"Would you be willing to testify under Veritaserum?" Moody asked sharply.
"Readily," Gaunt agreed without a second of hesitation.
Moody reached into his battered leather trench coat and produced a small, crystal vial filled with a clear, odorless liquid.
Sirius stared at it. "Do you just... carry Veritaserum with you always, Moody?"
"Any competent Auror would," Moody grunted, unstopping the vial.
A paranoid one would, Ron thought to himself, though he kept his mouth firmly shut.
Gaunt showed absolutely no objection to the sudden interrogation. He merely eyed the vial and asked, "I presume you have the antidote on hand, Auror Moody?"
Moody gave a curt nod, producing a second vial containing a murky purple potion.
Satisfied, Gaunt opened his mouth. Moody administered three precise drops onto the Lord's tongue. Gaunt’s eyes glazed over almost instantly, the tension bleeding out of his posture as the truth serum took hold.
Moody didn't waste time with warm-ups. He asked point-blank, "Do you have any involvement, direct or indirect, with the smuggling ring operating out of Knockturn Alley?"
"No," Gaunt replied, his voice devoid of its usual charismatic cadence, sounding perfectly flat and monotonous.
"Did you create the Portkeys used by the smugglers?"
"No."
"Are you aware of who is running the operation?"
"No."
Moody stared at him for a long, heavy moment. Finally, he stepped forward and tipped the purple antidote down Gaunt’s throat. Within seconds, the Lord blinked, his eyes refocusing as the sharp, intelligent spark returned to his gaze. He straightened his cuffs, looking completely unbothered.
"Will the fact that I confirmed my lack of involvement under Veritaserum be formally added to the case evidence?" Gaunt asked, raising a dark brow.
"Yes," Moody said, his tone begrudging. "That is standard protocol."
"Excellent," Gaunt murmured, looking deeply satisfied.
With their lead thoroughly neutralized by a flawless alibi and a truth serum cleared interrogation, the Aurors had no choice but to take their leave. They turned toward the door, Moody leading the way.
Just as Moody grasped the brass handle, Gaunt spoke again, his tone conversational.
"Auror Moody, before you go. I heard a rumor that the runic matrix of that confiscated Portkey was incredibly intrinsic and volatile. Who in the ROCC department was talented enough to dismantle it?"
Moody froze.
Slowly, the grizzled Auror turned around. Both his normal eye and his magical eye were fixed squarely on Gaunt, burning with sudden, terrifying intensity.
"That is classified departmental information, Gaunt," Moody said, his voice dropping to a dangerous gravel. "How did you know about the runes?"
Gaunt just smiled, a charming, utterly disarming expression. "You know how the Ministry is, Alastor. People love to talk. I merely want to offer my professional congratulations to whoever managed it. It takes a brilliant mind. So, who was it?"
"That is not something you need to know," Moody growled.
Gaunt inclined his head gracefully. "Of course. My apologies for prying. Good day, gentlemen."
The walk back to the lifts was suffocatingly tense. No one spoke a word until the heavy golden grilles slid shut, sealing the three of them inside the descending elevator.
Sirius leaned back against the polished wall, running a hand aggressively through his long hair. "Am I completely crazy to still think that guy has something to do with this? I mean... I know he just took Veritaserum, so it should be impossible for him to lie, but..."
Moody remained silent for a long time, his magical eye spinning wildly, staring at the floor of the lift as if he could see straight through the Ministry levels to the earth below.
"It is possible to overcome the effects of Veritaserum," Moody finally said, his voice quiet, lacking its usual bark.
Sirius and Ron both stared at him.
"How?" Ron asked, his voice cracking slightly.
"Through the Mind Arts," Moody replied grimly. "It requires an absolute mastery of Occlumency and Legilimency. You have to be able to compartmentalize your own brain to such a severe degree that you essentially trick the potion into believing your fabricated reality is the absolute truth. Very, very few wizards in history have had the sheer magical discipline required to pull it off."
Moody finally looked up, his scarred face pale under the flickering lift lights. "At the level of Albus Dumbledore, at least."
A heavy, terrified silence fell over the small space. The implications hung in the air, cold and undeniable.
Ron slumped against the brass railing, burying his face in his hands.
"Bloody hell," Ron groaned into his palms, the reality of the situation washing over him. "So Harry could be right about this guy after all. If he is... we are never going to hear the end of it."