The day after the incident.
The Headmaster's office felt colder than usual.
The portraits lining the walls didn't move. Even Phineas Nigellus sat in grim silence, his arms crossed. Fawkes was absent. The air held that particular stillness one feels in graveyards or empty churches.
Minerva McGonagall stood stiff near the hearth, hands clasped so tightly they trembled. Her lips were pressed thin.
Hermione sat in one of the chairs across from Dumbledore's desk. Her eyes were rimmed red and her hair a mess of unbrushed curls as she hadn't slept.
Harry stood beside her, arms crossed, jaw clenched, back to the fire.
Holly was on the other side of the room, slowly pacing around. Her eyes never settled. They kept returning to the Gryffindor robe draped over the back of a chair, Ron's. McGonagall had brought it here, for some reason, like she didn't know what else to do with it.
Dumbledore sat behind his desk.
Older.
Grayer.
He hadn't spoken either. Not until now.
"I am," he said softly, "so very sorry."
The words were soft and sincere. But they didn't reach anyone in the room.
Hermione didn't react.
Harry, on the other hand, turned slowly, staring at him.
"You said nothing would happen that we were safe here."
Dumbledore met his gaze. "I believed you would."
"You let him stay here," Harry hissed. "You knew."
"I hoped that I was wrong."
Harry laughed once, sharp and joyless. "You hoped. Ron's dead, and you hoped."
McGonagall stepped forward. "Harry, please."
"No!" Harry snapped, eyes suddenly brimming. "Don't please me. Don't calm down me. He murdered my best friend!"
Hermione flinched. Her hands had been in her lap, but now she covered her face. Her shoulders shook.
Holly finally spoke. "It wasn't supposed to be like this. I should have stopped him sooner."
Everyone looked at her.
Dumbledore's expression shifted, to something between sorrow and fatigue.
"No, Holly," he said gently. "The blame is not yours. If it is anyone's then it is mine. I am responsible for the well being of everyone attending Hogwarts. Ron's unfortunate demise is solely on me."
But Holly didn't look convinced. Her fists clenched at her sides, and her eyes remained on the robe. The strange greyish colour she had seen between Dumbledore and Lucas didn't help. They somehow had been connected during the incident, but she didn't know how, because she had never seen that colour yet.
The Potters were exactly where Dumbledore wanted them. He could see the drive in their eyes. A drive to do whatever they could to become more powerful. A drive that would lead them to the power they needed to defeat Voldemort. Especially Harry, the prophesied child.
As for Holly, if she could reliably replicate that emotion fuelled magic then Dumbledore himself didn't think he would be her rival. However, he doubted even that would be enough to fight against fate itself.
Hermione unfortunately wasn't there yet, but he was convinced she would get there eventually. At least to a level where she can support them.
Now he just had to get them the right tutors and he could prepare them for the inevitable resurrection of Voldemort.
----
The response among the Hogwarts students was swift and near-unanimous. Instead of mere rumours, now everyone was convinced that Lucas was a dark wizard.
Everyone but one stubborn Hufflepuff, who thought that there was more behind it, but she wasn't so sure any more.
Susan sat alone at the edge of the Black Lake, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. The wind tugged at her robes and carried the shrill, cruel laughter of gossiping students from further up the hill.
They didn't know him. Not like she did.
He wasn't good. She knew that. Lucas was never kind in the conventional way, but he also wasn't evil. Definitely not a killer.
"Susan."
She turned at the voice.
Hannah stood a few paces behind her, arms folded with an accusatory expression that screamed 'I told you so'.
Hannah stepped closer. "You can't defend him now. You should have trusted me. All of those mind rapists are the same."
Short flashback to the moment they had stopped being friends.
Hannah confronted Susan. "You remember what I told you? What Mum told me? About my dad? Grandparents? Cousins? About my Aunt Claire and Uncle Tobias?"
Susan nodded slowly. "She said they vanished during the war."
"They didn't vanish," Hannah said, her voice tight. "They were taken. Forced into some kind of twisted game. The dark lord made them fight each other. They slaughtered each other with pleasure. One after the other in a 1v1. Said only the last could survive. My cousin Beatrice won and then he killed her regardless. She even thanked him, not for killing her, but for showing her the truth. Do you understand how disgusting that is?"
Flashback end.
Susan swallowed. "That… isn't Lucas."
"Not yet," Hannah said sharply. "His kind only knows how to break and twist someones mind. Your Lucas is no exception."
"He's not my Lucas."
"Then stop defending him."
Susan stood slowly. "You're saying he's like the dark lord."
"I'm saying he is the same kind of monster and he proved that already," Hannah's voice cracked. "He killed Ron, Susan. For fuck's sake. He killed a boy in front of witnesses. That's not something you just… do by mistake."
Susan looked at the lake. Its surface was still. Her reflection wavered.
"I don't think he meant to do it."
Hannah blinked, shocked. "You really believe that?"
"I don't know." Susan's voice trembled. "But I don't believe he just snapped and killed someone out of cold blood. I have seen what goes on in his mind and that's not something he would do."
Hannah harshly clapped her hands. "He wanted you to see that. His kind can change their minds into whatever suits them best. Don't you see that."
Hannah's voice rose. "Do you actually think you saw anything that was true?"
Susan didn't answer.
Because she didn't know.
Hannah's voice broke the silence, quieter now, but just as sharp. "You need to stop looking for something that isn't there."
Susan's eyes stung. "And if I'm right?"
"You're more delusional than I ever thought. I give up, you're hopeless." She just left Susan there under the grey sky and walked back to the castle.
----
Monsieur Delacour returned to France under a heavy silence. There was nothing he could do. He had to cut his losses and let go. It was a shame. Truly.
He had adviced Fleur of the same.
She had to let go, there would be others that tickled her fancy.
----
The rest of the school year limped on at first.
Ron's death left a wound that took months to heal, especially for the Gryffindors and even then, it never truly healed for some.
The Weasleys didn't return to Hogwarts after the funeral.
Hermione withdrew with a tower of books. Harry grew colder, constantly training on the quidditch field and Holly rarely left the library.
And yet, the Triwizard Tournament didn't care. The third task had to be completed regardless. With it there was a sense of closure at least. A sign that this catastrophic year came to an end.
The night of the final task arrived.
The maze was dark and dangerous, but Harry and Cedric made it through. The boy who lived, through his constant need for imporvement, had quickly caught up to his two years senior, something no one would have believed possible.
Together, they reached the Triwizard Cup, gleaming in the center of the hedges.
The moment their hands closed around the Triwizard Cup, the world twisted into itself.
With a thud, Harry and Cedric hit the ground in a misty graveyard.
The air smelled of rot and damp earth. A crooked angel loomed from a toppled tombstone. The Cup clattered to the ground beside them.
"Where are we?" Cedric asked, his wand already readied.
Harry stood slowly, his heart hammering. "I don't know. It's a graveyard…"
Then something moved.
A figure stepped from the shadows, hunched and carrying something wrapped in a bundle of cloth.
"Kill the spare."
The voice was gnarly and cold, utterly void of mercy.
"Wait!" Harry shouted.
Cedric fell before he could even turn.
Dead.
Harry's scream was choked by magic, his limbs locked by invisible bindings.
They dropped him at the base of a tombstone.
Here lies Tom Riddle.
Pettigrew's breath came in wheezing gasps as he set down a cauldron and began the ritual by throwing the bundle he had carried inside.
"Bone of the father, unknowingly given…"
A chunk of the grave burst open and a bone floated up from the grave, which quickly dissolved into the brew.
"Flesh of the servant, willingly sacrificed…"
Pettigrew's severd hand fell into the cauldron.
"Blood of the enemy… forcibly taken."
Harry cried out as the dagger bit into his arm and a few drops of blood were stolen. They sizzled as they fell into the potion.
The cauldron roared.
Steam erupted, choking and red. A shape rose through the smoke, tall and skeletal.
Lord Voldemort, reborn, stepped forth from the cauldron.
He flexed his fingers, slow and deliberate, savoring the sensation of having a functional body again.
Then his red eyes opened.
They found Harry.
And he frowned.
The boy bound before the tombstone was breathing hard, bloodied and wide-eyed. He had the scar, yes. That cursed woman's magic. But... that was all. He wasn't nearly extraordinary enough to bend the rules of magic.
Voldemort's expression twisted.
The frown on his face deepened and turned into disgust. He turned away from Harry with a sharp flick of his cloak. His red eyes glowed like red-hot coals. He knew the moment he had layed his eyes on Harry that there was no way he could have defeated him all those years ago.
"This… boy," he hissed. "This fraud."
Wormtail flinched, still kneeling beside the cauldron, one hand clutching the stump of the other.
"You told me he was the one," Voldemort snarled, voice rising. "You assured me it was Potter who defeated me. That he was The Boy Who Lived!"
"I... I thought... my Lord, the prophecy..." Wormtail stammered.
Voldemort raised his wand.
"Crucio!"
Wormtail screamed.
He collapsed fully to the ground, convulsing in the grass, twitching as liquid agony tore through his nerves. The air filled with the sound of breaking sobs and the grass was wetted by his splattering blood.
"It was not him," Voldemort said coldly. "It had to be the girl. The sister."
He leaned close.
"You brought me the wrong one."
Wormtail sobbed, trying to push himself upright. "I... I didn't know..."
"No. You didn't," Voldemort said softly. He also hadn't know. Death tends to muddle your memory after all. Expecially one so explosive and quick.
He turned his eyes back to Harry. "This one is nothing but an imposter. However... that insufferable witch's blood also runs through him."
He began to circle the tombstone, slow and deliberate, his wand tapping against his pale fingers. "Her magic. her filth. I can feel it."
Harry's chest rose and fell rapidly. He tried to pull at the bindings around him, but they held tight.
Voldemort stopped in front of him.
"Let us test it, shall we?"
His pale hand reached out. Long, bone-thin fingers like pale spider legs crept forward.
Harry recoiled as much as he could. "Don't touch me!"
But the hand closed around his chin anyway.
The world didn't explode.
There was no scream or burning. Just the cold fingers on his skin and the sound of Voldemort's haunting laughter. "Haaahaaaahaaaaahaaaa!"
He dropped Harry's face like something used and rotting.
"The blood curse," he said louder, "has been lifted!"
He turned back to the still writhing Wormtail and demanded. "Come here!"
With all his will the poor animagus slowly rose from the ground and trotted over to his lord.
"Give me your hand!"
Wormtail's heart leapt. Gratitude flooded his pale, ruined face. "Y-Yes, my Lord… of course." He hopefully held out his bleeding stump, expectant.
But Voldemort's gaze turned icy.
"No. The other one."
Wormtail froze. "But, my Lord, I..."
"The other one," Voldemort hissed.
Wormtail reluctantly gave in to his master. Voldemort seized his arm without ceremony the lord's cold fingers wrapping around his wrist, and the servant flinched at the contact.
"My wand, Wormtail." Voldemort commanded.
The servant obeyed at once, pulling his master's wand from within his robes. Voldemort took it with a flick, turning his head toward the open sky above them.
He pressed the wand tip against the Dark Mark burned into Wormtail's arm.
The magical tattoo pulsed. It glowed in a darkly green.
Moments later, the sky above the graveyard shimmered and then burned with emerald fire.
The Dark Mark ignited in the heavens, broadcasting to whoever had its image that their rightful owner had returned.
And sure enough, the response came swiftly.
*pop*
*pop* *pop*
Dark robed figures began apparating into the graveyard one by one. Each with their heads lowered, not daring to look at their salvation. Their gazes dared not go higher than the hem of his robes.
And yet, his face showed no satisfaction.
Only contempt.
"You took your time," he said softly. "All of you."