It starts like this.

The date is long since forgotten, but the year is 1966. Contrary to standard dramatic meeting prerequisites, it is not raining. It is not even cold or foggy, or especially windy. It is a dull sort of day, grey and boring and destined like all other grey and boring days to be forgotten as soon as it is done. It is a day for housecleaning and homework and dreary conversations about what a wet winter it is expected to be. It is not a day for meetings in dark places to discuss dark things.

And at first, this particular meeting does not seem exceptional at all.

“The new regulations on moonstone imports are going to be the death of me,” says one man to another. “Do you know how many potions need a touch of powdered moonstone?”

“Lots, probably,” says the other man. “So you’re actually abiding by regulations now?”

“Well no, of course not,” the first man smirks indulgently. He is a short man with messy, slowly receding hair the colour of pepper and a week’s stubble bristling about his cheeks, and he smirks with a practised ease that makes the expression especially effective. “But it’s the principle, isn’t it? New Department of International Nonsense is going to ruin this country, you watch.”

“I will,” the second man returns.

“Anyhow, I’ve got that Throat-Closing Draught that Fenewick Cambridge wanted. Make sure he doesn’t pay with leprechaun gold this time, though, or I’ll jinx him myself.”

He hands over a dusty bottle containing a brown-grey liquid. And so they talk for awhile about Fenewick Cambridge and his affinity for poisons that constrict the breathing. Their chosen place of meeting is hardly going to object to such a grisly subject. It is a grubby little pub, all dust and dirt and cobwebs. The low ceiling encourages bowed heads and whispered voices and the inch of dirt that clings to the floorboards gives the distinct impression of having been left there to better soak up spilled bodily fluids.

After awhile, the first man breaks off describing the possibilities for Fenewick Cambridge’s newest procured potion and thumps the table, his red cheeks abruptly flushing.

“I almost forgot. Have you heard about this character who’s been lurking around Knockturn Alley?”

The second man is thin and his face is framed by great quantities of grey hair. He leans forward, his brows lifting. “No?”

The first nods. “Oh yes, not a few of my people have mentioned him. The Dark Lord, he calls himself. Hardly much for an alias.”

“That’s original,” the second snorts, pulling an expression that makes his thin, grumpy face look even grumpier. “What’s he about?”

“Oh, the usual. Wizards ought to rule over Muggles, etc etc. Fair enough, he’s got a point, of course, but I’d put money on him just being some young thing looking for attention. Comes out of nowhere and starts calling himself the Dark Lord? Who does he think he is? Might’ve had the decency to come up with a false name that wasn’t quite so melodramatic. I’ve a dodgy feeling about him, though. Might threaten to upset my business if he starts getting people all fanatical, like.”

“You think he’s after your business?”

“After it? No, no, no. But threatening it, oh yes. All these young upstarts, they come out of the woodwork touting their high ideals and for a time it’s enough to sell a few extra Muggle-hexing kits, but then the Ministry, in all its wisdom, panics. Merlin forbid the Muggles find out about us! Guarantee it, this Dark Lord fellow sticks around just long enough to create a stir that shuts down my business for an uncomfortable space of time.”

The other man frowns. “That’s assuming a lot.”

“Pfft,” says the first. “Every new upstart thinks he can be another Grindelwald, thinks he can create the next ’45. Ho now, there’s an idea.” His brows suddenly lift and his eyes light up. “Don’t suppose you could get your brother to deal with this?”

“Deal with it?” says the second, looking disgusted.

“Sure �“ Dark magic and that, right up his corridor. He could…tip off a few of his friends and put this Dark Lord out of business before the Ministry shuts down mine.”

“Oh please, Charlie. I doubt my brother would oblige for the sake of your business. Even if I wanted to talk to him, he’s too many high ideas to touch anything to do with us.”

“Well, don’t put it that way, of course. But paint this fellow as a real threat, a real Dark wizard and the like. Let your brother take on the mantle of hero again. He loves that. You could just, you know, slip it into a casual conversation,” says Charlie hopefully.

“We don’t have casual conversations.”

“Could you conjure one up for the right price?”

The other man is silent for a time, blue eyes staring sullenly at his companion. Finally, looking very disgruntled as he peers over his smudged glasses, he sighs and leans forward. “Fine then. Does he have a real name or is it just the ‘Dark Lord’?”

Charlie smirks, thumping the table again. “Good! I’ve only heard him called the Dark Lord and that rubbish myself, but Burke says he heard tell that he was also calling himself ‘Voldemort’. Merlin’s Beard, can you believe that? What a ridiculous name. No self-respecting aspiring Dark wizard styles himself with such a frilly name. Sounds French to me, so I can’t say his apparent penchant for vanity and attention is terribly surprising.”

Outside, the day is still grey and boring, but many years from now, when both men reflect upon this particular meeting, they will agree.

It should have been raining.

-
Chapter 1: The Young Man’s Game

The Daily Prophet, 16 August 1971

Ministry Hit Wizard Missing

Ministry Hit Wizard Bernie Callaghan has been reported missing in the south of England. There has been some concern that Mr Callaghan may have fallen over a coastal cliff in Dorset, where he was known to be visiting family in the wizarding community of Hesterton. Magical rescue squads are currently searching the area.

While Mr Callaghan does have family in Hesterton, his reasons for travelling specifically to an area of the Dorset coastline known as Black Ven, where he was last seen, are as yet unknown. Black Ven is some twenty miles from Hesterton. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement informs The Daily Prophet that Mr Callaghan, 42, has worked as a Hit Wizard at the Ministry for eighteen years, specializing in investigations into Muggle-baiting activities. He is understood to have been working on a number of cases at present, but the nature of these cases has not been confirmed.

Mrs Clarinda Aswinder, a Senior Hit Wizard, commented that while the Ministry would be carrying out enquiries to ensure that Mr Callaghan’s disappearance was not related to his caseload, it was not likely that Mr Callaghan’s low-level investigational work would have made him a target for reprisal.

Any witch or wizard who may have seen Mr Callaghan, at Black Ven or elsewhere, is urged to contact Ministry authorities as soon as possible. The search continues.

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The sound of footsteps echoed like stones in the tight back alley, bouncing from wall to wall in a pitter-patter of disjointed ricochets. It was not one set of shoes that created this tiny cacophony of taps and scuffs, but two, perhaps even three. Here there was the tinny scrape of an old can dislodged and there the tinkle of glass trod upon, but always the quick rhythm of footsteps across the wet pavement. And then, a man.

The shadows of the buildings that formed the alley obscured his face, but old-fashioned black robes with a high collar billowed about his person as he trotted quickly through the thin passageway, glancing behind him at intervals to check the dim light for signs of the footsteps that followed him. Yet though the echoes continued to dance between the walls, there came no sign of their source. The man in the old-fashioned robes came abruptly to a corner �“ another alley, this one even smaller than the first �“ and ducked into it without hesitation. It was virtually devoid of light, so tall and close together were the buildings.

Abruptly, a thin beam of light cut through the murky darkness, revealing two dark forms as a mouldering heap of rubbish and a prowling cat. The cat skittered away as the beam of light fell upon it. Halting and turning in place, the man lifted his wand above his head and pointed it back in the direction from which he had come. He could see the end of his light playing across the far wall of the alley which he had just left behind, knew that it must be visible to the pursuers who could now be heard hurtling closer. And just as abruptly as it had appeared, the light extinguished itself, plunging the two alleys once more into the shadowy half-light of the obscured sunlight above.

The pursuing footsteps slowed. A hiss of whispers reached the black-robed man and then the footsteps stopped entirely. Silence fell. In the sudden hush, the man extended his wand and seemed to trace an invisible picture in mid-air, his lips moving noiselessly as if recreating a silent movie. The prowling cat slunk past his leg.

Suddenly there was a scuffle of movement at the corner joining the two alleys, a pair of shadows emerged, and two twin jets of red light lit the darkness like fireworks. There followed a series of snaps and crackles, an alarmed yowl, more flashes of red light, a man yelling, and then quiet abruptly descended.

This time the silence seemed to drip, as if trickling into the ear in anticipation of another loud disturbance, yet none came. A few seconds crept by, then a few more, and finally a rustle of cloth broke the stillness and the single beam of light once more gave sharp definition to the shadows in the alley. Two men lay very still at the corner of the two passageways, as did the no-longer prowling cat a few feet away from them. One of the men was bleeding profusely at the nose in addition to being quite still, while the other was now breaking out in what appeared to be violently orange pimples.

“Merlin’s beard,” said the man in the old-fashioned robes, very much unharmed and now approaching his two immobile pursuers. “You Ministry saps keep getting younger, don’t you? Must not be serious this time if they’re practically sending teenagers after me. It’s that powdered erumpent horn I got in from Tanzania last week, isn’t it? Barry never could much keep his mouth shut.”

Crouching down beside them, he shook his head sadly, though clearly half amused. He gave a pointed sigh, than tapped the bleeding nose of the first Ministry official with the tip of his wand. Instantly the flow of blood dried up.

“You, I’m afraid,” the man directed at the second official, “will have to live with your little hex. Look what your Stunner did to that poor cat, after all.” Even as he spoke, the tip of his wand now tapped the cat, which sprang suddenly to life as if from a stiff sleep, gave a disgruntled hiss, and bolted away. “But never you worry. Find yourself a bottle of Eiris’s Exceptional Expunger and those spots should clear up in a month or so. You’ll find it at any apothecary.”

“And now, gentlemen, I’m afraid I have to go.” The man rose and, as he did so, a dim beam of sunlight fell across his face, revealing a short beard the colour of pepper, a deeply lined face with grinning eyes, and a tousle of slowly receding silver hair. “I will of course make sure the Ministry is informed of your whereabouts. But truly, you may inform your superiors that if they only wish to apprehend me so much as to send a pair of tenderfoots, then really they ought not to bother. Very unfair to you. But now at least you have a bloody nose and a case of Poxa Gingeritis to show for your efforts; much better than if I’d simply Disapparated from the off, don’t you think?”

And with a grin, Charlie inclined his head to the two stunned Ministry officials and vanished with a resounding crack.

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“He is an old friend of your grandfather’s,” Abraxas Malfoy explained to his son, crossing his legs as he reclined in a tall, straight-backed lounge chair.

It was early evening and the light of the westward summer sun was turning orange outside the windows of The Green House. The restaurant was gradually becoming busy with its usual evening clientele, yet it was a refined, gentlemanly sort of busy, manifested in the quiet murmur of conversation, the gentle chink of crystal glasses, and the self-approving sniff of the very rich. Plum and green tapestries depicting great witches and wizards in centuries past draped the walls and dark wood partitions that divided each dining table from the next. The whole place had a confident, enclosed feeling. It was the ideal setting for discussing matters about which one did not wish to be overheard.

At the very rear of the establishment were several private parlours for the most important guests of The Green House and it was in one of these that Mr Malfoy and his son now sat. Abraxas Malfoy was a well-built man, broad of chest, but with a stature that made him appear really quite regal. Rich, dark blond hair fell like a mane over the back of his head and sprouted into side whiskers that joined a thick moustache at the centre of his pointed face. He was dressed in luxurious, flowing robes of dark blue. His son was thinner and lacked some of his father’s powerful build, but his pointed face and shoulder-length, white blond hair closely imitated Abraxas’s majesty and proud air. The young man was perhaps seventeen.

“And you don’t know his real name?” he returned to his father, clearly perturbed at being denied this piece of information.

Abraxas looked annoyed, his lips pressing together. “His name is Charlie and that is how you will address him, Lucius. Your grandfather knew his real name, but he has not used it for many years and you will be respectful enough not to press him for it.”

“Why does he not use it?”

“Because his business does not earn allies in the Ministry. Do not worry the issue.”

Lucius quieted, sinking into a sulky silence at his father’s rebuke. He crossed his legs in imitation of Abraxas and took a sip of raspberry wine from the crystal goblet he held. His eyes drifted around the parlour, small but richly embellished. A dark wood fireplace crackled with a fire in the grate, around which a number of plush lounge chairs circled a low table of the same dark wood. Lucius gave a bored sigh and glanced at the gleaming clock on the mantle.

“He’s late,” the young man sniffed.

“In fact he isn’t,” said a sudden voice. “He has arrived precisely when he meant to.” The voice came from the door, which was now ajar, though Lucius had not heard it open. Abraxas, on the other hand, looked both pleased and unsurprised.

The man known as Charlie pushed into the room, beaming smugly at Lucius. “Some great wizard said that, I imagine, or should have done. Forgive me, I was rather delayed by a trivial little matter involving the Ministry’s ever younger star pupils. Well now, I hope you haven’t finished the firewhiskey.”

Lucius could not mask the disdainful smirk that now crept onto his face. Charlie certainly did not cut a terribly imposing figure, especially when Abraxas rose to greet him and threw the smallness of his person into sharp relief. Although he was quite solidly built and a slight pudginess protruded around his mid-section, Charlie was undeniably short, standing fully a head shorter than Abraxas. His old black robes were painfully out of date and his stooped shoulders and unruly hair gave him an altogether scruffy appearance.

Yet Abraxas, usually so satisfying condescending to such people, seemed hardly to notice Charlie’s appearance and re-seated himself with a silky smile. “Of course not. Please, have a seat, Charlie. You have not met my son yet, I believe. This is Lucius. He will be entering his seventh year at Hogwarts this year.”

Charlie threw himself into the chair next to Lucius and immediately reached out to pour himself a crystal glass of firewhiskey from the low table. With an abruptly appraising stare at the young man, he said, “Which house, son?”

“Slytherin,” Lucius replied curtly, as if offended.

“Ah, good!” Charlie nodded, now grinning smugly. “Keeping up the family tradition, I see. My own house too. Excellent, excellent. And now being schooled in the intricacies of Malfoy business and politics also, it would seem.”

Lucius looked mildly affronted at Charlie’s blunt appraisal, but Abraxas smirked. “Yes, he is a quick learner�”“

“�”Clearly inherited,” Charlie interjected smoothly.

“Indeed,” Abraxas nodded, smiling. “Now, I do not wish to draw this out. Let us come to the point. I have a number of things that I need, chief among which is the Vanishing Cabinet I mentioned before. I appreciate this may be difficult to procure and quite expensive, but I insist upon it, whatever the cost.”

Abraxas pulled a scroll from his robes and handed it across to Charlie, who had already dug from his mess of robes a scrap of parchment and a battered grey QuickNotes Quill, which he set on the low table. It immediately began scratching away. In a flash, he had unfurled the scroll and his dark eyes were cutting from side to side as he quickly read through it. As he did so, he also spoke, not looking up at Abraxas.

“Expensive certainly, but difficult, I shouldn’t think so. For me, I mean.” His eyes flicked up briefly at the correction. “Cost is probably around three thousand galleons. What kind of wood would you like? Or iron perhaps? There are some very nice black and gold ones available, newest fashion.”

Barely blinking at the immense projected cost, Abraxas nodded. “Black and gold. How soon?”

“Ooh, two weeks? The rest of your list is straightforward enough, give me a week. I assume it is Carolinian fluxweed you will be wanting? The stuff that comes out Virginia is rubbish.” Abraxas inclined his head and Charlie returned the nod. “Then yes, a week for everything but the Vanishing Cabinet. If you are satisfied with it when you see it, I can also assist in finding a safe place for its partner. For a fee, of course.”

“Of course,” Abraxas sniffed.

Asking no questions about the intended use of Mr Malfoy’s Vanishing Cabinet, Charlie curtly nodded with an air of finality, rolled up the scroll once more, and then tapped it with the tip of his wand. It burst into flame and he let it drop to the floor. As if on cue, his QuickNotes Quill instantly ceased its scratching and threw itself down upon the table, lifeless. Charlie scooped quill and parchment up and tucked them back into his robes.

His air of business vanished as he swirled the remnants of his firewhiskey. “So,” he said casually, grinning at the still silently disdainful Lucius beside him. “What do you plan to do once you have left school, young Lucius?”

The scorn in Lucius’s expression unexpectedly subsided and he leaned forward, unable to keep his eyes from lighting up or his voice from rising. “I intend to join the Dark Lord.”

“Oh ho, well now,” Charlie returned, chuckling. He said it with such a maddening air of knowingness that Lucius again found himself sneering at the old man, irritated that he had failed to impress Charlie.

“You may laugh, but the Dark Lord will be triumphant in all that he does. I would be proud to be a part of his vision.”

“Actually, I believe you’re right about the triumphant bit, you know,” Charlie said, still smiling. “Seems a clever one, him. Very good at creating a shadowy cult of personality, I would say. I suppose his mystery and dark aura impress you, do they?”

Lucius bristled. “He deserves the respect that others pay him! His cause is noble and just, as the best witches and wizards of our time have realised.”

“Ah, so the theatrics are, I take it, purely coincidental.”

Abraxas stopped his son with a look before Lucius could shoot back another agitated response. “Enough, Lucius,” the elder Malfoy said. “I do believe that Charlie is, in his own way, expressing a certain approval of the Dark Lord.”

“Quite right,” Charlie nodded, smirking. “In fact, I confess myself rather impressed with him. Had you asked me a few years ago what I thought of Voldemort, I’d have said he was simply another angry young man with an agenda �“ young being relative, you understand. Ah, but he has proved himself quite adept. Gathering supporters among the oldest and most respected wizarding families, paying handsomely for information from a wide array of sources, and all the while keeping quiet enough that the Ministry has hardly taken notice. Oh yes, young Master Lucius, I think he is doing a much better job than most who have come before him. I can only fault him for failing as yet to come to me for information, but then I suppose there are many who have made, and rectified, that mistake in the past. I shall simply have to be more patient.”

Lucius said nothing, but seemed mildly placated by the compliments paid to his idol. Abraxas leaned forward again. “And tell me, Charlie, do you agree with his goals?”

“Abraxas,” Charlie replied, in a tone that was mildly reprimanding. “Do you truly ask me such a question? The man stands up for wizarding rights and you ask me if I agree with his goals? Naturally I do.” He grinned, then shook his head, adding wistfully, “Ah, but passion is a young man’s game.”

He drained the last of his firewhiskey as Lucius snorted, frowning. “What you mean by that? You agree with the Dark Lord’s aims, but will do nothing to support him?”

“I mean precisely what I said,” Charlie smirked, standing. “You thumb your nose at me, Master Lucius, but I imagine my own contribution will simply be more...subtle than your own.” At Lucius’s bemused expression, Charlie adopted a look that was half amused, half condescending, but said nothing more to the young man. “Abraxas, until next week.”

Nodding to father and son, he gathered his outdated robes about him, gave a comical bow, and trotted from the parlour as quietly as he had come. On the table behind him, he left a shiny green marble with a line of silver through the centre.

-
Chapter 2: Mudbloods and Smugglers

The Daily Prophet, 10 September 1971

Ministry Promises to Tackle Surge in Dark Object Trade

Speaking today in London, Mr Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, promised to crack down on a surge in the trade of Dark objects that has gathered momentum since January of this year. In addressing the surge, Mr Crouch acknowledged the growing unease that many have felt as news of this flourishing black market has come to the surface.

'There has rightly been some concern about the growing market for objects of a Dark magical nature,' Mr Crouch commented. 'As we know, there have been several unfortunate incidents this year that have been the result of Dark objects accidently entering mainstream society.'

This admission was a reference, no doubt, to the death of a child in London earlier this year and the permanent disablement of a Scottish wizard in July. Eugene Hallowell, 8, of Croydon, is believed to have been killed by a curse contained in a music box bought at a wizarding pawn shop in London. Meanwhile, Stewart Craeg,33, of Dumfries, remains in a vegetative state after the artist's new set of paintbrushes attempted to strangle him to death.

Mr Crouch remained adamant that the Ministry would do all in its power to prevent further such tragedies from occurring. 'We are deploying extra Hit Wizards into high-volume shopping areas and have assigned an entire Section of Aurors to root out and arrest the perpetrators of this trade. We will not let this continue.'

While Mr Crouch's reassurances have placated some, however, there remains some concern as to how firmly the Ministry stands behind this policy. Minister for Magic Uther Talley gave only a single comment to The Daily Prophet's reporter when asked about Mr Crouch's new measures: 'Yes, of course we support them. Can't have more children dying, can we?'

It remains to be seen whether Mr Talley is more concerned with clamping down on the Dark object trade or with the current Magical Office of Taxable Taxes investigation into his personal finances.

----------

In fact it was less than two weeks before Charlie found a Vanishing Cabinet that fitted Abraxas Malfoy’s specifications. Being as yet a business of questionable legality, the emerging market for Vanishing Cabinets was confined still to the shadowy back channels where only important connections and a rather large fortune could penetrate. It would be some years before the black market trade in magical transportation furniture truly took off, and as yet the makers of these most valuable objects had wisely avoided the heavy Ministry presence in London.

So it was just outside Clacton-on-Sea in Essex that Charlie found a wizened old magical furniture maker who offered a brand new pair of Vanishing Cabinets for a paltry 2,500 galleons. Charlie happily accepted the amount, narrowly avoided being swallowed by an endlessly-expanding armchair (“For the Witch or Wizard Who Finds Normal Armchairs a Squeeze!”), and arranged to have one of the cabinets delivered to Malfoy Manor immediately. Several days later, with Abraxas Malfoy’s approval, Charlie also personally delivered the second of the pair to an old farmhouse in Devon, near to a small community of magical folk, and wrapped the crumbling building in enough spells and enchantments to make it utterly beyond interest to the casual passerby.

By early September, Charlie was a thousand galleons the richer by the Malfoy family’s hand, despite having only asked a five hundred galleon fee for his services (there was no need, he reasoned, to inform Abraxas of the fact that the Vanishing Cabinet’s projected cost was five hundred galleons more than the actual cost). And then it was back to London. Charlie had meetings with Tobias Crankler, Wendell Gamp, Restebus Lestrange and Ernest Varney to discuss the sale of certain items that it was best the Ministry did not know about; he needed to restock his supply of asphodel and Black Sea sneezewort via his eastern European agent; and he had three complex potions (a Sight-Strengthening Solution, Fiedwallis Potion and Shrinking Draught) that would be maturing in the next fortnight, the latter two of which needed near constant attention. His was a busy and active life, but it was consistent, in its own way.

It was difficult just then to perceive the casual signs that pointed to the great upheaval that lingered barely over the horizon.

Although he did not know it at the time, the first truly noteworthy of these signs presented itself to him in the third week of September, as the grey, wet days of fall were finally beginning to eclipse the scorching heat of summer. With a fresh bag of galleons in his pocket, Charlie’s search for a biting travel trunk, on behalf of a client, took him to a little shop in his most favourite of haunts, Knockturn Alley.

The grubby shop front of Borgin & Burke’s appeared deceptively modest, but the Ministry avoided the place almost as a rule, as it did most of Knockturn Alley, and the assurances of Mr Bartemius Crouch made little difference. This made it thoroughly agreeable to Charlie’s type of business. Caractacus Burke was behind the counter when Charlie pushed into the shop, his travelling cloak slightly damp from a low morning fog outside.

“Charlie?” Burke said, glancing up from a ledger, mildly surprised. “Back so soon? Did Higgins not want the probe after all?”

“Morning, Burke,” Charlie greeted, smiling blandly. “No, no, he wanted it. I’m in pursuit of a biting travel trunk today, in fact.”

“Oh, well then,” Burke returned, warming now that it was clear he would not have to return money to a dissatisfied customer. Although exactly as old as Charlie (they were old Hogwarts mates), the years had aged Burke far less kindly than they had Charlie. He was a small old man with a wizened, wrinkled face and baggy eyes that stared out from under a thatch of white hair.

“Silas! Charlie’s here!” Burke barked towards the back of the shop. As Charlie approached the counter, Burke’s voice returned to a wheedling rasp, clearly much anticipating a sale. “Does your client have any particular specifications?”

Charlie propped an elbow up on the counter and unenthusiastically dug a hand into one of his pockets. He had to rustle around for some time before he extracted a small bag that rattled of coins. He threw it on the counter. “Nothing fancy. The woman only paid twenty galleons, so nothing top of the line, mind. I’m only doing the job because it’ll help her leave the country.”

“Oh?” Burke said, interest piqued. But before Charlie could answer, two men shuffled out of the back of the shop. They were so obviously father and son that the resemblance was almost laughable. Both had a distinctly greasy appearance, with sunken eyes and skin that was pallid and doughy. The father was balding, but what little hair remained was silver and oily. The son was already sporting a receding hairline, but his was a limp mass of light brown hair that had been so slicked back that the trails of the comb teeth still showed.

“Ah, Charlie,” said Silas Borgin, the older of the two. “Always a pleasure. Still looking for the cursed Tablet of Tovine?” His tone possessed a practised silkiness.

“Hm?” Charlie returned, as if distracted. “Oh, that? No, no, I found that weeks ago. I was right, in fact; it never left France. The vault was raided in the 1840s, but the Tablet was moved to a lockbox in Paris before the second Gouvernement républicain de la Magie could get a hold of it. Needless to say, the Lestranges were very grateful to have it back. Paid quite handsomely.”

The elder Borgin looked mildly put out, as if he felt cheated, but he recovered by pushing his son forward and introducing the young man. “My son, Jasper. He has finally returned from his time abroad and will be taking over some of the running of the shop now. Jasper, this is Charlie, one of our most frequent customers.”

“A pleasure,” said the younger Jasper, in fair, if less practised imitation of his father’s silky tone. “Charlie who?”

“Just Charlie,” Charlie quipped cheerfully, shaking the younger Borgin’s hand with a grin.

“He doesn’t need a proper name for what he does,” Burke interjected. “Charlie here is a go-between, young Jasper. When people with money want something or want to get rid of something, they go to him. So if you want some of the richest business in Britain, make sure you always have what Charlie is looking for. Which, fortunately, we do.” He smirked at Charlie when Jasper adopted a pleasing, simpering expression, as if this alone might be enough to earn a few coins by Charlie’s hand. Then Burke took the young man’s shoulder and steered him back towards the rear of the shop. “Bring up the black trunk by the stairs, the one with the broken clasp.”

When Jasper had disappeared, both Borgin and Burke leaned forward and Burke lifted his brows. “So who is the trunk for?”

“Wilhelmina Kresterbach,” Charlie answered, at which the other two men suddenly sneered. “I know, right? I wouldn’t normally even have consented to meet with her, save that I had heard the family was getting ready to remove themselves back to Germany and I thought, well, might as well catch a few extra galleons by helping them along.”

Borgin snorted, shaking his head in disgust. “Bad enough we have to live with our own Mudbloods without bringing in German ones too. About time that dirty little family pulled up and left. They had no right coming here in the first place. Do we know why they are finally leaving?”

“Does it matter?” Charlie smirked. “Financial, as I understand it. Old Sebastian Kresterbach’s attachable broom seats aren’t near as popular as they were forty years ago. No one buys them now that Nimbus has introduced optional built-in cushions.”

“More than that, I heard,” Burke wheezed mysteriously, causing the other two to glance at him with bemused expressions. He nodded knowingly. “Ran into Thaddeus Nott at the Hog’s Head last week. According to him, a couple of the Dark Lord’s supporters paid the Kresterbaches a visit to, ah, encourage them in their decision to remove themselves from Britain.”

“Ho ho,” Charlie said, clearly intrigued. “And Nott would know, the old schemer. Well now, that’s a bit of a leap from campaigning for wizard’s rights, isn’t it? Seems this Voldemort has higher aims than he lets on.”

“And why not?” Borgin sneered. “Mudbloods are just as great a threat to magical society as Muggles. One and the same.”

“True enough, true enough,” Charlie nodded. “Of course, if he’s interested in exiling Mudbloods, he might as well be open about it. All I've heard is that he's interested in repealing the Statute of Secrecy and he'll catch no end of trouble for that. But Uther Talley and the people he surrounds himself with are all Purebloods; I doubt he would put up such a fight against the purification of wizarding society.”

There was a thump from the back of the shop and a sudden scraping. A second later, Jasper reappeared dragging a bulky black trunk with pealing leather sides and one clasp hanging uselessly by a single nail. When he had deposited the thing at the foot of the shop’s counter, the trunk gave a shiver and rattled ominously.

“Anyhow,” Charlie said once the trunk had quieted. “Good riddance to the Kresterbaches, says I. Mayhap this Dark Lord is doing some good after all. No one else seems bold enough to step up. I wish him luck, I do.” And with that portentous wish hanging in the air, he shoved the little bag of coins across the counter.

----------

September crept sluggishly into October and the grey days became more frequent, brushed now with a touch of chill that promised a cold and wet winter. In London, of course, the magnificent colours of fall and the gentle kiss of morning dew were all but lost in the flurry of cars and buses and shoulder-to-shoulder buildings. Even in the magical parts of London, such as Diagon Alley, the many shops and other establishments had settled into the bored grey lull between the Hogwarts before-term rush and Christmas time shopping.

In the second week of October, Charlie found himself abroad in southern France, just east of Marseille, visiting a small wizarding community that was a favourite crossroads for many of the smugglers of magical items that came out of the east. Here Charlie found a number of useful things, including a sack of Jobberknoll feathers, a small box of Ramora scales, a tiny vial of extraordinarily rare Re’em blood, and more than a few illegal potions ingredients that were far cheaper in the Mediterranean than they were by the time they had been smuggled into Britain.

As a treat to himself, Charlie spent several days thereafter enjoying the relative warmth and comforts of the magical holiday resorts that were so popular around Marseille and Nice. By the time that he returned to Britain, the creeping chill of winter felt very bitter indeed, and in the village of Hogsmeade, the cold was positively piercing.

“Well, can you blame him though? I’d keep a low profile if I were challenging centuries of strict Ministry policy too,” Charlie heard a grey-haired witch murmur to her friend one day in November as he passed them on the High Street of the northern magical village.

“Fah,” her elderly friend replied, pursing her lips in disapproval. “He lurks about because he’s up to no good, Mathilda. ‘Dark Lord’? It’s nothing to do with shadows and keeping a low profile �“ he’s after power, you mark my words.”

“Oh, Augusta,” Mathilda sighed, exasperated. Her friend shot Charlie a dirty look and adjusted the stuffed vulture that perched atop her hat as they swept by him.

Charlie merely beamed congenially at the two of them, but the snippet of conversation that he had overheard was, like so many other things, carefully filed away for future reference. In the past two months, the Dark Lord had quietly but cleverly entered the public eye, slotting nicely into the Mysterious Masked Hero role that newspapers, children, and pulp fiction-obsessed housewives so revered. There might come a time, Charlie knew, when his piecemeal knowledge of the Dark Lord could prove quite lucrative to the right people. He did not realise, of course, that this time was much closer at hand that he suspected.

He was slouching down the High Street of Hogsmeade at about dinnertime, keeping habitually close to the shadows of the buildings on either side, despite it being full dark. His steps carried him past the now darkened windows of Honeydukes and the Post Office, and brought him finally to the brightly glowing inn, The Three Broomsticks. Muted music could be heard through its closed windows, from which poured light that had no regard for the cold and muddy street on which Charlie now stood. Smiling to himself, Charlie gathered his robes about him and made for the cheery pub.

Inside, he found the place brimming with people and permeated by the warm, homely smell of good cooking and wood smoke. Before he had even removed his travelling cloak, a lilting voice called out his name over the heads of several wizards with knee-length grey beards.

“Charlie! Come in, come in!” Madam Esmeralda’s young assistant, Rosmerta, swept up to Charlie, beaming at him as her hair flew about her. Even with three Butterbeers in each hand, she managed to usher him in the direction of a tiny isolated table next to the stairs.

“Ah Rosmerta, you are too kind to an old man!” Charlie grinned. “Allow me to relieve you of some of your burden, my dear.” He snatched up one of the Butterbeers and Rosmerta gave him a chiding smirk. Several younger men in maroon-coloured robes seemed irked by the special attention lavished upon the short, old-fashioned looking wizard who brushed past them at Rosmerta’s shoulder, but Charlie appeared not to notice.

“Sit yourself down there, Charlie,” Rosmerta said, waving at the tiny table once they had weaved through the busy pub. “Now, is it the roast beef or the Sheppard's Pie tonight?”

Charlie plunked down into one of the table’s two chairs and threw his cloak over the second. “Roast beef, I think. And how about an extra yorkshire, if it’s not too much trouble?”

“None at all.” Smiling pleasantly, Rosmerta swiftly disappeared again.

Yawning pointedly until the jealous glares of the young, maroon-robed wizards retreated, Charlie dug a hand deep into one of his pockets and rustled around for a second, finally extracting a stubby brown pipe and pouch of tobacco. By the time he had touched his wand to the bowl and the pipe had begun to emit a purplish smoke, Charlie had already turned up a rumpled copy of The Daily Prophet from another pocket and opened the squashed paper in front of him.

The front page was taken up with a variety of articles that betrayed a slow day for news, such as the visit of the famous Russian alchemist Ivan Sorgoski (famous not for his alchemy, but for his illustrious affairs with three different members of the Russian wizarding royal family). By page three, Charlie was sifting through stories about new Ministry regulations on the enchantment of quills and the closing of Darwent’s Dodgy Draughts after only three months of business in central London. It was as he was starting into an article about the mixed reviews of a new Doxycide that Charlie felt a brief movement behind his paper and heard the scrape of a chair in front of him.

Frowning and narrowing his eyes, he dipped a corner of the paper and glanced over the top of it. His peppery brows lifted. A man sat opposite him; middle-aged, black-haired, and square-jawed. At first Charlie looked to either side of the table, as if expecting the man to realise he was sitting in the wrong place, but the man did not move. He sat staring at Charlie with a mildly interested expression.

Finally, Charlie set his paper down and gazed pointedly across the table. “Can I help you?” he said in a tone that suggested the man ought to leave.

The man cocked his head to the side, as if Charlie was an animal that had just reacted well to an experiment. After a moment, he spoke, his voice deep and confident. “I believe you can. Your name is Charlie?”

Charlie snorted, sending purple smoke dancing about his eyebrows. “Much as I despise clichés, I’m afraid I’ll have to respond with: it depends who’s asking.”

The black-haired man smiled indulgently and leaned forward with a business-like air. “Henry Marlow, Hit Wizard, Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

“Henry Marlow, eh?” Charlie repeated sceptically. “Sounds Muggle-like to me.”

“My father was a Muggle. Henry Marlow, Senior.”

“Ah, that would explain it,” Charlie nodded, eyeing Marlow. “So, is it your intent to arrest me, Mr Marlow? I could save you the trouble and simply hex you now, if you like, so that your superiors can see you’ve made an effort.”

“As you did with young Wethers and Franklin a few months ago?” Marlow replied, then shook his head. “No, I don’t need to show the effort. I am not here to arrest you.”

“That’s refreshing.”

“Indeed. In fact, I would like some information from you, Charlie. For a price, of course,” he added when Charlie gave him a dry stare.

At that, Charlie straightened. “Oh? That's original. Expect me to believe that, eh? Mr Marlow, I know at least a dozen hexes that will shut down various internal organs and three different jinxes that would make your toes curl, literally. So go ahead and ask your questions, if you wish. But if you anticipate lulling me into a false sense of security with the promise of a few Ministry coins, I ought to warn you: I doubt Ministry pockets go deep enough to earn more than my passing attention, never mind my trust.”

Marlow's reaction was unreadable, save that he looked slightly thoughtful. Before either man spoke again, however, the humdrum of the pub was broken by Rosmerta’s return. Both leaned back as the inn assistant swept over them, delivering a plate of steaming roast beef buried beneath a mountain of potatoes, boiled vegetables, yorkshire puddings and thick gravy. When Rosmerta had gone again, Marlow leaned forward and muttered something under his breath. Charlie felt his ears pop and knew that a noise-muffling charm had been cast, for when Marlow raised his voice again, not a single eye turned in their direction, despite the subject that the Ministry wizard now broached.

“I wish to know what you know of the wizard known as the Dark Lord.”

Charlie whistled between his teeth, grinning. The last of the purplish smoke unravelled itself from his head and spun lazily towards the ceiling as he pocketed his pipe again. “Ooh, tall order, Mr Marlow. He’s a devious one, this Dark Lord of yours. Not sure how much I could say I know of him.”

Catching Charlie’s implication, Marlow reached into his robes and pulled out a small red bag. It jingled when he threw it on the table. Charlie did not touch it, but his expression grew thoughtful.

“What makes you so interested in the Dark Lord, might I ask?" he said sceptically, then began digging into his supper. "I was rather under the impression that the Ministry thought him a joke. Great flipping change of opinion, I should think, if you’re seeking out an old hand like me for information about him.”

Marlow threw Charlie what was likely meant to be a wry smirk, but it did not quite mask the revealing pinched quality that passed across the Hit Wizard’s face, as if Charlie’s assessment had struck a chord. “Yours is not the reason why, yours is but to do and die.”

“What’s that?”

“A Muggle saying,” Marlow returned. “I’m paying you for information, not prying questions.”

Charlie snorted and smiled. “I suppose you think him a smuggler then, if you're so bothered to find me. Crouch leaning on you to turn up something about this black market for Dark objects? That old berk. Well now, let me think what comes to mind. I know the Dark Lord has been hard at work for some time now. I know he has wealthy and influential friends. I know he is somewhere between 35 and 50 years of age. And I know he doesn't think too highly of your Ministry.”

The old wizard said no more as he hunched back over his meal. Marlow continued to stare at Charlie, evidently expecting more information. When none was forthcoming, he frowned and leaned forward again. “And?”

“And that’s it, about,” Charlie said, now using his potatoes to mop up pools of gravy.

Marlow was silent at first, glaring at Charlie as if he could pry information out of the old man with looks alone. Then he muttered, "I'd heard you were the wizard to go to for information."

"Mmhmm," Charlie replied with a sigh, leaning back from the remnants of his supper without warning. "And I'd heard that there was naught better than The Three Broomsticks for pleasant company. Suppose we're all disappointed sometimes."

Charlie pushed back from the table and stood, reaching behind Marlow to retrieve his travelling cloak. The Hit Wizard's hand instinctively twitched towards his robes when Charlie leaned towards him, but he covered this by standing as well, barring Charlie's exit. "I am not trying to upset your business," he said, clearly irritated but struggling to keep Charlie's attention. "All I want is information about the Dark Lord, who he is, where he operates out of. I'm not trying to attack your business, Charlie."

Much to Marlow's frustration, Charlie actually laughed at that as he dug in his pockets for the money to pay for his supper. "He's not a smuggler, Mr Marlow, if that's what you're so concerned about. He's not a smuggler." He reached out to take the red bag of coins that Marlow had offered, but the Ministry wizard snatched up the bag before the older man could touch them. Charlie frowned, shrugged, and proceeded to push past Marlow as if mildly disappointed. At first, Marlow did not attempt to stop him, but by the time that Charlie had reached the door of the inn and was about to set the payment for his food on the bar, the Hit Wizard had caught him up.

"I know you know more than that, Charlie."

"In fact, Mr Marlow, I don't. The Dark Lord lives up to his name very nicely and is quite good at keeping outside knowledge about himself to a minimum. He is murky, of the shadows, like unto smoke! What I know about him, I have told you....Now, had you asked me what I suspected about him," Charlie said, glorying in the sudden shock that fell across Marlow's face, as if he had been slapped, "my answer might have been very different. Very different indeed."

And before the coins that Charlie had thumped down on the bar top had even stopped rolling, he had plucked the red bag from Marlow's hand, swept out the door, and Disapparated with a crack from the muddy street beyond.

-
Chapter 3: A Very Black Christmas

The Daily Prophet, 1 November 1971

Personal Assistant to Minister for Magic Retires

The long-time Personal Assistant to Minister for Magic Uther Talley has unexpectedly announced his retirement. Dagnus Dinglewald, 45, has served as the Minister’s assistant since 1958, when Mr Talley first came to significance within the Ministry as the newly-appointed Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

Mr Dinglewald’s retirement comes as something of a surprise to those close to the Minister, who claim that Mr Talley has always relied heavily on Mr Dinglewald’s advice, especially since his appointment as Minister for Magic in 1968. Although Mr Dinglewald declined to comment upon his departure, it is understood that his reasons for leaving are related to his health and a desire to spend more time with his family.

‘He hasn’t been himself at all,’ Mr Talley told reporters. ‘Not been very well, you see? I hate to lose him, but what can you do? A fellow’s hands are tied when it’s his health at stake, you know. Mrs Dinglewald will be pleased to have him at home, at least.’

Replacing Mr Dinglewald is Ada Bulstrode, formerly a Senior Clerk with the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. Mr Talley has described her as ‘accomplished’.

----------

After the incident with Henry Marlow, Charlie made a point of avoiding The Three Broomsticks for several weeks, in case Marlow was determined enough to wait for him to return there. Ultimately, however, Charlie was little bothered by the thought of the Hit Wizard. Ministry officials did not overly vex him after the many years he had spent eluding them, and Marlow had seemed interested not so much in Charlie himself as in uncovering any avenue of information available. He was certain to have other leads to pursue that would soon put any thoughts of an old Knockturn Alley wizard from his mind.

So, once again, Charlie found himself returning to business as usual. As November brought with it chill days and bitter eastern winds, he was pleased to hear that the Kresterbach family had finally finished tying up all of its loose ends in Britain and had returned to Germany, forty years after Muggle-born Sebastian Kresterbach had first founded his revolutionary attachable broom seat company. This news was followed shortly by an unusually high number of requests that Charlie find appropriate buyers for such things as magical feather-stuffing machines and enchanted sewing needles. The clients making these requests of him assured him that each of these items had been lawfully procured, but Charlie knew each client’s reputation well enough to be confident of the exact opposite.

This made for a welcome relief from the increasing number of Dark objects that Charlie was both acquiring and selling on behalf of a large number of clients. It was a trend that he had noticed long before the Ministry, but unlike the Ministry, he was not excessively worried about it. In his many years in the wizarding underworld, Charlie had witnessed many short-lived trends that had concerned the Ministry in their time: a month long fascination with pet Grindylows, a briefly booming market in hair loss poisons, and an overwhelming, if fleeting enthralment with snuffboxes filled with Wartcap Powder. Even the legitimate market had endured such mercifully short-lived fads as the boom in lace-collared robes.

Indeed, Charlie’s greatest objection to the Dark object black market was not in the nature of the objects that he helped to trade, but in the fact that the market was so robust that it greatly detracted from the time he could give over to potions-making, which was by far his favourite pastime. Yet Charlie found even his potions in unusually high-demand as November wore on. Poisons had always been very saleable, being far less expensive if concocted in Britain, rather than smuggled into the country. Increasingly, however, he was also beset with requests for potions that were, strictly speaking, legal, but far cheaper to procure on the black market, where Ministry-imposed taxes and duties did not penetrate. In the latter half of November, Charlie began taking numerous orders for Wit-Sharpening Potion, Exploding Fluid, Forgetfulness Potion, Polyjuice Potion, and Veritaserum, among others. Marius Mulciber alone ordered fully a dozen vials of Veritaserum, which had caused Charlie to nearly choke. By mid-December, there were no less than eighteen cauldrons of varying sizes and metals scattered about Charlie’s London flat, all bubbling and smoking with some draught or another.

Between this busyness and the approach of the festive season, Charlie soon forgot about the mild hubbub that had accompanied the Kresterbaches’ departure. It was not long before vendors peddling everything from carolling candles to life-size enchanted snowmen were lining the sides of Diagon Alley. In shop windows there appeared a vast array of festive displays: self-stirring peppermint hot chocolate, magically-refilling stockings, singing and dancing Christmas trees, angel-shaped Christmas ornaments that squabbled about the merits of gingerbread and fruit cake, and mountains of sweets that dwarfed most of the children who ogled at them.

And then, almost before Charlie had had the chance to appreciate the onset of the holidays, it was nearly Christmas. This year, Charlie would be spending Christmas with his Black relations. Despite lacking the enviable surname attachment to the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black, Charlie did hold a much-coveted titular position within the family by virtue of being the eldest nephew of one Hesper Gamp, who had married the first Sirius Black. This made him a first cousin to the current head of the Black dynasty, Arcturus Black. So at noon on the day before Christmas, Charlie left over the care of his many active potions to his elderly house-elf, Tolly, and set out for number twelve, Grimmauld Place in northeast London.

When he Apparated into the square outside the Black family home, Charlie found himself shivering slightly at the prick of a light, icy rainfall. He quickly gathered his robes about him and looked up at the row of grimy black houses that he faced. Almost immediately, the brooding shapes of Number Eleven and Number Thirteen seemed to grumble and whine as the bulk of another house slowly pushed out between the two, shoving each aside. In a matter of seconds, number twelve, Grimmauld Place stood there plain as day, yet not a single passerby seemed to have noticed that anything unusual had just occurred.

Charlie crossed the street and tugged on the bell that hung over number twelve’s gleaming black door. A loud clanging echoed behind the door. It took less than a minute for it to open, and when it did, a stooped old house-elf with a snout-like nose and a clean rag for clothing stood at Charlie’s feet. Despite the natural smallness of its race, the elf managed to stand nearly as high as Charlie’s naval.

“Mister Charlie!” Kreacher croaked graciously, bowing low as he stared up at Charlie through enormous grey eyes. “You is nearly late, Mister Charlie. Mistress is just saying so!”

Charlie grinned, pulling off his wizard’s cap as the house-elf waved him into the house with much continued bobbing and bowing. “Oh, well, much to be doing, you know,” he told Kreacher as he was helped to remove his cloak.

Kreacher closed the black door behind him and Charlie found himself in a magnificent entrance hall. Gas lamps and a low, crystal chandelier threw a glimmering light upon the rich green wallpaper, where silver and gold tracery added an extra glittering quality to the long, high-ceilinged hall. Large, exquisitely-detailed portraits of Blacks past and present lined the hall in dark, heavy frames, and each occupant of these portraits was now nodding cordially, if quite haughtily, at Charlie.

“Will Mister Charlie be wanting his Firewhisky?” Kreacher said, once Charlie had been relieved of his travelling clothes. “We is having a new bottle of Ogden’s just for Mister Charlie. Or Master is having a new bottle of red currant rum and is wanting Mister Charlie’s opinion of it.” The house-elf said all of this as he led Charlie up the ornate grand staircase that dominated the centre of the house.

“Ooh, the rum to start then,” Charlie said, following Kreacher as the elf left the stairs at the first floor and ushered Charlie towards what he knew to be the drawing room. “If I’m to be registering an opinion, I shouldn’t like to come to the conclusion that it has an aftertaste rather like Ogden’s Old Firewhisky, eh?”

They came to a set of double doors through which Charlie could hear the muffled murmur of conversation. Kreacher reached up and turned the handles of both doors, gave each a little shove, and then entered the drawing room with his gnarled old hands over his chest, already in a bowing position.

“Master, Mistress,” said the elf obediently. “Mister Charlie is arriving.”

He moved aside to allow Charlie to enter.

The drawing room was, if possible, even more magnificent than the entry hall below. The wall paper was still green, but it was patterned differently, more exquisite in its detail and somehow more evocative of the majesty and opulence of the Black family. Tall, wide windows looked out onto the square below, and a great stone fireplace was flanked on either side by elaborate glass-fronted cases. The wall opposite the fireplace was home to the immense Black family tapestry. It seemed to hang upon the wall like an ancient, wizened monarch, crouched over its dusty throne but ready always to spring forth and remind all those who looked upon it of the nobility of the family depicted therein.

“Charlie, welcome,” said a deep voice that was at once luxuriant and guttural. It came from the oldest person in the room, a man with silver, shoulder-length hair and a pointed beard. As Arcturus Black stood to greet his cousin, the others in the room rose as well, each returning Charlie’s respectful nod. Behind Arcturus stood his son Orion and daughter-in-law (and first cousin once removed, as it were) Walburga. Both came forward, graciously smiling at Charlie.

“Charlie, so good to see you. We worried you were delayed,” said Walburga, the Mistress that Kreacher so revered. She was a middle-aged woman, but not yet unattractive. Distinctive cheekbones and grey eyes were framed by rich black hair that was pulled into a tight bun, and she stood straight and proud, several inches taller than her husband.

Orion was more thickly built than his wife and had inherited his father’s heavy brow, but the clever grey eyes that met Charlie’s evidenced Black family blood like little else could. His hair was long, black and tied back, and a small goatee circled his lips. “Come in, Charlie, it has been too long,” he said.

“Ah, Arcturus, Orion, Walburga �“ you are too kind,” Charlie returned genially to the Blacks. The atmosphere in the room was somehow informally formal, as between those who are well familiar with one another, but have been apart for some time.

Yet when Orion and Walburga stepped back to allow Charlie access to one of the plush armchairs that surrounded the fireplace, they revealed behind them two young boys, both with the characteristic boyish smoothness of face that foretold handsomeness once they approached adulthood. Each was standing respectfully, but while one �“ the older of the two �“ was barely concealing a grin, the other was maintaining a strictly formal stand to attention.

“Hello boys!” Charlie barked laughingly and in an instant the uncomfortable formality that seemed to oppress the drawing room dissolved. All three older Blacks smiled and, after a consenting nod from their mother, Sirius and Regulus ran forward into Charlie’s open arms.

“Hello, Uncle Charlie!” both said in unison as Charlie knelt to hug them tightly, then stood and ruffled their shoulder-length black hair.

“Hello boys, hello boys,” he chuckled, steering the brothers towards a long couch, where he sat them on either side of himself. “So, getting into lots of trouble, I hope? Showing off the famous Black cleverness and skill, I trust? Sirius, lad, how are you liking Hogwarts, eh? Quite a place, quite a place.”

Sirius beamed up at Charlie, clearly pleased to be given the opportunity to discuss Hogwarts. “Oh it’s great! It’s huge! I’ve got lost so many times, and then once, this stair took my leg and wouldn’t let me go for almost an hour�”“

“�”Third floor staircase?”

“No, first floor.”

“Ah! There used to be a big suit of armour there in my day �“ would always warn its favourite students not to forget about that step. Always had to be careful you didn’t insult it, you know, which was really something because it had a helmet with this great beak-like thing on it that was difficult not to make fun of.”

Sirius looked near to bursting and Regulus was grinning in the vacant way of one who does not fully appreciate the subject of discussion, but is desperate and eager to hear more of it. Chuckling, Charlie looked up at the other three adults. They were all smiling, but there was something strained in their expressions, and Charlie broached, without ceremony, what he knew to be the elephant in the room.

“So, Sirius,” he said, looking seriously at the elder of the two boys. “You’re in Gryffindor, eh?”

Sirius instantly sobered. “Yes,” he answered in a small voice. His eyes flickered to the other Blacks as if he had already been made to answer copious questions on the subject of his Hogwarts house.

“Mm,” Charlie said. Silence hovered over the room. “Well...you’re still a Black. You’re still up on that tapestry, right? Just remember that, son.”

Sirius nodded feebly and his parents and grandfather each gave stiff, reassuring nods as well, though there was something of worried doubt still in their expressions. It was at this point that young Regulus superciliously chose to pipe up with a confident declaration: “If the Sorting Hat tries to put me in any of the other houses, I’m going to tell it to put me in Slytherin instead. I don’t want to be in another house.”

Charlie noticed that Arcturus, Orion and Walburga all looked much pleased to hear Regulus’s assertion, but Sirius immediately sank into a sulky silence that Charlie suspected he had hitherto maintained for most of the Christmas holiday so far.

After that, the conversation was dampened somewhat by the family’s unspoken agreement not to discuss Sirius’s unfortunate assignment of house. Arcturus and Charlie caught up on family matters, Orion and Walburga seemed eager to hear the sort of illegal business dealings that Charlie had had in the past six months, and Regulus complained to Charlie at length about the unfairness of his having to wait almost another year to start at Hogwarts. By the time that Kreacher had a dinner of honey-baked ham prepared for them, the Blacks had quite overcome the initial stiffness of a long separation and were treating Charlie like a favourite, if eccentric, uncle.

It was not until after dinner, when both boys had been sent upstairs for the night, that the matter of Sirius’s Hogwarts house was raised again, this time by a regretful-sounding Arcturus.

“That boy,” he sighed after Sirius had left the kitchen behind his brother. The Black patriarch helped himself to a glass of mulled wine as Kreacher circled the dining room table with a silver tray of wine and mince pies.

“Well, he always was a bit...off, wasn’t he?” Charlie said gingerly, also accepting one of the proffered goblets of spiced wine.

“Odd, yes,” Arcturus replied, “but this? He is a Gryffindor, Charlie. It goes against everything we stand for.”

“Perhaps he’ll grow out of it.”

“He is surrounded by their type now,” Walburga cut in. “He’s more likely to grow into it than out. My poor boy.” Her voice wavered as if she were wounded, yet even in her grief Walburga managed to maintain her proud posture. Her face was not so confident, however. The concealing smile that she had worn so well in the drawing room in front of her eldest son was not near so convincing now.

Yet Charlie snorted and waved a dismissive hand. “It’s just as likely to be a phase, Walburga, my dear. Young people go through phases all the time, usually for the sole purpose of vexing their parents. Sometimes it simply takes time for a boy to grow into himself. Why, Valens Malfoy and I were virtually enemies until our fourth year when we realised it would be much more beneficial to be allies. Sirius is eleven, he may yet grow out of it.” He took a thoughtful sip of his wine. “Have you written Dumbledore about it?”

“Of course, as soon as we heard,” Orion replied somewhat testily. “He refused to switch Sirius, of course. All manner of nonsense about it being the Sorting Hat’s decision, not his. As if that old coot weren’t pleased to claim a Black for his own house. Sirius does not belong with a bunch of weak-minded do-gooders.”

“Just keep reminding him that he is first and foremost a Black,” Charlie said smoothly. “That is a far first to any house at Hogwarts. Why, my brother was a Ravenclaw and my sister a Gryffindor, but they neither of them ever forgot the heritage they had to live up to. We purebloods can’t afford to.”

“You never speak to your sister,” Walburga pointed out gloomily.

“Bah,” Charlie snorted. “A difference of personalities. She does not approve of how I make my living �“ it is nothing to do with our Hogwarts days. Remind Sirius of his responsibility as a Black, that’s the key.”

All three Blacks looked slightly mollified, and Arcturus in particular adopted a thoughtful expression. Charlie sought to reinforce this change in mood by adding, “Besides, Regulus is turning into a very fine boy.”

This had the desired effect. The worried half-sneers on the others’ faces faded into haughty, knowing smirks. They nodded.

“He certainly is,” Walburga stated briskly without modesty. “He is clever, resourceful, dutiful, ambitious and proud.”

“Everything a Black ought to be,” Orion added pointedly.

Arcturus’ commanding voice rumbled a silence over the dining table. “He ought to have been your first-born.” Orion looked inclined to agree and even Walburga, though she frowned unhappily, did not speak up to defend Sirius. Charlie could not help but feel a pang of sympathy for the eldest Black son. Although Sirius had remained resolutely quiet throughout dinner, Charlie had known him as a young boy to be something of a scoundrel and troublemaker. This had, admittedly, done much more to endear Sirius to Charlie’s devilish sense of humour than had all of Regulus’s dutiful pride in his ancestry.

Walburga broke the silence with a self-important sniff. “Last week Julietta tasked Regulus with an essay on the three people he would most like to grow up to be.” Julietta was the Black’s governess, Charlie knew. “He wrote that he would most like to be like his grandfather, Arcturus, his father, and the Dark Lord.”

Arcturus and Orion both adopted smirks that conveyed, not so subtly, That’s m’boy!

Charlie gave a pleasantly surprised smile. “Indeed? There’s a good boy. Though really, his grandfather Arcturus? I would have thought Pollux the more natural choice over this silver-haired old scallywag,” he added with a twinkling glance at his cousin.

“His grandfather Pollux does not have an Order of Merlin, First Class,” Arcturus returned smugly, as if this made all the difference. Walburga frowned at the slight upon her father’s character, but Charlie grinned.

“So he’s an admirer of the Dark Lord?” he continued, which returned a flush of pride to Walburga’s cheeks.

“Oh yes,” she nodded. “Arcturus and my father have given generously to the Dark Lord, so naturally Regulus takes an interest.”

“As he should,” Arcturus added. “He takes an interest already in the foremost threats that face our society. This is the mark of a true Black.”

“Then the Dark Lord ought himself to be a Black, in that case,” Charlie said jokingly. “Perhaps he is. Have you any unknown cousins called Voldemort Black?”

Orion frowned, failing, as he often did, to appreciate Charlie’s sense of humour. He rarely displayed the same patience for Charlie as his father Arcturus. “No,” he said simply.

“Ah, but how can you be sure if this cousin is, as I said, unknown to you, eh?”

“He is not,” Orion repeated. “His real name is not Voldemort. He was at school with me.”

“Oh?” said Charlie, leaning forward. He was interested now and pushed his empty wine goblet away from him. “You knew him? Who is he really then? I have heard only rumours of him, but I confess myself most intrigued.”

“I did not recognise him myself,” Orion said. Charlie had the impression from the other two that his was not the only rapt attention that Orion had captured. “He is much changed since Hogwarts. But his friends are the same, which is how I knew him for certain. He was once called Tom Riddle.”

“Riddle?” Charlie repeated. He did not recognise the name as belonging to any family of significance, but there was something about it that was temptingly familiar.

Orion nodded. “He was popular as a student. A Slytherin, of course.”

“So where does the name Voldemort come from?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Orion replied. “He was not called that when I knew him. Though I did not know him well, he was several years ahead of me.”

Charlie felt himself captivated now and he was smiling rather like a young a child hearing the story of his hero’s historic rise to fame. He picked at a half-eaten mince pie. “When did you meet him?” he pressed.

Arcturus answered this time. “This last summer. Pollux and I met with him after Avery approached us about helping to finance the Dark Lord’s cause. Orion accompanied.”

“Avery? Apsus Avery?” Charlie queried.

Orion shook his head. “His son, Aleron. And when we met with the Dark Lord, he was accompanied by Marius Mulciber, Restebus Lestrange and Thaddeus Nott. That was how I knew him, by his old friends.”

Arcturus shifted, then looked pointedly at his cousin. “This information is not to leave this house, Charlie.”

Charlie snorted and his expression became marginally offended. “As if I need to be told to be discrete, Arcturus. Well do I know the value of falling beneath the Ministry’s attention, and so far the Dark Lord has done just that. The Prophet does not know he exists and the Ministry thinks him little more than a petty smuggler.”

“Oh?” Arcturus said at the last, grey eyes narrowing. Charlie nodded and related to them the particulars of his encounter with Henry Marlow at The Three Broomsticks. All three Blacks looked divided, as if unsure what to think of the meeting.

“You ought to tell Bella,” Walburga said finally, once Charlie had finished.

A bemused expression crossed Charlie’s face and he scratched at his beard. “Bella? Bellatrix? Your niece?”

Walburga nodded. “She has joined the Dark Lord. She is one of his followers.” Her tone managed to combine pride in the fact that one of her close relations was so connected to the Dark Lord, and jealousy that her own sons were not yet old enough to follow suit.

“Has she?” Charlie said. “How old is she now?”

“Twenty-one.”

“Twenty-one!” he exclaimed, laughing. “Little Bella, twenty-one years old, hah! Merlin’s beard, they just keep growing up, don’t they?” he added jokingly to Arcturus.

“She will be here tomorrow,” Walburga said. She continued at Charlie’s inquiring glance. “My mother and father are joining us for Christmas dinner and the Grande Operatus, as are my brothers, Alphard and Cygnus, and Cygnus’s family.”

“Ah good, excellent,”” Charlie returned, again grinning as that boyish side of him anticipated bearing some meaningful piece of information to the mysterious Dark Lord.

After that, the conversation turned to plans for the following day, and before long beds were beckoning. Kreacher showed Charlie up to a large bedroom on the second floor where two four-poster beds reached halfway up towards the lofty ceiling above. Beneath a picture frame with an empty canvas, he also found a small trunk of his things that his house-elf Tolly had packed and delivered at some point after his arrival at Grimmauld Place.

As he changed into his night clothes and crawled into one of the ornate beds, Charlie found his head swimming with thoughts of the Dark Lord. Voldemort, Tom Riddle, whoever he was. Had he been honest with himself, Charlie would have admitted that a part of him revelled at the memory of the conversation around the dining room table. He was himself just as intrigued by the mystery that surrounded the Dark Lord as anyone, but he, Charlie, now knew more of this shadowy figure than most. Whatever the children and pulp-fiction-obsessed housewives had heard in whispers, Charlie knew who the Dark Lord had once been, and who his current associates were. He could not suppress a smirk as he drifted off to sleep.

----------

Christmas dawned with the coming of a pale light outside the window in Charlie’s bedroom. A glance out at the street below revealed that the rain had turned to snow in the night and left a light dusting of white around Grimmauld Place. It was a welcome addition, brightening the grubby little square considerably.

Charlie threw off his blankets to find the room already pleasantly warm, for there was a lively fire chuckling in the grate across from his bed. Kreacher had also left a tray of tea and pastries warming on the mantle. Smiling, Charlie helped himself to a cup of tea and a scone and then set about dressing for the day. He had just finished pulling on a typically old-fashioned set of robes (emerald green for the occasion) and running a comb through his flyaway hair, when the empty picture frame above his trunk showed a flicker of movement. Charlie looked up to find the black-haired and goateed portrait of Phineas Nigellus staring out at him with something akin to amusement writ across his painted face.

“Hullo, Phinny!” Charlie chuckled, moving over to the portrait. “How’s the painted life treating you?”

The amusement briefly fell from Phineas’s pointed face as a dry look of long suffering replaced it. “Must you always call me that? It makes me sound like a pet. Names ending in an ee sound ought to be outlawed.”

“But Charlie is permissible?”

“No,” Phineas sighed dramatically. “I don’t know why you chose it. Your real name is far more distinguished.”

Charlie grinned. “Fair enough, but it’s also far better known. So how have you been, eh? Didn’t see you last night.”

“That’s because I wasn’t here,” Phineas stated flatly. “Dumbledore had another interesting meeting to attend.”

“Oh yes?”

“He has had many interesting meetings of late,” Phineas explained unhelpfully, failing to elaborate despite Charlie’s intent expression. “And even when they are not interesting, my fellow former headmasters and mistresses are most insistent about my attending Dumbledore even when he is in the midst of activities as gripping as perusing knitting patterns in Witch Weekly.”

Charlie smirked and did up the last button of his robes. “Fascinating, I’m sure. You must sorely miss Headmaster Dippet’s collection of singing candles by comparison then, though I recall you rather despised them at the time.”

Phineas cringed at the memory of another former headmaster’s strange quirks.

“But perhaps Dumbledore will knit you a pair of curtains, if you ask nicely,” Charlie continued, now gathering up a few lumpy parcels wrapped in bright paper. “That way you won’t have to watch him at his hobbies any longer.” He touched his hand to his bared head with a grin, as if doffing a cap to his late aunt’s father-in-law, then swept from the room.

Downstairs, Charlie found the drawing room had been transformed over night. The high-ceilinged room was a glow of red, green, gold and silver. An immense Christmas tree obscured two of the large windows in the room and gleamed with a perfectly spaced array of ornaments: bells that tinkled with tiny enchanted clappers, miniature wands that shot glittering sparks from their tips every few seconds, minute silver and gold brooms that took off from branches at intervals to whirl around the tree with a trail of gold smoke behind them, and small, silver-framed portraits of the Black family that included members who must surely have died several centuries previously. Atop the tree stood a figurine very like Merlin. It held in its outstretched arms the Black family crest and motto.

All around the room were garlands of gold and silver, and evergreen branches woven together that lent the sweet smell of Christmas to the air. A pile of expertly wrapped gifts, including what looked like two broom-shaped parcels, were stacked about the tree. The whole scene looked as if it could have been ordered out of a catalogue (and indeed, it probably had been).

Charlie found that Arcturus was already having breakfast in the dining room, as were Sirius and Regulus. Both boys, however, had a distracted air, as if they would much prefer to be ripping open the perfectly wrapped presents under the tree, and that the act of sitting at a formal breakfast had been forced upon them by their austere grandfather. They were soon joined by Orion and Walburga, who imitated Arcturus in breakfasting despite the impatient restlessness of their sons. Finally, a painstaking hour later, Arcturus gave his acquiescence that the gift opening could begin.

The broom-shaped parcels were indeed a pair of shiny new broomsticks for Sirius and Regulus, to replace the broomstick each boy had received the Christmas previous. They were new Nimbus 1001s. Some of the piles of presents were for the adults, such as an elaborate silver necklace that would never tarnish for Walburga and a bottle of Reddelph’s Red Firewhisky dating from 1887 for Charlie, but by far the bulk of the horde was for Sirius and Regulus. In addition to the new broomsticks, both boys unwrapped a set of sleek black dress robes, a handsome case for carrying quills and ink, a pure gold cauldron with an elaborate letter B inscribed on the side, and a stocking so full of sweets that even the Expandable Charm cast upon it was pushed to the limits.

Regulus also received a wand-cleaning kit in anticipation of his eleventh birthday in February, as well as a scrapbook with the Black coat of arms in silver on the front, a large gold locket with a picture of his parents in each window, and several other very fine gifts that appropriately boasted of his commitment to his family and pureblood status. Rather painfully, Sirius also received a number of presents that were no doubt intended to convey upon him the same commitment. It was with a strained smile that he unwrapped a set of crystal potions vials, a box of expensive stationery, and a golden ring set with an opaque green stone; all stamped with the Black family crest.

Indeed, Sirius’s favourite gifts likely came from Charlie, rather than his parents. For each boy, Charlie had brought a tiny figurine: a green snake that coiled and hissed around Regulus’s wrist, and a lion the size of Sirius’s hand that gave a minute roar and shook its mane.

“Let him be a boy, for Merlin’s sake,” he whispered to Walburga when she gave a disapproving frown in response to Sirius’s whoop of excitement.

To Regulus, Charlie also gave a small vial of green-grey liquid, which he explained to be a slightly altered brew of Polyjuice Potion. It would allow Regulus to change his form, but he would remain resolutely at his current four and a half feet tall, a miniature of anyone he chose to impersonate, yet the source of several hours entertainment nevertheless. Sirius, however, received a tiny vial of potion that was pure gold in colour.

“Never you mind, young Regulus,” Charlie laughingly chided Sirius’s younger brother when he began to pout. “When you start at Hogwarts, I’ll give you an hour’s worth of Felix Felicis too. But until you have exams you need help with or a girl you just can’t seem to properly ask out, I doubt you’ll be greatly in need of Felix’s aid.”

Doubtless before either boy wanted it to, the pile of presents was gone, replaced by a mass of brightly coloured paper that Kreacher was already cleaning up. Everyone sat admiring their gifts until noon, when the bell rang to admit Walburga’s parents, Pollux and Irma Black, and their remaining children and grandchildren. Charlie had always found Pollux and his wife to be less gracious towards him than Arcturus and his late wife Melania had been �“ perhaps because Charlie was not in fact related to Pollux directly, making his connection to the Blacks seem more tenuous than it was �“ but their children and grandchildren had always been rather like very young nieces and nephews to him and had enjoyed the rewards of his spoiling just as much as had Sirius and Regulus.

So Charlie was pleased to find himself seated between Walburga’s two youngest nieces, Narcissa and Andromeda, at the Christmas dinner table that afternoon. Bellatrix he could speak to later, for she was seated a number of chairs away from him at the moment. The dining room table had been expanded to accommodate the whole family, as had, it appeared, the dining room itself. As Kreacher served mountains of roast turkey, potatoes, Brussels sprouts, cranberries and gravy, Charlie found himself happily engaged discussing the happenings at Hogwarts with Narcissa, who was in her sixth year there. When Andromeda could be stolen away from conversation with Sirius �“ they were both something of the odd ducks in their families and thus quite close to one another �“ she told Charlie how she had plans to travel Europe for a spell and perhaps even parts of Asia.

Finally, when everyone’s stomachs were full and all the crackers had been pulled (they contained real crowns instead of paper ones and were all stamped with a regal letter B, save for Charlie’s, which had a letter D), the family dispersed to change into their formal attire. Charlie returned to his room and switched out of his old-fashioned green robes in favour of a smart, dapper set of black dress robes, complete with the short, stiff wizard’s cap currently in style for formal wear. He threw a white scarf over his shoulders and conjured himself a black cane before descending the stairs once more.

In the entry hall he found the men all wearing the same attire as he, while the women had changed into elaborate red and green robes and donned furry little black hats that were then fashionable among the very rich. Sirius and Regulus were both dressed in their new dress robes. Hugging travelling cloaks about them and pulling on gloves, they filed out the front door of number twelve, Grimmauld Place and into the square beyond, which was full dark and now blanketed thickly in snow. Charlie had just time to see Kreacher dutifully closing the door behind them before he and the Black family all turned on the spot and Disapparated.

When Charlie felt the suffocating pressure release, he was standing outside a most magnificent building. It was taller than the houses on Grimmauld Place by nearly double, and as white and shining as Grimmauld Place was grubby and dull. Light spilled from the windows that lined the round rotunda that created the central architectural feature of the building and witches and wizards in all manner of dress robes were filing up its wide marble stairs. Yet several Muggle passersby seemed hardly to notice the place. This was the Grande Operatus, the wizarding theatre. Inside, the place was buzzing with the upper crust of magical society. Tall, sweeping walls of white marble were covered in moving posters of a wintry landscape and a girl cloaked in red and wearing a crown of holly berries.

The Blacks naturally had a number of box seats from which to view the opera, such that Charlie found himself seated in one box with Arcturus, Pollux, Sirius, Regulus, Narcissa and Bellatrix. He made a point of seating himself near the rear of the box, next to Bellatrix. The lights dimmed and the stage became suddenly the inside of a home, dark and wood-panelled, with only the flicker of a single candle to lend light to the absent darkness. The performance was known as The Holly Wand, a magical Christmas classic, attended ritually by many wizarding families every festive season. The opera told the tale of a young girl who receives a holly wand on her eleventh birthday, which is Christmas Day. But lo, for she accidently enchants the playthings in her room, who steal her wand and flee to the Far North, where she must pursue them. With the aid of a mysterious stranger, she recovers her wand and her playthings become still again. At last, the mysterious stranger reveals himself as Amo of Sapiens, a mythical sorcerer said to give aid to children in need by bequeathing to them gifts of great power and meaning.

Charlie faithfully attended the opera as the girl received her holly wand and then brought her toys to life, but as the music rose with the tension of the theft of the girl’s holly wand, Charlie felt Bellatrix shift beside him and glanced at her, only to find her staring at him. “Bella?” he whispered.

“Uncle Charlie,” she whispered back, smiling. She pushed back a strand of black hair and continued to look at him from under heavily-lidded eyes. “My aunt tells me you wish to speak to me.”

Charlie grinned and nodded, now ignoring the activity on the stage below. “Indeed, little Bella. You have moved on from toy brooms and sweets, it seems. Your aunt tells me that you are in service to the Dark Lord now.”

“I am,” she nodded. She smirked as one of great privilege. “I am one of his most faithful servants. In his service, our world will once more be strong, and the strongest shall rule.”

“But he is as subject to the whims of lesser men as any,” Charlie whispered in return. “And the Ministry has begun to take an interest in him. You should tell him that. They barely scratch the surface, but let him be warned that the Ministry knows of his person at least, even if they mistake his purpose.”

“Tell me,” Bellatrix said, suddenly eager, her grey eyes wide. So Charlie told her, again relating in detail the events at The Three Broomsticks. By the end, she looked both disdainful and invigorated at the idea of Ministry interest in the Dark Lord.

“I will tell him,” she whispered. “Although, you may, as well.”

“Me?” Charlie said, glancing back at the stage as the music grew cold and uncertain, the young heroine following her stolen wand into the Far North.

Bellatrix nodded and leaned closer into Charlie. “You are not unknown to him, Uncle,” she murmured smoothly, as if aware of Charlie’s fondness for feeling himself privileged above others. Charlie found he did not care. “He believes that you may have useful information that will be of some benefit in his crusade. Or else that you will know how to find such information.”

“Then he is no fool, the Dark Lord,” Charlie returned, making no effort to downplay his own abilities. “I would happily provide such information as he requires. Let him name the place and time.”

Bellatrix nodded, satisfied, and crossed her hands over her lap, smirking. Charlie too fell back into silence and let the music of the opera below wash over him, though he was not listening. A roar of emotions leapt within him, despite the solemn, serious tone he had taken with Bellatrix, for he found his heart beating quickly at the thought of meeting at last the long spoken of Dark Lord. He did not realise that he was gently smiling until he noticed that Sirius and Regulus had both turned in their seats to search out the source of whispering behind them. Charlie waved at them to turn their eyes forward again. He took a breath and allowed his face to fall back into composed stillness, even as the music billowed below and brought with it a gust of wind and a mysterious stranger come to help the girl in red recover her holly wand.

-
Chapter 4: Legilimency

The Daily Prophet, 27 December 1971

In an isolated incident yesterday, a number of merrymakers are believed to have been responsible for the hexing of two Muggles near King’s Cross in northeast London. The Muggles in question, a man and woman, are reported to have suffered a violent outbreak of illness as a result of this encounter, vomiting large slugs and horned toads for several hours. Their memories have since been modified and they have been returned to their families.

Two arrests have been made in connection with the incident, but the Ministry has yet to release the names of those in custody. The Ministry does remain concerned, however, that these two persons are not the sole perpetrators of this attack. Daphne Dawdlebrook, of the Auror Headquarters, commented.

‘The two arrests we have made are certainly connected to this incident,’ she reassured The Daily Prophet. ‘But both persons were highly intoxicated at the time of their arrest. Furthermore, witnesses claim to have seen a group of some five or six people involved in this attack, which gives us reason to believe there are still a number of suspects we should be looking for.’

In addition, several witnesses claim that there were in fact two groups involved in the attack. One witch, who wishes to remain anonymous, insists that she saw a group of clearly intoxicated witches or wizards joined by a second, smaller group shortly before the attack. This second group is reported to have been wearing crude masks, raising the possibility that the incident may have been premeditated. The Ministry has declined to comment on these additional claims.

Dawdlebrook remains confident that this was an isolated incident and urges any further witnesses to come forward. The investigation continues.

----------

Charlie bid his Black relations farewell at noon on Boxing Day and returned to his own London flat bearing, courtesy of Kreacher, more Christmas dinner leftovers than there should have logically existed. But then, knowing what little he did of the Black’s ancient house-elf, Charlie would not have been surprised if Kreacher habitually cooked an entire second dinner, just in case his beloved masters had felt hungry after the first.

Yet while Charlie had a large platter of turkey and more stuffing and cranberry sauce than he knew what to do with, he found himself so uncommonly busy that he had little time to enjoy the last trappings of Christmas. Several extremely tricky potions matured only on New Year’s Day and so required Charlie’s near constant attention in the week following Christmas. One moment of distraction could ruin an entire year’s supply of very profitable potion.

Draver’s Draught, for example, which was banned for its ability to turn an unsuspecting victim into a virtual worshipper of whosoever slipped him or her the brew, required a clockwise half turn every eleven and three-quarter minutes, or else it turned blood red and emitted a smoke that could put a full-grown man into a permanent vegetative state in under three minutes. Another tricky (and equally illegal) potion was Casper’s Calling, which left victims with haunting visions of ghosts and every other manner of ephemeral beings for the rest of their life, had to be kept unflinchingly at exactly thirty-seven degrees from February 21st until midnight on New Year’s Eve.

It was Evanidus’s Elixir, however, that required most of Charlie’s attention. Evanidus’s Elixir kept one’s outward appearance from aging, even as a person’s organs and bodily functions began to shut down. But the potion was labour intensive. It required two grains of coarse powdered bicorn horn to be added every day at dusk and needed an anti-aging charm cast over it every hour for the last five days before it matured at noon of New Year’s Day. Although Charlie’s elderly house-elf Tolly could assist with tending most potions, Evanidus required a wizard’s magic, such that Charlie found himself leaving his flat very little in the run-up to the New Year.

With this constant busyness, New Year’s seemed to come and go even more quickly than had Christmas. Charlie spent the turning of the year alone, sharing a Butterbeer with Tolly and listening absently to the music and celebrations broadcast on the Wizarding Wireless Network. And then, abruptly, it was 1972. The festive season faded and life seemed to return to something akin to normal. The Christmas decorations disappeared, turkey leftovers were finished off, and the furious activity of the street vendors in Diagon Alley diminished once more into an aimless humdrum.

For Charlie, the sleepless nights spent giving attention to his most finicky potions paid off and he soon had some fifty new vials of various size and colour locked up in a cupboard for safe keeping. As for his brief exchange with Bellatrix at Christmas, the memory of her revelation continued to buzz anxiously at the back of his thoughts until an owl arrived in the middle of January bearing Charlie’s name in heavy black ink.

Charlie was in his study at the time, or at least, he was in the room that had once been intended as a study. It was, like most of his flat, taken up with shelves and cabinets and tables, every single one of which was crammed tightly with a precarious jumble of bottles, vials, jars, ingredient boxes, cauldrons, stirring sticks, and an odd assortment of Other things. And indeed, these Other things deserved the capital letter. There were little silver and gold instruments that whirred and emitted puffs of coloured smoke, and mirror-like objects that showed no reflection. Fully a dozen pocket watches were scattered about the room, some thrown in corners, others hanging from the wall, none of them bearing a simple twelve-numbered watch face. The only thing that distinguished this particular room as a study was a general proliferation of haphazardly strewn books. Some of them were vibrating.

“Master Charlie!” From the doorway, a high-pitched voice that rattled with age drew Charlie’s attention away from a bronze cauldron over which he had been leaning, repairing a melted hole at its base. A stooped old house-elf stood in the doorway, framed by the light of the gas lamps in the hallway beyond. The elf had a button nose and long, drooping ears from which sprouted the same curly white wisps of hair that clung to the wrinkled skin under its chin.

“An owl, Master Charlie!” wheezed Tolly, excitedly waving a letter in one hand and hopping from foot to foot as if he were far younger than he looked. A tiny pair of circular glasses perched across his round nose.

“An owl? At this time?” Charlie said, checking one of the pocket watches that hung on the wall and then adjusting his own pair of crystal reading glasses. He left off the bronze cauldron and accepted the letter from Tolly’s bouncing hand.

“Twas most unusual,” Tolly went on, round grey eyes watching Charlie unfold the letter. “It insisted on entering through the kitchen window and would not go away until Tolly opened it! It must not be knowing of the post box, Tolly thought, but now Tolly is thinking is did not wish to be seen at Master’s door! The owl is not wanting to be seen, that is, not the letter. Tis quite late for owls to be dropping in, unless they is being told to go by dark. Yes?”

“Mmm,” Charlie replied absently. But he was already reading and seemed to miss most of Tolly’s meandering suspicions. The letter was only a few lines.

Dear Uncle,

My friend would like to meet with you as soon as possible. He will await your arrival tomorrow evening at the rear of The Green House, at seven. I trust you will take the necessary precautions. Please send your elf with your reply.

Regards,
Bella

“It’s from Bella,” Charlie grunted at Tolly, once he had finished reading. The house-elf was bobbing up and down eagerly for information. “You remember her? Little Bella?”

“Oh yes!” Tolly answered wheezily. “Little Miss Bella, one of Master’s favourites.” Judging from the beaming smile that now flitted across the elf’s face, this clearly translated into Little Miss Bella also being one of Tolly’s favourites. “What is Miss Bella wanting?”

Charlie seemed to ignore Tolly, gently fiddling with the scroll of parchment in thought. Gradually, however, a smug grin began to creep into his eyes until he waved the letter at the house-elf. “The Dark Lord wants to meet with me, with me. For all his secret and mystery, he can’t get by without old Charlie’s help. How about that, eh?” He shoved a pile of books off of a nearby chair and seated himself.

“Well, Master is a very important person,” Tolly replied solemnly, a touch indignant, as if this should have been obvious to the wider world. He bowed profusely as he hastened forward and immediately began tidying the upset heap of books into a slightly more respectable stack. “Master is making all sorts of witches and wizards great and they is never thanking him. And it upsets Tolly most grievously!”

“Oh hush, Tolly,” Charlie said, though he looked pleased. “I know who owes me a debt and they know I know. That is enough for me. But I wonder...” he continued, now speaking as if to himself. “What sort of need might this Dark Lord have of me? Information? Something of a Dark magical nature? Well, there is enough of a thriving market in that respect that he should hardly have need of my skills for finding most Dark objects of any significance. Information then, I would hazard to guess. How intriguing, that he wishes to meet as soon as possible.”

“Perhaps he is knowing that Master should not be kept waiting.”

“Mm,” Charlie replied absently, again seeming to ignore Tolly. Yet he straightened after a second and waved Bellatrix’s letter at the elf. “Find Bella, Tolly, and tell her I shall attend her friend at the appointed time and place. Then return here.”

Tolly nodded obediently and gave a sweeping bow with both arms extended. Then the wrinkled old elf disappeared with a crack.

----------

A scattering of white stretched lazily across Hogsmeade as day faded into night the next evening, but what little snow clung still to the rooftops and muddy streets was rapidly turning to ice. The clear skies above threatened a hard frost by morning. Most of the village’s residents seemed to have made a point of settling in early for the night rather than braving the clear cold, for the streets boasted only a handful of passersby when Charlie Apparated into an alley just off the High Street at exactly half-past six.

He first checked to make sure the alley was appropriately abandoned, and then withdrew from one of his many pockets a metallic purple pocket watch. Once opened, it revealed a series of tiny gold concentric circles, each with a teeth-like pattern on its outer edge, each spinning either clockwise or counter-clockwise at varying speeds. Charlie stared at the miniscule contraption for a second, seemed satisfied, and again pocketed the watch. He approached the High Street.

For a few seconds, he lingered in the shadow of the alley in which he stood, but once it became apparent that none of the sparse witches and wizards on the street had any interest in him, Charlie stepped out onto the frozen road and began making his way in the direction of the Hogsmeade station. He could see the glow of The Three Broomsticks as he came around a bend, but abruptly turned down another alley before he neared the inn. This alley was wider than the one into which he had Apparated, but it was hardly any more inviting, being blanketed in a velvety darkness. It continued past the rear walls of the two buildings that flanked its entrance onto the High Street and revealed further on yet more building fronts, though most of these appeared to be houses. Just as the alley seemed to widen into a small road of sorts, Charlie passed two men who were whispering quickly and kept looking over their shoulders up the hill that the road began to climb ahead of Charlie.

“�”most horrible shrieking all the time!” Charlie heard one of the men hiss as they shuffled past him. He followed their backward glances to the dark bulk of a building that squatted at the top of the hill. It was clearly abandoned and, judging from its slightly tipsy appearance, quite dilapidated as well. Charlie had known it as the Hill House for many years, being simply a long-abandoned home atop a hill. But rumour had it that a ghost of exceptional violence had taken up residence there sometime in the last six months and now periodically vented its fury to the night with enough screams and wails to keep even the most brazen away. Already the profiteers were calling the house the Shrieking Shack in an effort to stoke a potentially profitable tourist niche.

Yet it was not the Hill House �“ or rather, the Shrieking Shack �“ for which Charlie was now bound. Out of the darkness to his right emerged a low building with a wide overhang and single green lantern hung outside. The lantern gave murky light to a small sign that hung beside the door.

THE GREEN HOUSE
Enter Ye of Pure Magic
Est. 1456

Encased in the concealing darkness, Charlie found himself a comfortable spot in the shadow of a black door opposite the street from The Green House. And there he waited. He watched as several groups of witches and wizards entered the restaurant, clearly destined for their evening meal, while a smaller number departed the place from some earlier engagement there. Several of the cloaked figures Charlie thought he even recognised, although it was difficult to judge based purely upon the outline of their person. He saw no one resembling Bellatrix, however, for it was she whom he watched for, and the person or persons who might accompany her.

Finally, Charlie’s pocket watch (this one not purple, but a battered silver piece with planets circling the outside) showed nearly seven. He turned up his collar and approached The Green House.

The dark front door of the establishment opened into a wide entrance hall with a ceiling that was magically higher than the low roof outside should have allowed. A dapper concierge in jet black dress robes stood stiff-backed behind a podium.

“Master Charles,” said the concierge without hesitation when he looked up to see Charlie closing the door behind him. The concierge gave a rigid bow and came around from behind his lectern, but Charlie waved a hand at the man.

“Never mind, Brooks. I know the way. Which parlour is Bellatrix Black in?”

“Ahem,” Brooks coughed, bowing a second time, even as he retreated once more behind his precious lectern. “Miss Black is in the first parlour, Master Charles. She is accompanied by several companions.”

“Good, good,” Charlie nodded. He left the entrance hall behind and followed a dark corridor lit with more green lanterns until it opened into the main of the restaurant, where a muffled hum of voices, cutlery, and fine china gave evidence to its being dinnertime. But Charlie continued along the far wall until the passageway left behind the main eating area once more and narrowed to another dark corridor. This one ended at a T with a wide hallway, where a number of dark, numbered doors faced Charlie. He chose the one with a brass number one at its centre.

As was his habit, Charlie did not knock before entering the parlour. In this case, however, the unexpected intrusion on those within did little to serve him, for the silence behind the door told him that no conversation had been active at the time of his entrance. The room was far from empty, however.

Two men stood leaning on either side of the mantelpiece, under which the crackling fire was the only noise that broke the quiet parlour stillness. Both men were middle-aged, but one was thin with clever blue eyes, while the other was thickset, swarthy, and had a narrow, penetrating gaze. Charlie knew them both from prior business dealings; Thaddeus Nott and Marius Mulciber, respectively. Yet before Charlie had a chance to greet either man, Bellatrix stepped out from behind the door and gestured for him to enter.

“Uncle Charlie,” she said smoothly, smiling as she closed the door behind him. “So good of you to join us. How are you?” Her voice was as heavy as her eyelids and it drawled almost condescendingly by habit, but Charlie was barely listening to her contrived pleasantries. His eyes were sweeping the room. One of the high-backed chairs around the fire had its back to him and he peered to see if anyone was sitting there.

“Yes, yes, a pleasure, of course,” he said, speaking just a little too quickly and thereby betraying his eagerness. He cleared his throat. “Well?”

“Ah yes,” Bellatrix replied, smirking. She turned to face the fireplace and seemed to straighten as if to attention, then gestured for Charlie to do the same. He frowned and made some small effort to stand taller with his hands behind his back, but a short man with a pudgy mid-section does not cut a terribly impressive figure even when stood as rigid as a board, and he seemed well aware of the futility of attempting to imitate the much taller Bellatrix.

Bellatrix coughed. “My Lord. Charlie is here to meet you.”

At first there was no response from the chair with its back to them, but then a soft rustle of cloth was followed by an unexpectedly high-pitched voice. It was a man’s voice, but unusually sharp, as if something had been drained from it. “Come,” it said, simply.

Charlie glanced at Bellatrix first, then gathered his robes about him and moved slowly towards the fireplace, circling so as to come around to the front of the chair. Neither Nott nor Mulciber moved or made any greeting to him. Charlie shuffled into the light of the fire and turned to face the chair.

Many years of diligent practice had deadened Charlie’s face to revealing emotions when he chose to mask them, but the sight of the man who occupied the high-backed chair drew from him a small intake of breath and his eyes flickered wide for a second before he could force himself once more to adopt a neutral expression. The man before him smiled. Like his voice, the Dark Lord’s person seemed a mockery of man, as if some essential essence that made it human had been drained from it. His face was deathly pale and waxy, even in the orange glow of the fire, and its features were oddly distorted, as a clay bust of a striking man whose once-prominent facial bones have been inexplicably flattened. What drew the small intake of breath from Charlie, however, were the Dark Lord’s eyes. There were pupils there, but the whites were shot through with a bloody red. They gave leap even to Charlie’s stoic heart.

Recovering himself, Charlie gave an appropriately deferential bow to the man known as the Dark Lord. “So, you are the Dark Lord,” he stated simply with an attempt at his familiar, confident grin. The Dark Lord steepled his unusually long fingers and stared appraisingly at Charlie with a half-smile, giving no response. Charlie felt suddenly very silly. His grin faded.

Still the Dark Lord said nothing. Unexpectedly, Charlie found himself overcome with the urge to say something, to express his admiration for the Dark Lord perhaps, anything that might break that pale silence and return to Charlie a measure of his command over the situation. He did not, however. It was an odd feeling, for Charlie, usually so self-assured, to feel himself beholden to speak in front of that penetrating, bloodshot gaze. Yet still he did not. These unfamiliar emotions roiled within him, but his face was impassive, his body relaxed, his eyes unwavering as they held the Dark Lord’s.

Finally, the Dark Lord spoke. “I have heard much about you, Charlie.”

“I imagine,” Charlie replied after a second. He was surprised to hear a certain breathlessness in his voice. “And I about you.”

“And what have you heard about me, Charlie?”

The older wizard narrowed his eyes. As with Bellatrix at Christmas, he felt his usual dry wit giving way to strict formality. Something in the Dark Lord’s authoritative demeanour commanded it. “That you stand for wizard’s rights,” Charlie said slowly. “That you oppose the Ministry with its love of Muggles and Mudbloods. That you value the strength of a wizard’s blood.”

The Dark Lord nodded, still half-smiling. “And do you wish to stand with me?”

Charlie chose his next words carefully. “I wish to support you, yes, my Lord. Your aims are my own.”

“Are they?” he replied. There was something disturbingly knowing about the Dark Lord’s expression. “You are an old man, Charlie. You have had many years to pursue these aims you profess to own. Why so suddenly eager, in the twilight of your life?”

Something within Charlie bristled at the blunt appraisal of his age, which had never slowed him enough to particularly notice its continued march. His face remained neutral, however, and he even smiled. “You ought to know the answer to that if anything you have heard of me is true. I am no leader. You are said to live in shadow, my Lord, but my own shadows are very different from yours. I am the man who makes things happen, but who is forgotten as soon as they are done. My shadows erase my memory, where yours merely conceal your person.”

“Of course.” The Dark Lord was silent for a time, staring at Charlie from over his steepled fingers. Finally, he said softly, “But how to trust you?”

Charlie frowned. “Trust me, my Lord?”

“Your shadows are thick, Charlie. Who knows what may lurk within them. Who knows where your true loyalties lie. I do not even know your true name.”

“You are not alone then,” Charlie replied, more confidently. “Few do. But it is not so different for you. My true name is forgotten and so I am called Charlie. Your true name is forgotten and so you are called Voldemort.”

Yet if Charlie had sought to earn the Dark Lord’s trust by comparing their similarities, then he most grievously mistook the other man’s character. Instead of flashing the indulgent smile that Charlie had anticipated, the Dark Lord’s eyes glittered red and a cold displeasure leapt across his pale face. Charlie stared at the waxy mask in surprise, frowning at the unexpected reaction.

And suddenly, like a horde of spidery fingers, he felt a presence unlike any he had ever experienced delve deep and uninvited into his thoughts. Indeed, to call it a mere presence did little justice to the force of its power. As if roughly hurtling through the archives of his mind, Charlie found himself physically thrown back as the force of a thousand memories flashed before his eyes, an endless, impossibly fast reel of images.

He was a short, squat little boy with a thatch of black hair, playing Quidditch with his brother and sister on toy brooms in the garden of their London townhouse. He was eleven years old, sitting nervously beneath a tattered old wizard’s cap as a small voice muttered in his ear of talent and resourcefulness and the ambition to be indispensible to others, before finally crying out SLYTHERIN! Then Charlie was a teenager, almost a young man, good-looking but still pitifully short, and so he was the calculating whisperer beside a tall boy with blond hair and a pointed face. Just as quickly as the others, this memory dissolved and another, darker one flashed before him.

High, grey walls choked the poor light of the room in which Charlie sat, still a young man but now dressed in dirty grey robes, his face thin. A grasping coldness stole over him as waves crashed somewhere outside. And the image changed again. Now Charlie was approaching middle-age, smiling as a young girl with red-brown hair played tic-tac-toe across from a house-elf with drooping ears and a button nose. Then the image vanished. Charlie was fully middle-aged. Grey streaked his hair and beard as he stood in the middle of Flourish and Blotts, arguing with a boy of perhaps fifteen or sixteen; the former shouting about stupidity and brashness, the latter crying about weakness and the decrepitude of age. A dozen more memories rushed past Charlie’s eyes, each of a meeting in a dark and secret place to arrange dark and secret business: the sale of a blood red vial of potion, a request for a box of cursed Russian dolls, a conversation about how to dispense with a particularly inquisitive Ministry investigator.

These dissolved to show the interior of the Hog’s Head and Charlie, now clearly an older man, crouched over a table with the barkeep there, complaining of Fenewick Cambridge and leprechaun gold and of a young new upstart threatening to make fanatics of everyone. Then Charlie was puffing on a pipe that emitted purple smoke, smirking at a black-haired, square-jawed man. The scene dissolved and he could hear the music of The Holly Wand as he spoke in whispers with Bellatrix and felt a surge of excitement at the prospect of meeting the Dark Lord.

And then it was over. The images had not slowed or become faster as they approached the present; they simply ceased to flash in one gasp of a moment.

The parlour of The Green House swam before Charlie. He head throbbed as if his brain had been prised from it and a gaping hole left its place. He even felt his fingers shakily probe through his silver hair, as if expecting to feel the hole that must exist. Yet they found nothing but the solid outside of his skull and the wispy smoothness of his thinning hair. Gradually, Charlie became aware that he was no longer standing. The strength of the Dark Lord’s Legilimency seemed to have forced his knees to buckle, for he was crouched on the ground, one hand propped against the floor as if he were about to be sick.

It took several seconds for the flood of memories to give way to reality once more. As they did, Charlie noticed that he was breathing very heavily and that every semblance of impassiveness that he had contrived to maintain in front of the Dark Lord had been wiped away. The shock, the horror, must have been writ across his face as plain as day. He was not unaccomplished as an Occlumens, but the force of the Dark Lord’s skill, the suddenness with which he had employed it, had easily disarmed Charlie’s defences.

As he shivered uncontrollably, Charlie felt fully the reality of the Dark Lord’s unforgiving assessment of his old age. Charlie’s eyes slowly rose, a mixture of horror and fascination swimming behind them as he looked up at the pale figure before him. The Dark Lord was watching him intently, his expression both commanding and pleased.

“Forgive me,” he said, without remorse, after a second. “It is a blunt instrument one must employ to be certain of one’s allies. You will understand. Please, take a seat.”

Charlie could feel sweat trickling down the back of his neck and he still shook slightly, but he came unsteadily to his feet and collapsed into one of the lounge chairs across from the Dark Lord. He said nothing.

The Dark Lord stared closely at Charlie for several seconds while the older wizard fought to control his laboured breathing and re-adopt a neutral expression. But it was a sly smugness that crept into the pale face across from him. The cocky old man had been satisfyingly undone.

The Dark Lord drew a breath and asked, almost conversationally, “When were you in Azkaban?”

Charlie straightened, running a hand through his hair. Despite his struggle to regain his composure, he watched the Dark Lord with eyes that were wide with a rapt attention. When he spoke, it was slowly. “A long time ago. Years ago. Everybody...everybody makes mistakes when they’re young.” His words felt stilted, as if they had been dredged up from some mind that was not his own.

“And what was your mistake?”

“Getting caught.” The reply was automatic, a familiar quip that Charlie often used when questioned about his time in prison. But the ease with which it came to his lips gave him a measure of renewed confidence, as did the indulgent smile that now spread across the Dark Lord’s face.

“Of course,” said the high-pitched voice, softly whispering a chuckle. “Very well, why were you arrested then?”

“I...killed two Muggles,” Charlie answered, speaking haltingly. “Accidently, I mean, but still. They lived a floor below my flat. Always complaining. About me. So one day I vanished the wheel of their Otto Mobel....th�”the moving things Muggles use to get around. The wheel turns their direction, I think. Well. The thing�”the Otto Mobel�”the damn thing crashed. Killed them both. Not...not one of my more subtle decisions.”

The Dark Lord looked thoughtful at that, but did not pursue it. “How long were you in Azkaban for?”

“Two years,” Charlie said after a moment.

“Two years?”

Charlie gave a half-hearted sardonic smile. “It was a better time for wizards then, when the Ministry didn’t play slave to the idea that Muggles were worth making a fuss over.”

“Mm,” the Dark Lord mused, tilting his head slightly as he stared at Charlie. “Two years in Azkaban and yet you are still sane?”

Charlie shrugged weakly, frowning as if suspicious of the Dark Lord’s meaning. “It’s not impossible.”

“I see.” Again, the Dark Lord paused, regarding Charlie intently. Again, he abruptly continued his interrogation. “Who were the girl and the boy?”

“The...” Charlie started, and then coughed. His voice suddenly became bored. “My daughter and son. Long grown up.”

And then he felt it. With far more delicacy than before, a whisper of the brutal presence that had stolen into Charlie’s mind now brushed across the surface of his thoughts. No more images flashed across his vision, but he had the oddest feeling, as if he was speaking into a box and his voice was a mere thing, while the emotion he sought to conceal was the true object of significance. The Dark Lord knew well that the boredom in Charlie’s voice was contrived.

“I...” he started again, compelled now to make it seem as if it had been his original intent to tell the Dark Lord the full truth. “I never see my son anymore. But my daughter I am close to.”

The Dark Lord nodded, apparently satisfied. “And what do you think of me now, Charlie? Am I some young new upstart intent upon making fanatics of everyone?”

Charlie felt blood flood his face and knew it must be reddening, but he gave a half-hearted shrug. “No,” he said, too casually. “I did not know you for who you were then. There have been many before you, many who failed to achieve anything other than to create a short-lived ruckus. But you...” Charlie gestured towards the Dark Lord, and it came to him in an instant what he must say. “You are different, my Lord.”

Voldemort smiled. “I know. And now you know. And soon the world will know just how different I am.”

Charlie nodded slowly, and then let his gaze fall to the wooden floorboards. He dared not return his usual sarcasm, or smugness, or condescension. In a few meagre moments, Charlie had learned the awesomeness of the Dark Lord’s magical strength. Even now, Charlie knew that those ghostly fingers were probing his mind for any semblance of emotion that was not completely submissive. It was everything Charlie could do to still his thoughts of irritation and bravado and conceal them behind eyes that would not meet the Dark Lord’s.

“In the war that will come, I will need to understand perfectly those who work against me, Charlie,” the Dark Lord said after a moment. Charlie looked up again. His face was unreadable. “I understand that you are very good at procuring this type of information.”

Charlie nodded, slowly again. “I am, my Lord. What information do you require?”

A pale hand waved dismissively and Voldemort appeared suddenly bored. “Much,” he said softly. “My informants have been...unreliable, on more than one occasion. I am told that you have no such failing. Nott.” The Dark Lord waved again and this time the thin man with the clever blue eyes came forward without a word. He withdrew a large leather pouch and placed it on the table before Charlie.

“Consider this a good faith payment,” the Dark Lord continued. “My associates will contact you shortly. And you, meanwhile, I trust will continue to inform me of anything you should consider pertinent.” It was not a request, and the trust was not a declaration of faith in Charlie’s character so much as the Dark Lord’s confidence in his own fearful power.

“Of course, my Lord,” Charlie replied automatically. Instinct told him no other answer was permitted. He reached out and took the bag of coins, pocketing it. Then Nott made a small movement, indicating the door and signalling the end of the meeting. But before he stood, Charlie reached into his robes and withdrew a tiny round orb, a green marble with a sliver of silver through the middle. He placed it on the table between the Dark Lord and himself.

“Should you ever have immediate need of me, my Lord,” he said, careful to keep his eyes down, “this will tell me. Simply hold it in your palm and speak your purpose to it.”

The Dark Lord lifted a brow, making his distorted face seem even more oddly arranged. “How quaint,” he said finally, and then waved Charlie away with one deft movement of his long, pale fingers. The older wizard nodded and came to his feet.

Bellatrix, he noticed, was staring wide-eyed and hungrily at him, as if he had just experienced an unparalleled honour. Mulciber and Nott remained silent. Nodding his farewell, Charlie made for the door and was met there by Bellatrix, who opened it for him and whispered quickly as he shuffled through.

“I will speak to you soon, Uncle.”

He nodded in response and exited without a word. Only once the door clicked shut behind him did Charlie’s shoulders slump with a release of tension. He stood there for a moment, composing himself as he silently processed all that had transpired in the past half hour.

Relief gradually gave way to amazement and amazement faded to a mixture of horror and excitement. Charlie had come expecting to treat with the Dark Lord as an equal, but now that the ordeal was finished, he felt rather like a chastened child. He was no crony of the Dark Lord’s, but his subservience was sealed, in the same way the impertinent child reveres the terrible power of a father. One thing at least was certain as Charlie glanced at the closed parlour door behind him.

He would never again speak aloud the name of Voldemort. The deathly pale wizard with the blood-red eyes deserved the title of Dark Lord and nothing less would do.