INTERLUDE ONE
“Let me assert my firm belief that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself.”
--Franklin Roosevelt
March 21st, 1975
Albus Dumbledore used to enjoy breakfast. Who wouldn’t? Having porridge and pumpkin juice in the Great Hall while reading the Daily Prophet surely wasn’t the worst way to start one’s day.
But while the porridge was still good, the Prophet was not. Ever since Tom Riddle had proclaimed himself openly as Lord Voldemort, more and more reports of death and catastrophe had been cropping up in the paper. Some people hadn’t noticed. Some people didn’t care. And some people still attributed the deaths to accidents, typical homicide, or some “nutter.” But Dumbledore knew better.
Lord Voldemort... Dumbledore, of course, was hesitant to call his former pupil that. His name had been Tom Riddle when he was a student at Hogwarts, after all, and no matter how different he had become, that was still his name. The dark moniker seemed to lend a sort of strange credibility to his new image, though, and Dumbledore noticed that already there were some who were afraid to utter the words, as if saying “Lord Voldemort” would really compel Riddle into the Great Hall.
Dumbledore wasn’t sure what the death toll so far was, and he was reluctant to find out. He had suspected this, of course. Ever since Tom had returned to Hogwarts in 1955 to ask for the Defense Against the Dark Arts job... So many changes had been wrought in the young man’s face in just the ten years since his graduation. What had twenty more years brought? Minions and power. Growing power. Power that had to be checked. And soon.
He looked down at today’s issue of the Daily Prophet. There was something new today. A photograph of a symbol seemingly etched into the night sky, twinkling as if it were made of stars, not sparks from a wand. A skull with a snake protruding from its mouth. A Prophet editor had named it the “Dark Mark,” and Dumbledore had no doubt that the nickname would stick. He was concerned less with the symbol, though, and more with what it stood for. Lord Voldemort and his followers were marking their crime scenes. Marking their territory. And burning their mark into people’s minds and hearts.
Dumbledore tore his eyes away from the picture of the “Dark Mark” and surveyed the Great Hall, his head resting pensively on the tips of his fingers. Not every student subscribed to the Prophet, and while there were copies available around the school, he knew for a fact that not everyone cared about the news. But his eyes were drawn today to the small groups of students who crowded around papers, eagerly soaking up all the news and taking in this strange new symbol. Every once in a while, a pair of eyes would dart up to the High Table as if to look for reassurance. Dumbledore wasn’t sure what he could give in return. He would not let panic grip his school, but students had to know what was going on.
He heaved a sigh and looked again at his paper, the “Dark Mark” glittering menacingly back at him. “Oh, Tom,” he murmured to himself. “What have you done?”
Of Cauldrons and Comrades by LuthAn
Chapter Notes: Hello, hello, dear readers. I'd like to take a moment to explain to everyone how this story will work, because this chapter is a bit different. At the conclusion of each school year that the gang goes through there will be an interlude. In the last chapter (chap. 8), we saw Lily and Remus and co. packing up to go home. Rather than transition straight into year two, we're going to jump forward in time to 1975. Don't worry; we'll return to 1972 in the next chapter. But the interludes are just a way to keep things in perspective for you. They will always be from Dumbledore's perspective, they will always be short, and they will always deal with Voldemort and his goings-on. So enjoy this little glimpse into the menace that is Voldemort, and we'll return you to your regularly scheduled Marauders in just a moment. As always, thanks to Heather and Nielawen for their super-duper beta skills. Happy reading!