All For You - Chapter 32

Chapter 32

“I didn’t think you were serious when you said you thought we should duel,” Harry sighed as he led the way into the basement.

“You didn’t think I only mentioned it to get you into bed, did you?” Amelia returned with a grin.

"You didn’t?” Harry replied, feigning surprise.

The redhead narrowed her eyes at him.

“I would hope that you thought better of me, Jameson,” she growled. “Did I need to mention a duel to seduce you?”

Harry snorted amusedly.

“You know, I thought purebloods were supposed to be conservative about those sorts of things. Isn’t it shameful to discuss it so openly?”

“In public,” Amelia answered as she approached him, not unlike a lioness stalking her prey. “What happens behind closed doors is another thing entirely. I could quite openly say that I want to…”

Harry held up a hand to silence her.

He knew what would happen if he allowed her to continue. As much as he enjoyed that particular development in their relationship, interrupting the impending duel would only bring them back here again.

Already, they’d put it off three times in less than a day, and he would sooner be done with Amelia’s desire to cross wands with him.

“You’re insatiable,” he sighed.

“Is that such a bad thing?”

“No,” Harry chuckled, “but you will never get this out of your system if we don’t get on with it.”

She pouted and walked back towards the other side of the basement as she drew her wand.

“Fine,” she declared. “Don’t worry, Jameson, I won’t hurt you, well, not too much. You’re no good to me injured.”

Harry could only shake his head as he followed suit, flicking his wand into his hand and gesturing that he was ready.

“No holding back,” Amelia said firmly.

“If I don’t hold back, I’ll kill you.”

“You seem quite sure of yourself.”

“I have to be,” Harry murmured and waited for Amelia to make the first move.

She did so, unleashing an exceptionally fast flurry of spells which Harry was forced to defend against using his footwork and even a shield or two.

He’d not expected her to begin so ferociously, but as with everything else Amelia did in life, he should have.

Her speed and accuracy were quite the sight to behold, and Harry quickly realised he’d never faced anyone as creative with their spell work.

It quickly became apparent why it was that Voldemort himself had once needed to kill the woman before Harry himself, and he was not ashamed to admit that it was taking him much longer than usual to adapt to the way Amelia fought.

She truly was a brilliant witch, and not one any should cross lightly.

“What’s wrong, Jameson?” the woman cooed between casting another plethora of spells towards him.

Although she was goading him, Amelia did not lose concentration, nor did she grow frustrated at her lack of success at landing a spell on him. If anything, it only made her more determined to do so, and Harry was hard-pressed to find an opening.

When it did come, he returned fire, catching Amelia off guard, though she adapted quickly, switching between attacking and defending seamlessly.

Harry, however, was just as relentless, and his own offence continued without breaking stride.

Amelia was excellent at defending against most types of magic, but as with many, she struggled most with transfiguration.

It wasn’t that she was incapable of doing so, but it took her longer to undo the spells than any curses, charms, or hexes Harry had attempted.

As such, he began delving into what was deemed to be perhaps the most difficult of practices in an attempt to find more openings, something which proved to be easier said than done.

Despite being a little slower in defending against the complex creations Harry had created from the wooden floor and other debris resulting from the duel, Amelia was more than adept at doing so quickly enough to avoid being caught by anything else.

Even as an enormous, wooden wolf bore down on her, she maintained her composure, destroying it with a series of blasting curses and managing to flick away a rather unpleasant boiling curse.

Undeterred by the adversity she faced, she pressed on, returning fire with a few transfigurations of her own. Harry found himself on the receiving end of an attack from a wildly flailing gorilla she’d managed to conjure.

That in itself was an intricate piece of magic to accomplish, and he acknowledged the effort with a nod.

Still, neither was willing to concede defeat, and Harry knew he would have to up his game to end the duel, though he did not wish to harm her to do so.

Nonetheless, he knew that Amelia would not quit unless she were forced to.

She was a tenacious woman, and it was one of the things he respected most about her.

With that in mind, Harry increased the tempo of his fight and added another element she was likely unfamiliar with.

Using his left hand, he tore a chunk of the stone wall away and hurled it towards her, confident that she would be able to defend herself.

Amelia was taken aback by the display of wandless magic, but not to the point that she failed to react.

When she did, by blasting it into a dozen or so smaller pieces, Harry implemented a flurry of simple spells to distract her from his true purpose, and behind the woman, the stones were formed into a sheet.

Amelia gasped in surprise as it wrapped around her, and though she did her utmost to prevent it, the stone solidified, encasing her body from the neck down in a crude cocoon, leaving only her head and wand hand exposed.

Before she could undo the magic, Harry disarmed her and offered the woman an apologetic smile.

“You can do wandless magic?” Amelia gasped; her breathing laboured from her efforts.

“A little,” Harry confirmed as he approached, releasing her from her binding.

“I’m sure I’ve seen you use it before, but nothing like that,” Amelia sighed. “I should’ve been prepared for it.”

“Well, you know, for next time,” Harry pointed out, frowning as he caught sight of the trail of blood dripping from a cut on her hairline. “You’re bleeding.”

Amelia merely shrugged in response.

“It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last,” she replied, unfazed by the injury. “How are you so good? I’ve spent years practicing and training, and I’m not as good as you.”

“I’ve had to be,” Harry answered honestly. “You may be an Auror, but I spent most of my life fighting just to live. It teaches you more than you can learn in any classroom. You have to live through almost dying to realise what it is you are capable of.”

Amelia nodded.

“I didn’t do so bad against you,” she said with a grin.

“No, you didn’t,” Harry assured her. “You gave me one of the hardest fights I’ve ever had.”

“You’d better not be patronising me, Jameson,” Amelia warned.

“Would I?”

“You wouldn’t if you knew what was good for you,” she muttered. “Anyway, I’m going to get myself cleaned up and plan how I can beat you next time.”

“Next time?”

“You didn’t expect me to give up after just one try, did you?”

“No, I suppose I shouldn’t have,” Harry sighed, using his thumb to wipe away the streak of blood on her forehead. “Go on, I’ll make sure dinner is ready when you’re done.”

Amelia nodded appreciatively, placed a kiss on his lips and left the basement.

It took Harry only a few moments to clean up the mess they’d made, and he looked towards the clock when he was done.

It was early yet, but he was due to meet with Ghost later in the evening.

He’d received a missive earlier that morning informing him of that, along with another he had been somewhat expecting, though wasn’t sure if it would arrive, and certainly not with such a caveat.

Harry removed the letter from his pocket and frowned at the tidy scrawl.

To Mr Harry Jameson,

I believe there is a matter which we should discuss in person.

To assure you of your own safety, and in the hope for your reciprocated favour of neutrality on the matter at hand, I ask that you oblige in joining me at the home of Lord Charlus Potter for such a conversation to take place.

He will act as a mediator between us in the hope that we can reach a peaceful and satisfactory conclusion to our problem.

Respectfully,

Lord Arcturus Orion Black

Harry didn’t know what to make of the letter.

From what Sirius had told him of his grandfather, Arcturus Black was certainly not a man to be taken lightly, and Harry had no intention of doing so.

Nonetheless, a conversation with him could prove to be beneficial despite the fact that the man’s son had tried to kill him. Pushing that thought to one side, however, Harry knew that meeting with the Black patriarch could go a long way in defeating Voldemort, especially if he could convince the man to ensure that his family does not involve themselves further with the Dark Lord.

Still, Harry would be cautious.

He didn’t know Charlus Potter, and he certainly didn’t trust Arcturus Black, but sometimes, it was better to reach an accord with a potential enemy to see the downfall of another.

Regardless, it wasn’t as though he could ignore the letter.

That would only serve to make a true enemy of the man, and Harry didn’t expect that the current Lord Black was a man who would accept such a slight against him.

No, he would send a reply informing him of his acceptance of the invitation, in the hope that a peaceful solution could indeed be found.

“Would Master Harry like me to be make him and Miss Amelia dinner?” Helga asked, pulling him from his thoughts as he entered the kitchen.

He nodded gratefully.

“Thank you, Helga.”

The little elf offered him a smile, and Harry made his way towards the bathroom to get himself cleaned up.

He wasn’t injured, and he was relieved that Amelia wasn’t more hurt than she had been, especially since he’d been rather distracted this past week with what had happened to Madame Allard in Paris.

Despite Harry’s own findings and the observations from the Aurors on the scene, the death of the woman had been deemed accidental, and a malfunctioning floo caused the fire.

As with anything else pertaining to the causes surrounding the murder of Amelia’s parents, corruption was rife, and it appeared that even the Aurors were in on it, which meant that even the highest levels of authority had been compromised.

Harry didn't know how the Aurors were kept silent otherwise, but the more he delved into what was happening, the more he realized there was much he had yet to uncover.

Still, he would get there.

Madame Allard’s death would not be in vain, and he now had other elements to investigate, including the French Aurors whom he intended on visiting soon enough.

First, however, he would meet with Arcturus Black and Ghost before that.

Perhaps the man had something of use for him, though Harry had his doubts.

He was very much alone in this investigation, and he did not expect that would change.

(Break)

It wasn’t often that his duty brought him to the forsaken island of Azkaban, and Smith didn’t miss his occasional visits here when he’d been a serving Auror. The Dementors were indeed the foulest creatures, and it was when among them that the intrusive thought that it was too cruel a fate for any criminal would creep in.

Today, however, he’d not come to consider the justice system, but to pay a visit to a man who’d been here for some years in the hope of gaining vital information.

Despite viewing Jameson’s memory countless times, he’d gleaned nothing of use, and thus, Smith found himself making the unpleasant journey.

“Mr Smith, sir,” the guard at the gate greeted him in surprise.

“Maddox,” Smith greeted him. “I would speak with one of your detainees.”

“Of course, sir,” Maddox complied, unlocking the thick, steel door and allowing him to enter. “Who do you wish to see?”

“Morfin Gaunt.”

Maddox frowned briefly before nodding.

“Of course, sir, but, well, he is quite mad.”

“Aren’t all of them that spend so long here?”

“I suppose,” Maddox murmured unhappily. “I’ll show you to his cell.”

Smith fell into step with the man, fighting the urge to shudder at the close proximity of the dozens of Dementors who dwelled here.

Were it not so important, he wouldn’t have come, but with this Voldemort claiming to be the heir of Slytherin, it was the only avenue left he had to explore.

“He’s just in there, sir,” Maddox informed him, nodding towards one of the cells in the lower levels of the prison.

Peering inside, Smith found himself looking upon a pitiful sight.

The man within was deathly thin and pale, and his hair was white, long, and thin.

Morfin Gaunt was not long for this world if his appearance was anything to go by, and he was certainly no threat to a seasoned veteran.

Tapping the door with his wand, he entered, and Gaunt looked up at him with an almost vacant expression.

“What do you want?” he demanded; his voice hoarse from lack of use.

“Just to speak with you, Gaunt,” Smith replied. “I understand that you are quite proud of your heritage, and that the blood of Salazar Slytherin flows through your veins.”

Gaunt smiled, revealing two rows of rotten, broken teeth before he hissed, sending a shiver down Smith’s spine.

“Well, I suppose you would be Slytherin’s heir, wouldn’t you?”

Gaunt frowned and his grin widened.

“I suppose I would be.”

“Then I suppose it would surprise you to learn that there is another man claiming to be the heir.”

“Another man?” Gaunt spat. “There is no other! Just me, my father, and my whore sister.”

“Sister?” Smith pressed.

Morfin’s lip curled in distaste.

“Ran away didn’t she when we was locked up. We came home, and she was gone. Run off with that muggle filth. Riddle. That was his name.”

“The same Riddle family that you murdered.”

Morfin frowned and shook his head.

“No, not me,” he grumbled.

“Not you? Is that not why you are in prison? You admitted it, and your wand was used in the murders.”

Morfin shrugged once more.

“Doesn’t matter what I would’ve said. It’s not like your lot would’ve believed me.”

“Try me,” Smith urged.

“I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember, or you don’t want to talk about it?”

“I don’t remember!” Morfin snapped angrily. “If I did, I would be enjoying the memory every single day, but it’s just not there. I don’t remember killing them, but I would’ve. My sister dared to spread her legs for a filthy muggle. She shamed us and took the locket.”

“Locket?”

“Salazar’s locket. It was in our family forever, and she took it. I expect she’s dead now. She took the family ring, too. That was gone when I got home.”

Smith was as confused as Morfin appeared to be, and he eyed the man curiously.

“What if I can help you remember?”

“Remember what?”

“Killing the muggles.”

Morfin smiled.

“I’d like that,” he almost hissed. “Yes, I would die happy living it once more.”

The man sickened Smith, but he levelled his wand towards him, nonetheless needing to satiate his own curiosity. Something wasn’t adding up about what he’d been told, and he was determined to get to the bottom of it.

“Legilimens.”

Strictly speaking, what he was doing was highly illegal, but as things were, there was no other option, and as he found himself within the mind of Morfin Gaunt, Smith knew he’d done the right thing.

It was a mess, and not because of anything Gaunt had done.

Someone had been here before, had implanted false memories and attempted to remove others, though they had done a poor job.

It wasn’t easy, but Smith managed to pull some of the threads together and, with it, something he’d spent week after week searching for.

“Who the hell are you?” Morfin demanded as the young man entered the house through the front door.

“Are you Marvolo?”

“Dead,” Morfin answered.

The younger man seemed disappointed, and though Smith recognised him as the very same who Jameson had thought, he focused on the disjointed memory he’d pieced together.

Voldemort seemed unbothered by the revelation.

“You’re Morfin then.”

“I might be.”

Voldemort grinned.

“My name is Tom Riddle. I am your nephew.”

Morfin shot to his feet in anger.

“Riddle?” he hissed angrily, drawing his wand. “I should’ve known. You look just like the filth!”

The two began exchanging words in parseltongue, and Smith could not follow the conversation, though it ended abruptly when Voldemort stunned Gaunt.

The memory faded for several moments, and when it resumed, Morfin was on the ground and Riddle was sitting in the only armchair in the dilapidated living room.

He was staring reverently at the ring that had adorned Morfin’s finger, and Smith realised just how young Tom was. He was still, but a boy, yet the grin he wore spoke of a cruelty the Auror had seldom seen in the most disturbed of people.

Along with the ring, he held Morfin’s wand, and when he realised that his uncle had woken, he merely smiled at the man.

“I think I will take this,” he declared. “You need not worry, Uncle; you will think you have been without it for some time before tonight. You won’t even remember that I was here, but that doesn’t matter. The Aurors will be coming for you soon enough.”

“You little…”

“Obliviate!”

Smith was violently expelled from Morfin’s mind, and the man was hunched on the floor, groaning as he clutched his head.

“That crafty…”

Smith stopped himself from speaking to ponder exactly what he’d seen.

This, Lord Voldemort, was, in fact, a half-blood by the name of Tom Riddle, named for his father and born by Morfin’s sister. It was quite the revelation, to say the least, and the breakthrough Smith had been so ardently seeking.

“Gaunt, are you alright?” he asked.

“I’ll be fine!” Morfin snapped. “I remember him now, the smarmy shit. Walked in like he owned the place. He killed the muggles and framed me!”

“He did,” Smith agreed. “I will find him, Gaunt. He’s responsible for more than just what he did to you. Come on, I’m taking you to the Ministry of Magic.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re an innocent man,” Smith sighed. “I will not sleep soundly knowing you are here for a crime you did not commit, not unless you wish to stay here.”

“You’re letting me go?” Gaunt asked confusedly.

“It’s not as simple as that, but I can arrange an immediate retrial and share what I learned. There is no reason to keep you here any longer.”

Gaunt seemed sceptical, but he nodded.

“It’s not like I have anything to lose,” he said with a shrug.

“I will have to handcuff you,” Smith warned. “I would urge you not to resist.”

“Look at the state of me,” Gaunt snorted. “It’s not as if I could.”

Smith nodded appreciatively and secured the man before leading him up the several flights of stairs and to where Maddox was waiting.

“What’s happening?” the guard demanded.

“I will be taking Mr Gaunt to the Ministry of Magic. It seems a miscarriage of justice has occurred.”

“Would you like us to accompany you, sir?” one of the other Aurors asked.

Smith waved him off.

“That won’t be necessary. Come, Mr. Gaunt. Let's get to the bottom of this, shall we?”

(Break)

“You wanted to see me?”

Ghost nodded and placed the parchment he’d been reading in the drawer of his desk.

“I was hoping for an update,” he requested, gesturing for him to take a seat.

“I don’t expect you’ll like it,” Harry sighed as he did so. “My investigation led me to the medical examiner, Pierre Allard.”

“Would I bring wrong if I guessed he was dead?”

“You wouldn’t be,” Harry chuckled humourlessly. “His wife was alive.”

“Was?”

“She was murdered shortly after my visit,” Hary explained. “She promised to look into something for me, and her premises were burned down with her tied to a chair. The French Ministry deemed it to be an accident, but I overheard two of the Aurors on the scene discussing what had happened, and I had a look for myself. She was murdered, and a book she consulted when I was talking with her was missing.”

“That is troubling,” Ghost murmured unhappily. “I cannot say I am surprised. Laurent is not the most pleasant of people.”

“The French Minister?”

“And ICW representative,” Ghost informed him. “He’s been in both positions for almost three decades, even through the Grindelwald years. He fled France and went to Poland.”

“Poland was safe?”

Ghost shook his head.

“It was worse than France. Strange how Laurent would choose to go there.”

Harry frowned thoughtfully.

Both Poland and France had come up as places of interest in Amelia’s parent’s murder, and it now seemed that there was another connection between them.

“What of the Polish Minister and representative?”

“Both different since the war, and the latter is dead. The former is still very much alive, as far as I know. It may be worth looking into him, but be careful, Jameson, Michal Broz is not to be crossed lightly. He may be old now, but he is as cunning as they come.”

Harry nodded his understanding.

“What can you tell me about him?”

“Well, he won’t give anything up easily, especially when it comes to Laurent. The two of them are good friends, but if either of them are involved in whatever it is you are looking into, they won’t give it up willingly, and Laurent is all but untouchable.”

“So, Broz it is,” Harry decided as he stood.

“Do be careful, Jameson. Remember, officially, you are not a part of this department. There is no support if you find yourself in trouble.”

“I know,” Harry assured Ghost.

“And another thing, have you decided upon an alias? It would be best not to use your name, even here.”

Harry had thought about it little in truth, but he could not help but be inspired by the mysterious figure he’d heard mentioned more than a few times now.

“Would you object to The Serpent making a return?”

Ghost quirked an eyebrow at him.

“It would certainly ruffle a few feathers, but it will never work,” he said dismissively. “The Serpent was known for his ability with parseltongue. It became something of his trademark.”

A grin tugged at Harry’s lips before he hissed gently, and a large snake emerged from his sleeve.

Ghost recoiled in shock, his eyes almost bulging from their sockets.

“You…it’s you!” he gasped.

Harry shook his head.

“It’s not me.”

“But...how?”

“I don’t know,” Harry answered honestly.

Ghost did not seem convinced, but he nodded, his breathing laboured as he took his seat.

Harry had considered the anomaly that was Harry Evans, and there were too many coincidences to ignore.

Just like he had been, perhaps there was another incident that another him from a different life had been sent back in time, only further.

Of course, he couldn’t be certain, but given what he’d experienced, Harry could not dismiss the notion.

“I suppose that this means the Serpent is indeed back,” Ghost snorted. “You have some big shoes to fill.”

Harry merely nodded in response before taking his leave of the office.

He’d come across some of the man’s achievements when he’d looked into newspaper archives across the continent wherever he found himself, and Ghost was right.

Harry Evans, the Serpent, had certainly been an exceptional wizard, and Harry Jameson found himself wondering if he could hope to measure up.

Perhaps not, but the moniker would certainly serve him well, and he would do his utmost to do it the justice it deserved.

(Break)

Arcturus Black wouldn’t say he was nervous about meeting Jameson. No, he’d the fear he’d had of facing any man on the continent during the years he’d fought against Grindelwald, but he wouldn’t deny that he was cautious.

Jameson was an unknown, and it was always those that little was known of that required a certain level of caution.

“It will be fine, Arcturus,” Charlus assured him.

The Lord Black nodded.

“You saw the memory,” he pointed out. “We should’ve chosen somewhere public.”

“And give him the impression that he is neither valued nor that this problem isn’t of a personal nature?” Charlus returned. “No, it is something he will respect and appreciate. Besides, neither of us has attempted to harm him. As things stand, he is no enemy of ours.”

Arcturus nodded, and the two of them waited for Harry Jameson to arrive.

He did so a few moments later, and as the floo chimed in the entrance hall, Charlus offered him a reassuring nod before leaving to greet their guest.

Arcturus didn’t know what to expect from this meeting, but he knew it was necessary.

He couldn’t simply ignore what had happened to Cygnus despite the man undoubtedly being in the wrong.

Before he could ponder it further, however, Charlus returned with Jameson in tow, and the Lord Black once more saw the look in the man’s eyes.

It wasn’t one of intended threat but one of quiet confidence and of someone who was familiar with violence.

Jameson offered his hand, which Arcturus accepted. He was somewhat pleased that the grip matched his impression of the man thus far.

“Lord Black,” Jameson greeted him.

“Mr Jameson. You have already met Lord Potter.”

Something akin to curiosity flittered across his features as he nodded.

“I have, and I am appreciative of him making his home available to us,” Jameson replied, respectfully bowing to Charlus.

“Can I offer you some refreshments, Mr Jameson?” Charlus offered.

He offered Jameson a curious look, much like the one the man had given him.

“Coffee, please.”

Charlus nodded and gestured for him to take a seat opposite Arcturus.

They remained silent whilst the coffee was prepared and for a few moments after it was placed on the table.

It was Arcturus who broke it, seeing that Jameson was waiting for him to do so.

“I am sure by now that you are aware of my son’s involvement in what happened to your restaurant.”

“You mean when I was attacked by Voldemort and more than a dozen of his followers,” Jameson responded coldly.

Arcturus conceded the point with a nod.

“My son almost lost his life.”

“Thirteen others did,” Jameson reminded him firmly. “I am aware of each of them involved, but as things are, I am willing to leave it as it is in the hopes that lessons were learned. I will tell you the same thing I told the Aurors, Lord Black: I take my safety very seriously, and I do not appreciate having my livelihood infringed upon because of the blood that flows through my veins, especially by a bunch of people, too stupid to realise they are following a half-blood just like me.”

“A half-blood?” Arcturus asked, taken aback by the revelation. “This heir of Slytherin is a half-blood?”

Jameson nodded.

“His name is Tom Marvolo Riddle. He is the son of Merope Gaunt and a muggle whom he was named after.”

“Gaunt? As in Marvolo Gaunt.”

“Riddle’s grandfather.”

Arcturus shook his head in disbelief as he leaned back in his chair.

“And the other purebloods are unaware of this?”

“I suppose most are,” Jameson replied with a shrug, “but those closest to him certainly know it. They went to school with him some two decades ago.”

Arcturus looked uncertainly towards Charlus, and the man shrugged.

“You’re certain of this?”

“Of that and many other things,” Jameson replied. “I make it a point to know all I can of any potential enemy.”

If the man was lying, he was convincing to the point that he seemed to believe it himself, and Arcturus did not miss the undertone of threat in the warning.

“Am I a potential enemy of yours?” he asked interestedly.

Despite Jameson’s countenance and seeming self-assuredness, Arcturus was not intimidated by the man.

“That depends, Lord Black, on if you feel the need to be,” was the answer he received. “I didn’t know that your son was one of the attackers until I paid a visit to him in St Mungo’s, but I am not going to say that I wouldn’t have reacted the same way even if I did know. He attempted to kill me, and I will not apologise for preserving my own life at the expense of those who would put an end to it. As far as I am concerned, the matter is closed, but if you believe it is unresolved, that will prove to be a problem, wouldn’t it?”

Arcturus was not used to someone being so impudent with him, but he could not deny that Jameson was in the right in this instant. In truth, merely learning that his fellow purebloods were so ignorantly following a half-blood did not sit right with him.

“It would,” he murmured irritably, his focus shifting away from what had happened to what was now the more pressing matter at hand. “What does this Riddle want to achieve? If he’s not a pureblood, why is he advocating for us?”

“What do all lunatics want?” Jameson returned. “He wants power, and he’s using the purebloods to obtain it. The Wizengamot is primarily made up of purebloods, and if he can get more than half on his side, he can do just about what he wants.”

Arcturus nodded his agreement as did a concerned Charlus.

“What else do you know about him?” the latter asked.

“He’s a cruel man,” Jameson said simply. “He murdered his own muggle father and grandparents and framed his Uncle Morfin for it, and he was only sixteen when he did it. From what I have just learned, the truth of that is about to emerge. I expect you’ll learn of it soon enough when Morfin Gaunt is given a retrial.”

Again, the man seemed so certain, and Arcturus had no reason not to believe what he was hearing.

“Sixteen?” Charlus whispered. “That’s…”

He broke off and shook his head.

“He is a madman who has done things none should ever consider, but he is dangerous, and he will do whatever it takes to reach his goals. Grindelwald was bad, but not like Riddle. Tom will kill anyone who stands in his way, and you’ve already seen it for yourself. He started the fire in Hogsmeade, killed the Osbornes in Diagon Alley, and he would’ve done the same to me.”

“But he didn’t manage it.”

“No, he didn’t,” Jameson answered simply, “but I expect he will try again.”

Arcturus frowned unhappily at what he had learned, but before he could speak, Jameson did so once more.

“If you want my advice, Lord Black, I would keep your family far away from him. I am not threatening you or them, but there is nothing to be gained from following Riddle except for death and misery. Lord Potter, I thank you for your hospitality. Lord Black, I respect you and your family traditions. I do not wish to see us at odds, not when there is already enough division to be had around us. If you still believe I have slighted you, then that is your prerogative to do as you see fit, but I am not a man who is easily intimidated. I’d like to think we are cut of a similar cloth in that regard, and I don’t think there is anything to gain for either of us by dragging this out any further.”

Arcturus stood and nodded his agreement before offering his hand.

“It seems that there are more important things that require my attention, Mr Jameson,” he murmured.

The gesture was accepted, and Jameson was escorted out of the room by Charlus, leaving a pensive Lord Black in his wake.

When his long-time friend returned, he wore the same expression of curiosity he had when he’d looked at their guest only moments prior.

“What do you think, Charlus?”

The man frowned.

“If he’s telling the truth, which I believe he is, things are going to become very dangerous out there.”

“They will, and I believe him,” Arcturus sighed. “I suppose we will see soon enough if Gaunt is brought before us. What do you make of Jameson?”

“He’s just as you said,” Charlus said thoughtfully. “You can see it in his eyes. He’s familiar with violence and experienced more than his fair share of it.”

“And?” Arcturus pressed.

“I don’t know,” Charlus murmured. “I can’t quite put my finger on it, but there is something so familiar about him. It’s like I’ve seen him before.”

“At his restaurant?”

Charlus shook his head.

“No, that isn’t it. It was before that place opened, or maybe I’m imagining it, but I don’t think I am,” he said irritably. “There is something undeniably familiar about Harry Jameson.”

(Break)

“Smith?” the Dark Lord asked.

Yaxley nodded concernedly.

“He is the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” he explained. “Smith is one of the very best ever to be an Auror, my lord.”

Voldemort chuckled and idly wondered if the man was related to the late Hepzibah, from whom he’d taken the Founder’s trinkets.

“He will get nowhere.”

“You are underestimating him,” Yaxley warned. “If there is a thread of anything to follow, Smith will find it.”

“He already has,” Lestrange broke in. “A contact of mine informed me that little more than a day ago, Smith paid a visit to Azkaban and left with a long-term prisoner, one Morfin Gaunt.”

The Dark Lord frowned and felt a stab of concern.

“Gaunt?” he asked, not showing the sudden worry.

Lestrange nodded.

“Imprisoned some two decades ago for murdering some muggles by the name of Riddle,” he said pointedly.

The Dark Lord scowled at the man.

Perhaps announcing that he was the heir of Slytherin so soon had indeed left a trail of breadcrumbs for a meticulous busybody to follow. Not that he could change it now.

“What is to be done with Gaunt?”

“Smith intends to bring him before the Wizengamot and be retried.”

Voldemort shook his head.

No, he couldn’t allow that to happen, not when was yet to truly establish his name amongst the purebloods erring on the side of caution.

“When?”

Lestrange shrugged.

“I expect it will be soon, but we could perhaps delay it by maybe a week.”

“Do it,” Voldemort instructed firmly. “Gaunt must not make it to the Wizengamot, and Smith…I will handle Smith personally.”

“We shall see to Gaunt,” Yaxley assured him. “Fear not, my lord, it will be dealt with.”

The two men left, and Lord Voldemort fumed silently as he fought the urge to erupt in anger.

He didn't know how Smith had reached the accurate conclusion he had, but it was unsettling, and the Dark Lord could not allow the man to continue unlocking his past.

To prevent it, there was only one conclusion he reached as he pondered what was to be done, and it would serve to show that no one was beyond his reach.

Smith would have to die.

With that in mind, Voldemort knew it was once more time to return to England.

Of course, he intended to do so anyway, but not so soon, and he hadn’t anticipated that his target would shift from the impertinent Harry Jameson. Yet, it irrevocably had, though such a change was only temporary.

Smith would not make it to trial with his uncle, of that, he was certain.