A strange question began circulating through Knockturn Alley.
"Do you know about that thing?"
People tried to trace its origin, but the phrase seemed to have appeared out of thin air.
There was still a week left before the new school term began.
The odd rumor spread like a virus—so quickly that it had practically become a greeting.
"Isn't this kind of publicity going to cause trouble?" Tommy asked, putting away the candy gift box he'd prepared for Oz, his tone full of concern. "More and more people are starting to take notice."
"It won't," John said, reclining comfortably in his chair and adjusting the angle of the backrest. "That object is, in essence, a contract."
Finding just the right angle, John leaned back with a quiet sigh of satisfaction.
"Other than the side effects it carries, it's not a wish-granting item. And even if it were, it would only grant my wish."
John chuckled softly. Kim rubbed his sore hands, exasperated by his boss's complete hands-off attitude.
During John's absence, Kim had taken over his post.
And John, using the excuse that Kim should "continue getting familiar with the work," had shamelessly left everything in his care.
Now, Kim and Tommy had naturally fallen into a rhythm—one handling affairs outside, the other inside.
John felt much more at ease.
Tommy, however, was uneasy about the Holy Grail. That was, after all, an object said to restore youth and grant immortality.
As its creator, John knew perfectly well that the powers it offered weren't nearly as exaggerated as the rumors claimed.
Reversing aging and achieving immortality—those were indeed possible.
But anything beyond that was beyond its reach.
The Holy Grail was, at its core, a vessel—one that bore the power of the Gate of Matter/Things and the Reaper's Contract.
That was why John had chosen Hufflepuff's golden cup.
When imbued with magic and the Philosopher's Stone's elixir of life, it could nourish the soul bound by the contract.
"What we need to focus on now," John said, closing his eyes in thought, "is when we'll finally get our hands on the one the Order of the Phoenix has."
Mundungus's thieving had been disappointingly slow. Despite all this time, while the items he'd brought back were valuable, not a single one was a Horcrux.
John raised his eyes slightly—and outside the window, a black long-eared owl swooped down.
Riddle landed neatly on the desk, dropping a letter before him.
John opened it, and as his eyes skimmed the contents, his posture straightened instantly.
"What's wrong?" Tommy noticed the change in his expression.
"I underestimated you, Dumbledore."
John held the parchment between his fingers, his expression shifting between light and shadow.
"I thought you'd be in quite a sorry state after losing the Headmaster's post. Didn't expect you to convince Slughorn to let you return to Hogwarts."
Dumbledore had been allowed back into the castle to spend his twilight years there.
Slughorn was a cautious man. With Voldemort still at large, he had not only requested Auror protection from the Ministry but had also agreed to let the greatest wizard of the century remain at school.
It took no small amount of cunning to exploit Slughorn's overly cautious nature—and Dumbledore certainly had that in spades.
"To protect Harry?" John murmured, rubbing the rough parchment between his fingers, his eyes unreadable.
"My lord?" Tommy asked. "Do you want us to intervene?"
If John wished, he could easily make a suggestion to Barty Crouch Sr.
But John shook his head. He had no intention of doing so.
"Let him stay. Whether he's there to counter my influence or to protect Harry, he can still serve a purpose at Hogwarts."
His expression steadied once more as he flicked his wand, igniting the parchment. It burned to ash and drifted away.
"My new Headmaster has plenty to deal with. Let's hope he resolves things quickly."
Being jointly invited back by the four Heads of House had given Slughorn plenty of face.
John had no intention of interfering with Slughorn's decision.
He only needed to make sure the next two years passed peacefully.
…
"Thirty Galleons per trip."
The man, drunk and missing one shoe, spoke with a pipe hanging from his mouth and a bottle clutched in his arm. He hiccuped mid-sentence. "Payment up front—no tabs."
In front of him lay his missing shoe: a hard, foul-smelling leather loafer with a cracked heel.
A pouch full of Galleons landed before him, and the drunken wizard's face instantly lit up with delight.
He looked up, but the person before him was hidden under a black cloak—their face completely obscured.
The voice that spoke was low and distorted, its tone impossible to place as male or female. "London."
The drunken wizard nodded. The cloaked figure stepped forward and stopped before the leather shoe.
It was an unregulated Portkey passage—expensive, illegal, and used for smuggling.
Grasping the shoelace, the cloaked figure vanished.
The drunk wizard loosened the pouch, grinning wide at the gleaming pile of gold inside.
Meanwhile, just outside a suburb of London—Crack!
The figure in the black cloak appeared.
She looked into the distance, and with a sharp crack, her body vanished.
She reappeared at the junction between Knockturn Alley and Diagon Alley—outside the Blind Pig Tavern.
A gust of wind lifted the edge of her cloak, revealing a patch of horribly burned skin.
She pushed open the door and entered. The Blind Pig's patrons barely glanced at her attire; strange figures were nothing new here.
A waiter approached to ask something, but the cloaked woman brushed past without a word, heading straight for one of the private booths deeper inside.
Amid the hazy lights and drifting bubbles that filled the tavern's air, a refined, well-dressed lady sat in stark contrast to her surroundings.
The lady's eyes moved restlessly about, her expression carrying a mix of expectation and anxiety.
Suddenly, the booth door swung open.
A curved wand shot forward like a talon, pressing against the lady's throat.
The door closed again, shutting out all sound from the outside.
"Bella," the lady said, her head forced upward. "You shouldn't treat me like this."
"Your husband. Your son. They both betrayed the Master."
The voice was hoarse, barely that of a woman—madness barely restrained, her eyes blazing with hatred and frenzy.
"Cissy, tell me—how should I take my revenge?"
At the word revenge, Narcissa's heart gave a sharp jolt.
Forcing herself to stay composed, she replied coldly, "That was them. I have never betrayed the Dark Lord."
"Really?" Bellatrix seemed to be trying to see straight through her sister's soul.
Narcissa met her gaze unflinchingly, her voice laced with pride. "Everything I have done for him has been flawless."
The sharp tip of the wand at her throat slowly withdrew.
Bellatrix straightened up, then slowly pulled back her hood—revealing a face more terrifying than any nightmare.
Nearly a third of her skin had been pinned in place with wooden nails. She looked at her sister as if terrified that Narcissa might lie to her.
"Cissy, I know—you would never betray us."
Bellatrix, fragile as a child despite the madness in her eyes, suddenly clutched her sister tightly.
Her voice trembled with venom. "Rodolphus… that filthy wretch. He betrayed the Master in the end. He should be grateful he's already dead."
The hatred in her voice was so deep it was as if she weren't speaking of her own husband.
It had always been a marriage of convenience between the Blacks and the Lestranges. Bellatrix had never felt anything for him.
Narcissa's body stiffened. Slowly, she lifted her hands and placed them gently on her sister's scarred, burned back.
A flicker of pity passed through Narcissa's eyes as she asked softly, "How did you survive?"
She reached out, her fingers trembling as they brushed against one of the nails embedded in Bellatrix's face. Narcissa could hardly believe that this creature before her was her sister.
Once, though insane, Bellatrix had still been beautiful—not the monster she had become.
"Hatred," Bellatrix murmured dreamily, as though wrapped in the comfort of her sister's presence. "Hatred is what kept me alive."
She leaned against Narcissa and began recounting what had happened.
Voldemort had used a very ancient form of Dark Magic to heal her. It had kept her alive—
but at the cost of her humanity.
Then he went to settle scores with those who had betrayed him.
With his soul restored, Voldemort seemed to have regained his reason. He had gone to ground, quietly reestablishing contact with the darker creatures of the world.
Originally, the Malfoy family had been among those marked for retribution.
But Narcissa, using the Blakes' secret messenger spell, the Flying Cicada Charm, had managed to change his mind.
Perhaps recalling her past service—turning the old Black manor's house-elf to his cause—Voldemort had decided to grant her family a reprieve.
"Oh, my Cissy, my dear sister," Bellatrix whispered, her voice trembling between madness and affection. "You would never betray us… would you?"
Bellatrix, looking pitiful and broken, reached out to caress Narcissa's face.
"Bella," Narcissa said quietly, "there's something I need to tell the Dark Lord."
"It's about that thing hidden in Hogwarts—" she hadn't even finished speaking before Bellatrix's expression twisted, and the sharp tip of her wand pressed hard against Narcissa's throat.
Then, as if spiraling into madness, Bellatrix half-laughed, half-cried. "Cissy, you have to do something—something to make me believe you."
"Why of course. What do you want?" Narcissa's fingers curled tightly around the wand hidden beneath the table.
"I came here with a mission," Bellatrix hissed, her voice trembling with hysteria. "You'll help me with it, won't you, Cissy?"
The pointed tip of her wand pricked Narcissa's skin, drawing a faint sting. Narcissa's heart sank.
Her hand, gripping the wand under the table, was suddenly caught—entwined by a cold, slender green serpent.
There was no choice left.
Slowly, she loosened her grip, then nodded. "I'll help you."
Bellatrix's manic expression softened again into that same pitiful, childlike look.
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