Chapter Text
Godric awoke with a start and pushed himself up, cradling his head in his hands. The last thing he remembered he’d been in the afterlife with Helga, Rowena, and Salazar. Something devastating had been heading towards Hogwarts and they’d decided to intercede for… some reason. They had been planning to send him and Salazar down at once, but something had gone wrong, Sal had been right behind him and then everything had jerked about.
He was on a bed of some sort and as he stood he noted how different this body was to his last, it was familiar of course, just because his memories hadn’t awoken until now didn’t mean he hadn’t been living as… as… ah bugger his memories of both lives were still melding together. Flickers of the halls of Hogwarts came through, memories of an oddly dressed man with a beard, so he was a student of his school then, good. At least he could be sure he’d been reincarnated as a wizard.
Salazar would awaken at the same time as him, assuming the spell hadn’t been too broken. Godric moved over to a mirror he spied in the corner of the room. Sal wouldn’t be hard to find, in order to reincarnate at the same time they’d have to have been put in similar bodies. Had the spell gone right they would be placed in a pair of twins right at birth. But the spell hadn’t gone right, the dangers of performing rituals as mere souls beyond the veil of course, and Salazar had been yanked behind him instead of next to him. It shouldn’t ruin things too wholly, assuming Salazar still made it through the veil at a similar rate; instead of twins they might simply be brothers or cousins, but if there hadn’t been a bond to be found the spell wouldn’t have worked at all.
It would be easy enough to figure out once he regained memories of his relatives, Godric was sure. Memories of childhood began to merge back with himself and some names flashed through Godrics mind, William? Billy? Bill? was a figure of particular note, but he didn’t think that was Salazar. Pale hair in green robes, a friend perhaps? An enemy? Too distant to be Sal. As the later years began to stream in, playing at a thousand times their original speed Godric began to grow concerned.
He had no siblings and his parents… oh dear. Everything after he was fifteen came flooding in all at once and he had trouble sorting it out, bending bodily over the vanity that contained the only mirror in his sallow bedroom. He took a few breathes as he fully combined both lives in his mind. Ah, so thats why his soul felt aflame. Godric looked up.
He lifted his spindly hand to his new, noseless face, gazing at his red eyes with horror. The heir of Slytherin indeed. Salazar was never going to let him live this down.
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Harry shuddered as he began sorting the two lives into one another. He felt embarrassed for some of his childish behavior but more than that he felt relieved. Something had always been missing, he had felt that as Harry alone for years. Now that he was able to add the context of Salazar into his life everything made much more sense. His memories of Helga and his deep talks in the kitchen while baking suddenly explained his nostalgic love of treacle tart, something that had always felt off, and the years he spent with Godblesye explained his confusing grief at the death of his great snake. It needed to be done, she was clearly mad by the end, but it should have been done gently, with comfort and after a day of her favorite things, not so gruesomely being controlled by an insane— bloody hell. Sal stopped in his mental sorting. A dark lord. After him. Magic above that was going to be a hassle.
And a resurrected one, couldn’t forget that important piece. He shifted through what he knew. The battle mages holding him were doing a terrible job at fighting the beast, that was his most immediate conclusion. Voldemort—ridiculous name—had been back for what, half a year now? A few months? And still no movement from either side? Terrible way to fight a war. Salazar had fought a few dark lords in his impressive three centuries. Most could be waylaid by a few trades of dark objects in exchange for leaving the Isles for new hunting grounds (Salazar always took care to direct them southward to france) and even those who refused held their spellfire until the end of the ceasefire. Perhaps this mysterious order had already tried that and failed? Harry was only a boy after all, there was no reason they would have told him something like that. Must check up on that, Salazar noted to himself as he played with his face in the mirror, trying to find himself anew. He was less worried now than ten minutes before when he’d still not had his past life’s memories. He was well versed in the dark, and those who tried to claim it. Vol de Mort was no different. The most dangerous of lords he’d needed to face with Godric and Rowena beside him, but he shouldn’t need them for this: a dark lord this upstart may be, but Herpo the foul he was not. And even Herpo had left their shores peaceably after a wonderful negotiation by Salazar—if he did say so himself—at the end of a battle fought to near a draw with Godric. And a few old tomes from Rowena, must’nt forget that, dark lords love their forbidden knowledge. Yes, negotiations were the way to open this, that was Salazar’s strong suit and if it failed, well, a parlay usually had the other side dropping their guard. Unless the order had already tried and failed—really must find that out. Of course, Herpo did return to their lands eventually, they all came back one day, but by then Salazar had found their weakness and developed a plan to exploit it. Herpo, for example, had been difficult, nasty bugger had gone and—
Salazar froze momentarily in his musings.
A memory, able to wield a wand and absorb the life force of a witch, there was only one thing that could do that, to his knowledge. But no, that couldn’t be, or Voldemort would have faded in his wraith form. But then he had that baby form—a homunculus, Salazar’s memory supplied—which, while not a body, was more than able to house the remnants of a soul. Did he have it by then? Could it even be? Rowena had burned all of Herpo’s notes at the end, and cried at the waste as she’d done so. But surely others wrote of him, Sal remembered reading the name somewhere, faintly, as Harry. All it would take was the idea of immortality by way of mutilation—the rest could be figured out with decent knowledge of ritual magic, arithmancy, and time to experiment. Sal could probably do it, given the time. Of course he would need to account for the new position of the stars, after a thousand years. And of course the inclusion of wands. Perhaps if he added dragons blood to take the burden of destruction in the ritual he could make it more easily reversable. Difendoms had likely gone extinct, they nearly were by the end of his time, but with enough unicorns blood willingly given he could—No. Salazar stopped himself. He didn’t need to figure out a horcrux. He could though, he reassured himself. Not that he would. Horrifying thing, cutting a soul in half.
Except Voldemort—horrid name really—couldn’t have had just a horcrux, the diary was destroyed, the man’d be dead by now, surely. So then he must have another way of assuring immortality? Or perhaps he didn’t just have a horcrux. Salazar paused as his fingers traced his glasses. He scoffed at himself.
There was no way. A soul could barely be split once, much less twice. Right. Although. Salazar started to do the math again, and this time he didn’t stop himself.
Yes, it could be done. It would be near impossible go get right and would take incredible force of will, but it could be done.
Stop, he ordered himself, review what you know of the enemy. He plopped himself down on the gritty tiles of the Black bathroom to think. Voldemort had come back to life and prior to that—yes—he had been a wraith. The diary had been well and truly destroyed, the same way Herpo’s ring was. There was no denying that. Yet Voldemort lived. Had come back in a ritual that… well… Herpo had died after his ring had been destroyed, so Sal didn’t actually know how he would have been brought back. But bone of the father, flesh of the servant, yes, those might have done it.
A dark lord wouldn’t search out another means of immortality once he already a system. Right. So that meant that there must be another horcrux. One body, two soul pieces, three equal parts. It would certainly be less imbalanced than Herpo’s two pieces. The next best would be seven, then thirteen, but again, a soul could barely be split once, twice was stretching it.
Alright then, Sal nodded to himself. So Voldemort was still functionally immortal. How did that change things, what did he know? He knew the man was theatrical, and still sane enough to put on a show for his followers. Sal could understand that, the need to defeat the babe who’d temporarily vanquished him in front of those loyal to him, after years away. He had been a general once, he knew the need for soldiers to believe in their commander. He wasn’t going to be forgiving the dark lord for those cruicios or Cedric—a pang of loss hit him—anytime soon however, necessary didn’t mean forgivable. Still though, the man understood enough about war to think it out. That was a good sign. Herpo had gotten a bit… was feral the right word? Yes, feral, towards the end.
That was a blessing then, Voldemort wasn’t yet fully gone. There had been no reasoning with Herpo a second time. Voldemort’s forces were still in hiding, working in the shadows, and to Sal’s knowledge there’d been no massacres lately. All that pointed to a man he could work out a deal with, if only to buy time.
What else?
The making of horcruxes implied a fear of imminent death that couldn’t wait for another avenue, a sickness in youth perhaps? Or a love for Herpo, a desire to emulate and surpass him? Had enough stories of the foul survived? Tom Riddle was a half blood, muggle father, could he have been raised in the war? Harry had seen bits of a documentary once, through the cracks of his cupboard. Did his father die there? He lived in an orphanage, so it was possible. Perhaps when he was still young, to cause such a disgust at his fathers muggleness, as a way to rationalize his death? And a poor orphan gone half the year wouldn’t have been sent to the country, away from the desecration the bombs left. That might instill some fear in a young wizards heart. Rightly so, Sal thought. Muggles were dangerous, to Harry, Salazar, and everyone in between.
Salazar chided himself. Godric might be a muggle even now. It was time for their arguments to be buried. Sal felt a rip of anguish tear through him. There was no other possibility, Godric must be his cousin, his only living blood relation of an appropriate age. He prayed to magic that Dudley will have awoken with magic this morning, to go along with his memories. Sometimes if remained trapped in people. That might have happened with his cousin, his blood brother. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon hardly fostered a home where magic was welcome. Maybe Dudley had hidden it?
That was a problem for later, first the dark lord, then find Dudley then… Salazar stood up and stared at himself again, trying to force a memory. It was very important that they stop… something. Something important, that he knew for sure.
Well.
He’d remember.
Or Godric would.
Hopefully.
Harry checked his face in the mirror as he finished assimilating. His fifteen years were quickly acclimated to his long, long life and his even longer death. He had been emotional and empty yes, but he still felt very much like Salazar Slytherin and Harry Potter both, they had always been the same, he just hadn’t realized it until now. That he now remembered everything changed little to Salazar but to make him older and wiser. His scar was thrumming which was another concern, but he could see the remnants of a curse swirling around it. He’d look at it later but he wasn’t surprised no one was able to do anything for it, dark magic and all. Godric was sure to give him grief for it, and those glasses! Sal smiled a little at the thought of reuniting
His good humor amplified as he pictured Godric in front of a mirror as he was, the vain Gryffindor was surely horrified at his own deficits. Assuming he was in fact able to comprehend his past life and that of a muggle. Ah. Salazar should check on that. Godric should be fine, he reasoned, stepping out of the bathroom, unlike a ghost of a normal spirit, as a watcher of Hogwarts Godric’s soul had spent the last 1000 years growing, his magic self would overwhelm any anti magic aspects.
First things first though, he had a dark lord to plan against. Whatever they were here for, it wasn’t Voldemort. Godric would reach out to him once he was settled.
Harry began meandering down the steps, lost in thought and fully ignoring the string of red heads he had been eavesdropping with before he’d had to excuse himself for his awakening. It would be easier to take this wipersnaper down with Rics help, obviously, but a part of Salazar, the vain prideful part, wanted to prove he was fully capable of waylaying a dark lord alone, that he still had it. Sal entered the kitchen absentmindedly, hoping that Godric wasn’t attempting to—what was so facisnating about that cupboard?
A brownie was exiting it—a houself, Harry corrected himself—it froze when it saw him. Harry cocked his head. He wondered how these things had been enslaved, they’d used to come into homes willingly. Of course they’d been rather mischevis… was that what did it? The houseelf murmured something expletive at him. Huh. Odd behavior compared to the brownies he’d known and Dobby both.
How similar were houseelves to brownies? Harry walked over to the kitchen counter and found a jar of white powder, flour he assumed, and a quick sniff proved him right. He gathered up a small handful and placed it in a cup next to the sink. There were still some people talking to him. Shame Godric wasn’t here, he would have told these cads to shut it while Sal did his little experiment. The houseelf’s bulbous eyes were following him as he shook the flour in the cup to a smooth plain. Perfect. He lowered himself and handed the cup to the elf.
“For your bread,” he said simply, as was the way. He watched for the answer to his hypothesis. Sal smirked as the house elf exploded into a wicked grin and grabbed the cup, muttering thanks and compliments as he scurried back into his hovel. Perfect. Exactly the same as he’d remembered. Brownies hated clothes, wearing it, receiving it, anything about it. They loved food though, but it was the one thing they couldn’t steal or create with magic. The limit to their power, that they must live off the kindness of others or else learn to hunt and farm, which he’d never seen a brownie attempt. The best way to win their loyalty, and the best way to convince them to lend their might to his own endeavors, was to offer them food willingly and freely, all the better if it was ingredients.
Nodding himself in satisfaction—yet more proof that Salazar still got it—he finally allowed his attention to shift to the person speaking at him.
“Er Harry” said Remus, “I appreciate whatever you’ve done to improve Kreacher but you really shouldn’t be in here.”
Right. He’d gotten distracted.
Salazar looked up from the spot the elf had disappeared into the wider room, where every member of what Ron had just told him was called the order of the phoenix seemed to be sitting.
The dark lord. Right. Yes. Mustn’t get waylaid again.
“As a matter of fact how did you get in here?” Asked the pink haired woman with a name Harry couldn’t remember, “The headmaster warded that door himself.”
The headmaster himself stood at the head of the table, but he was avoiding Harry’s eyes. No, actively avoiding Harry’s eyes. Harry tried to catch his eye, moving his head around and shifting to the side. Dumbledore didn’t even risk looking higher than Harry’s shirt. That was suspicious.
Harry didn’t respond the room. This felt important. Why wouldn’t he meet his eye? It was smart to avoid eye contact during a duel certainly, regardless of how weak your
opponent may seem, but against a child outside of a duel? The headmaster had no way of knowing that Salazar was Harry and was so a student of the mental arts, did he? Harry reviewed his memories. No. No definitely not, he’d never shown an aptitude in this life. So why…? Dumbledore had stopped moving his face as Sal tried to surprise him with eyecontact and his gaze was now worriedly fixed on Harry’s scar. Just an old curse scar why—
Harry froze. His eyes blew wide. No. That would be absurd. Although. No. Horcruxes couldn’t be put in living things. That was ridiculous.
But then again… an accident? A soul already prepared to be split. A fission that would have had to be held together through one murder already—his father—and then again through his mother. An incredible force of will, to hold one’s soul together only to halve on the right death. And in that divide, when the main body broke apart up and started seeking a host against his mothers sacrifice—a willing blood sacrifice. A willing death to make a horcrux. The power of such a thing. And he was a baby, his mind wouldn’t have been able to refuse such an entrance and, again, his mother’s sacrifice was willing—did her consent extend also to her child to be the host?
No one would ever do such a thing intentionally, a human made for a horrible horcrux. But that might explain his luck with surviving things. And the dementors, their interest in him. Could Phoenix tears have saved the diary too? His eyes on Dumbledores now worried expression told him that yes, they likely could.
Salazar swallowed his revulsion. Well. That was… okay. Okay. He was a horcrux. How foul. Still though, it gave him a bargaining chip with Voldemort. And functionally made Salazar immortal, it was in no way worth the cost but still, a perk.
There had never been a human Horcrux to his knowledge, but as a student of the mental arts he would make the same leap in logic that the headmaster seemed to have made. If Harry could see into Voldemort’s mind—those dreams; what else could they be than a horcrux connecting with the main soul when unoccupied—then surely Voldemort could see into his, of course Dumbledore would keep him out of things.
That was excusable, refusing to meet his eyes was a bit much but that too made sense. But if Dumbledore knew what was in his scar he knew that while Harry was alive Voldemort could not leave this plane of existence…
“Harry dear this really isn’t a conversation for your ears,” said Mrs. Weasley kindly. Harry ignored her.
“Potter—“ His potions professor was beginning to sneer.
“Is the plan to trap Voldemort?” Sal interrupted, stopping his erratic movements. Most at the table winced reflectivly. Odd, they had never down that for Herpo. The answer was important, because if Dumbledore was trying to plan Voldemort’s death, that meant that Harry Potter’s life was very much in danger. And he couldn’t die yet. Salazar had… something. He had something to do here. He would remember eventually.
“Why on Earth do you believe you should be given that information?” Asked Snape with disgust. Salazar took a moment to be disgusted back at his head of house.
“Trap him? Are you out of your mind lad?” asked Mad Eye Moody. There were some other mutterings and questions but they were ended by Dumbledore who perhaps had heard the slight desperation in Sal’s tone.
“Why do you believe he should be trapped?” The headmaster asked. Harry thought frantically.
“Thats what they did to Grindelwald, right? Locked him up in Nuremburg?” And that was a rather good solution, all lined up in front of him. Maybe they could rebrand it into an official halfway house for defeated dark lords.
“You have an interest in Grindlewald?” Remus asked beside him.
“Seems relevant, last dark lord and all.” Harry muttered. Dumbledore gazed at him sadly and Harry remembered who had taken the man down in the end.
“The Dark Lord cannot be trapped and while Headmaster Dumbelore was more than a match for Grindelwald sixty years ago…” An older man in a tweed coat said, with an apologetic look to Dumbledore.
“I can fight Voldemort back but I am wholly unable to overwhelm him and, where Grindelwald was strongly attached to his honor and refused to run in most instances, Voldmeort has a thousand and one exit strategies.” Dumbledore said candidly, “this fight may not be left to me,” he considered Harry, carefully not looking into his eyes, “you once told me you wanted Voldemort dead Harry, has something changed?”
Sal was beginning to think he hadn’t gone into this conversation with a proper exit strategy. Part of him was still trying to deal with the fact that, on some level, his headmaster must be planning his death. He breathed in deeply. He was getting distracted. He needed an answer on the state of negotiations.
“Have you tried negotiating with him?” He asked instead of answering.
“You foolish boy, do you believe none of the dozens who have died by the dark lord’s wand have tried pleading with him?” Snape sneered. Everyone in the room was looking at him strangely.
“I’m just saying, I think we should explore options that don’t involve execution, aren’t we the good guys?” Sal asked. Yet again another good point, he was killing this.
“I respect trying to be the bigger man Harry but weren’t you just telling us that you, above most, know how serious this all is? He needs to be stopped, not that we’re anywhere near that point.” grumbled Sirius.
“Well perhaps if you stopped lazing about the house—“ Snape began.
“I would like you to answer my questions Harry,” Dumbledore said seriously, “What has changed your… perspective?”
Sal was hard pressed to ignore the headmasters hand slipping into his robes. Salazar sighed. Sometimes the most cunning strategy was the blatant one, no one ever expected that.
“I reckon I could negotiate with him. Come to an agreement.” He housed part of Voldemort’s soul, there were many things he could threaten the man with.
The room was shocked into silence.
“You reckon—“ Snape began with the highest level of disgust he’d ever used on Harry, but he was drowned out by the now dozens of disbelieving voices. Mrs. Weasley, loudest of all, was admonishing the others for being so judgmental and telling them it would be good to preserve Harry’s naive optimism, as if he wasn’t right there.
BANG
And suddenly the whole room was looking to Dumbledore who was looking very concerned. Appropriately concerned, Salazar figured.
“What makes you believe that Harry?” Dumbledore whispered across the room.
“I imagine you know how much he wants to… live?” asked Sal. Verification to Dumbledore if ever there was. Oh dear, the headmaster had not taken that well, if the wand of elder pointing directly at Salazar was any indication. No one moved to stand in front of him and Salazar bite back a pang of disappointment in his godfather. “Er I’ll take that as a yes. Well, as it happens, I’d quite prefer to live too.” Dumbledore tightened his grip.
“And who am I speaking too now?” He asked warily and the others in the room gasped.
“Oh for—“ Salazar bit back a curse, “its still me I just did some meditating and discovered a few things about myself.”
“What did Harry Potter see in the mirror of Erised?” Dumbledore asked.
“My parents, alive and with me, and then the stone the second time.” Harry said.
“How does this discovery relate to your new attitude towards Voldemort?” The headmaster asked. Ah, he was worried Harry had spoken to it, well that made sense. Was that possible? He’d only just found out.
“Honestly?” Harry asked, “I think we can reach an agreement. I didn’t talk to… you know what… but er, I do feel that I have a better understanding of him now. He was a sad orphan, I’m a sad orphan, he was a parseltounge, so am I, I just think I have a more balanced perspective on it than some of you. I mean, you haven’t really felt one, have you? Well the diary and this—“ Sal paused for a moment as he suddenly remembered that half of Voldemort’s soul had been destroyed. Well. He was still sane enough at the end of last year. Relatively. Was Sal misreading this? they’d just have to risk it, “I don’t think you quite understand how insane that would make a person. And really, the first at what, fifteen? With his mind not yet grown? I don’t want to excuse him murdering my parents but the man’s terrified of death, we should approach this from a place of compassion.” And with that last word Dumbledore’s visage changed, going from worried to perplexed to now sad and almost hopeful.
“I can not say I do not wish that could work. Does he know my boy?” Dumbledore asked and once again Sal was worried about execution, even though the man’s wand was down.
“One letter, thats all I’m asking for.” Harry said, pleading now, not answering because he didn’t know, “if he says no or does anything negative you can, well you can feel free to expedite your plans,” for my death he finished in his head. It didn’t matter, no one had ever refused to meet with him over terms before. These fools were so eager to run into a war that by all counts might be avoidable. Little bit of comprise always did the trick back in the day. Times hadn’t changed all that much.
“He will lie, no matter what you say.” said Snape urgently, proud veneer thrown aside in his intensity.
“And so we won’t believe him.” Said Harry, looking back at Dumbledore.
“You arrogant—“ Snape started.
“Harry…” said Dumbledore, trailing off.
There was a few steady beats of silence and Salazar started making back up plans for contacting the man himself, when his godfather started laughing.
“Negotiate with you know who? Why not!” The man smiled at the group. “Bastard already knows Harry’s alive and out of his grasp, whats the harm?”
Dumbledore smiled grimly. “We will need to read it of course, and rewrite it in our own hand, but I should hate to doom any if peace was any sort of option.” He didn’t think it would work, Sal knew, but that hardly mattered so long as he agreed to the letter. There was a sad twinkle in his eye, and for the first time Harry wondered if Dumbledore had tried to pursue peace with his own dark lord.
The table was full of objections, but he’d gotten approval from the person he’d needed it from.
“Wonderful” Salazar grinned, clasping his hands together and grabbing a parchment off the desk, along with a quill and an envelope from a side table. Less than a minute later he was passing it on to Moody for review.
The Dark Lord Voldemort
Aka TMR and He who must not be named
Always good to include preferred names on addresses for something so temperamental
To the Dark Lord,
I apologize for any lack of formality you may find offensive, I am young but my intentions are good.
Good, put him in the place of power so he’d be more amiable to the next request. The order members would likely disgusted by the deference; Sal was ready to cede to their objections.
I have something in my possession that I should think you would be interested in.
Too vague. But he had no idea how many people would be reading this.
Something most foul, if you catch my meaning.
That would have to suffice. Hopefully he would assume the diary was still intact, or that they had another, if he didn’t already know about the scar. Though it was unlikely he’d made more than the two.
I’ve convinced the Order to give you a chance to negotiate a peace. “Convinced” is a rather strong word.
A little bit of levity could be unnerving.
But I am fully committed to the endeavor. Much like you I am opposed to the concept of a bloody and early end.
I’m not entirely aware what it is you are fighting for, but I’m sure compromise can be reached. You are surely aware that changes brought by war are much less long lived than those brought by slow, tedious legislative change, yes? Well I have the chief warlock on my side, and not an inconsiderable amount of influence myself, surely a middle ground can be found.
I ask only for a parlay, a short meeting so that we might ascertain each others goals, where they meet up, and where talking can replace bloodshed. At the very least, let us come to terms. This is a war, or so I am told, let us fight it like one. I can think of one such term we might agree on, for example: the goblins should be left out of it, for their involvement would spell bloodshed for wizards on either side and poverty for us all.
I can understand reluctance to come to a moot for a teenager, but I think you will agree that I have come out ahead from our battles more often than not, and I currently hold a rather lucrative bargaining piece.
You will only receive this opportunity once, in the spirit of your ancestor I implore you to think it over carefully. I’ve been in the chamber too Mr. Riddle, and I think we can both agree total destruction was not Salazar’s way.
Sincerely,
Harry Potter
The Boy Who Lived
Salazar sat back, rather pleased. It put Voldemort on the drivers bench, and gave more than Sal would have liked to give, but he was only a teenager, and that meant very little in this century; Voldemort needed some incentive to take him seriously.
“You can’t believe this will work. It will enrage him.” Said Moody finally.
“He fears death, passing up any opportunity to avoid it would be foolish.”
“Harry” Dumbledore looked at him sadly.
“Trust me professor, I know how this looks. But you have to let me try to save my life. If this doesn’t work I promise I’ll…” Harry trailed off. For what it was worth, which wasn’t much, the headmaster looked heartbroken. Harry was agreeing to sacrifice himself if his last ditch effort failed and they were the only two who knew it. But this would work, he knew dark lords better than anyone. For Circe’s sake, he’d been one for a short time in his early 20s, 220s that is. At the very least this was a rather dramatic opportunity for Voldemort, he would respond if he was any true descendant of Salazar’s.
Dumbledore made several copies of the letter and passed them around. Objections began to fly around but it was too late, Dumbledore had already clinched the letter tightly in a fist of flame in what Salazar recognized as Phoenix mail. There was silence for a good time after that, then yelling, then silence again. Molly didn’t ask Harry to leave again.
Professor Snape made a hasty excuse to leave a few minutes later, but everyone else stayed put, nervously talking of nothing.
They had a response within the hour.
***
Tom was having a weird day. He was sure that he had some good points, that he was fighting for something, but it was incredibly frustrating trying to find out what that was without appearing… well he needed to keep the belief of his death eaters, that he was sure of. He was proud of the name at least. Death Eaters. There was something very terrifying about it, and the rhythm of it was nice. So. There were some bright spots. He just needed some light shined on the spaces in between.
“Yaxley.” At his order the man hurried to kneel at his feet. That was another thing. He’d loved the respect not a day ago, he knew he had, but Godric and Voldemort were conflicting in Tom’s mind now, and now the sight of a wizard prostrating himself just felt… off. So much of the last thirty years were fuzzy in his mind. Ever since the diadem… He was lucky, at least, that the return of his full soul and the memories it provided reduced the absolute pain of the monstrous thing he’d done. Splitting his soul. Seven times! Was he mad? And placing them in hard to reach areas even he didn’t have access too—insane. Lucius had fessed up about the diary pretty quickly when he’d asked for it, and when he’d forgone the usual torture in exchange for a lengthy and disappointed stare, he knew he’d done something wrong. He just couldn’t summon up that easy hate for a crucio anymore. He knew too much love, felt too complete.
Godric twirled his wand in hand and tried to look like he knew what he was doing.
“What would you do, if I took over the ministry and placed you in complete authority tomorrow?” he gave his follower a benevolent stare, “As a hypothetical.”
“Well my lord, I would proclaim you ruler of all magical Britain, shout your glory from the—“
“Yes, yes, but after that.” he interrupted. Yaxley paused, he seemed terrified. The fear made something slouch in Tom. He didn’t want that, why had he thought he wanted that?
“After we win the war?”
Godric smiled at that and Yaxley flinched, but he was too pleased at the reminder to feel bad. Yes, this was a war, wasn’t it? He’d killed people in war before, sometimes it was necessary. He nodded and motioned for the man to continue.
“Well, I suppose I would round up the mudbloods.”
Okay. Well. Maybe they were in danger?
“Round them up?”
“Yes, my lord. Make them register, take the wands from the weak ones and imprison or enslave them, let the stronger ones stay for menial labor.” Yaxley was grinning now.
So. He might be on the wrong side of this.
“Hmn.” Godric huffed out. Ugly and the bad guy. No, Salazar was not going to let him live this down.
He was about to begin enquiring on the state of matters as subtly as possible—he knew he’d put Lucius in charge of quite a few of the details and there was a plan to kill Harry Potter somewhere in there (unfortunate but absolutely necessary if he wanted to maintain the respect of his men—so he could begin shifting their overall policy, when a flash of fire startled him.
The death eaters in the room all drew their wands and Tom twitched a finger, wordlessly floating the letter that had just spawned in front of him. Poisons and charms could fool even the smartest of wizards if the spell was obscure enough, it would be foolish to tough the paper itself.
A minute later Godric let out a bright laugh, sending shivers down the spines of his men. War negotiations. Perfect. That was something he knew how to do; he was both shocked and relieved they hadn’t already happened. And it would be the perfect way to stall things while he had one of his more intelligent—was minions too rude? soldiers? Yes, soldiers—soldiers track down whatever unknown relative Sal had ended up in. Probably some poor bastard from the gaunt side, Marvolo must have impregnated someone from prison. Speaking of which.
“Lucius,” Godric hissed, enjoying the slip in paraletouge at the end (it was so thrilling to finally be able to speak Sal’s special little language and he’d always loved it as Tom). The man rushed to kneel at his feet. Ugh. Tom motioned for his arm, doing his best to ignore the submission. He placed his wand on Lucius’s mark and spoke clearly. “Severus, come to me. I have need to your skill.”
While he waited for his most effective servant he began composing a reply, making sure to keep the rather dramatic and cruel flair he’d spent the last sixty years unconsciously creating. It would be useful for negotiations at least.
It was obvious Harry Potter had not written the note, this was clearly a way to keep him off balance, make him believe he was speaking with a boy instead of Albus himself. That was fine. Godric had been a part of dozens of negotiations, usually on the side of Hogwarts to be fair, but he was no spring chicken and no longer insane, that ridiculous order was in for a surprise. Tom didn’t know what exactly he was fighting for but by god he was going to win. He’d straighten out their politics later. Godric Gryffindor had never lost a war and he wasn’t about to start now.
Mr. Potter,
What a delight to hear from you, while I was just contemplating your imminent and bloody death…