Title: Epithalamium
Author: Squibstress
Rating: MA
Genre: Drama, romance
Warning/s: Explicit sexual situations; teacher-student relationship (of-age); language, violence
Published: 23/05/2017
Disclaimer: All characters, settings and other elements from the Harry Potter franchise belong to J. K. Rowling.
Chapter Forty-Six
Seven.
Tom sat brooding in the sparsely furnished dining room of Sebastian Nott's Staffordshire house.
Upon learning of Minerva's hiring at Hogwarts, he had immediately assumed that Dumbledore was bedding her once again; there really was no other reason for her to abandon everything to become a teacher, of all godforsaken things. Even so, it had been a surprise when he had seen her, in feline form, but instantly recognisable to anyone who knew about the strange markings around her eyes, following Dumbledore out of the Hog's Head. Tom wouldn't have believed her the type to meet a lover for an afternoon fuck in a seedy inn. Then again, Dumbledore seemed to have ways of persuading her to do things that might otherwise seem completely out of the question for a girl like Minerva McGonagall.
He silently cursed himself for his near-obsession with her. It had been a mistake to speak to her as he had. He had had little to gain from it but the satisfaction of frightening her—and he had done that, at least—and now she would probably tell Dumbledore of his threats. The old man wouldn't likely do much, but he would be on his guard, and more careful about Minerva.
Tom had not expected the old man to marry her.
This was very bad news indeed. If they had a magical bonding, each would be able to draw on the other's magical strength.
Would Dumbledore do it? Would he bind Minerva to him in that way?
It was still common enough among the older, pure-blood families, but the old man was not a pure-blood, and, as far as Tom knew, he had never expressed any admiration for the kind of traditions his father's family might have passed down. There were many people who frowned on the traditional blood-bonding ceremony, considering it Dark Magic.
Then again, Tom thought, Dumbledore had always shown himself surprisingly flexible on the subject of Dark Magic. Not to mention the subject of one Minerva McGonagall. And he was no fool. To bind her by blood would ensure not only her fidelity, but it would all but guarantee that her magic could never be turned against him.
Yes, Tom thought, if their positions were reversed, he would do everything in his power to ensure that a witch like Minerva could never raise her wand against him.
Damn!
The irony of his own recent difficulties in this arena were not lost on Tom.
Some of his earliest supporters, men he had thought were loyal to him, had deserted him of late, once it had become clear that both Dumbledore and the Aurors—or one Auror, anyway—had their eyes on them. They were cowards, to be sure, and not worth his consideration, but still …
The desertion of Sebastian Nott's brother had been particularly galling. Graham had been at school with Tom, two years his junior, and had worshipped him.
Tom had made sure to stay in close touch with the boy after his graduation; he was clearly magically gifted and very intelligent. Tom had cultivated him upon his return to England, and at first, Graham Nott had seemed eager to become one of Tom Riddle's foot soldiers, fighting for pure-blood supremacy.
But then he had met that Prince girl, and he had started to change. He started to question Tom in ways that he never had—indeed, in ways no one else dared. The final break had come when Tom had announced his transformation to Lord Voldemort. Nott had scoffed! At him! Had called him mad.
And for just a moment, Tom had questioned himself.
Nott had Disapparated before Tom could curse him. He had found and killed the traitor quietly one evening—it didn't do to leave loose ends hanging—but the whole affair had unnerved him. In truth, Graham Nott was not the only one who had stopped coming to meetings; the other deserters had simply been quieter about it. And he couldn't kill them all. Not yet, anyway.
Tom needed a way to ensure, if not loyalty, then constancy. He had heard rumours of enslavement marks used by the great wizards of eras past to ensure that those who had pledged their support could not renege on their promises. He had looked through the wizarding libraries of the world for more specific information to no avail. Librarians were ridiculously squeamish, it seemed, about keeping books of Dark Magic about. Riddle knew that Dumbledore had more than a few interesting tomes stashed away in his private collection—Tom had sounded Gellert Grindelwald out on that very topic recently—but there was no chance of getting hold of them, of course.
So he had set Macnair on it. He had had little hope that the dim-witted wizard would find anything, but it wouldn't hurt to have someone scouring the less reputable wizarding quarters of the world for books that might lead Lord Voldemort to what he wanted.
But now, here the man was, telling him he had found the very kind of spell his lord had wanted.
Will wonders never cease?
"My lord," Byron Macnair said, interrupting Tom's thoughts, "do you believe the spell will work?" The wizard's eyes sparkled with neediness.
Macnair was clearly hoping for a word of praise or some other bone from Lord Voldemort's table, and the sycophantic fervour with which he—with which they all—looked at their lord chased away Tom's doubts.
These men would be willing to die for him. He would ensure it.
This was power.
Voldemort smiled to himself. "There is only one way to find out, isn't there, Byron?"
"Y … yes, my lord."
"Give me your arm."
Voldemort watched the man blanch, and his fear was a balm for Tom's soul.
Souls, Tom giggled to himself.
"Do you hesitate, Macnair?" he asked, cocking his head at the man as if examining a particularly peculiar specimen. "Are you reluctant to bind yourself to my service?"
"No, my lord!" The arm shot out, although it was shaking.
Tom grasped it, grinning into the man's frightened face. He withdrew his wand from his robe pocket and ran the tip of it across the smooth, white flesh of Macnair's forearm almost tenderly.
The spell Macnair had found came from a very old, very rare book on ancient Sumerian magic, and it had allegedly come down to Darius the Great all the way from Sargon of Akkad. The book claimed that both rulers had used the spell to bind their most trusted servants to them in times of uncertainty to ensure that their loyalty remained untainted. It allowed the caster to make a "living mark" on the flesh of the servant, but only if the servant willingly took it. The mark would permit the master to call his servants to him; if they resisted his call or broke their oath in any material way, the mark would scorch and burn their flesh until they complied with their master's will. Useful, to be sure, but Voldemort was more interested in the symbolism of the thing. Each of his followers would bear a living reminder of their master, etched into their flesh.
Voldemort had given much thought to the form the mark should take, and now it seemed the gods were smiling on his choice. The book, originally written in the Akkadian language, had, astoundingly, been translated into Latin centuries later, and it told of Sargon's defeat of Lugal-zage-si and the submission of the Uruk nobility to their conqueror. Sargon had reportedly administered the living mark to his new followers in Parseltongue.
The original incantation had been lost, but an Akkadian approximation was included in the book, and the ancient translator had helpfully included it in Latin, along with the instructions. It would be an easy enough thing for Voldemort to say it in Parseltongue.
Perfect.
Voldemort laid his wand tip on Macnair's arm and began.
When he had finished, he gripped the arm tightly as the flesh began to smoke and burn, watching, curious to see what would happen. It smelt of overcooked bacon.
To his credit, Byron Macnair didn't cry out as Tom expected. He whimpered and trembled but otherwise stayed still and silent as the black marks began to bubble up from within his flesh to settle into the simple design Tom had envisioned as he hissed the incantation.
It was done.
It was beautiful.
"See, my friends!" he cried. "Macnair has been the first to take my Mark. Who will be the next?"
They all clamoured for it, even as Voldemort sensed their fear. It was intoxicating.
By the end of the afternoon, seven more wizards had taken the Mark: the three Lestranges, Avery, Rosier, Mulciber, and Nott, of course.
Nott had been uneasy about his position with his lord ever since his brother's desertion, which was why he had offered his home, new and nearly unlived in, to the group for their headquarters and to host Lord Voldemort for as long as his lord cared to honour Sebastian and his young wife with his presence. And rightly so. It was only due to Voldemort's good offices that Nott was now his father's sole heir. Nott was so anxious to prove his loyalty that he called his wife, Megaera, in to take the Mark after him.
Lord Voldemort sat there enjoying the girl's terror for a few moments before he gracefully accepted her demurral due to early pregnancy. So good did he feel after the afternoon's events that he called for a round of elf-made wine from Nott's cellar to toast to the news of an impending addition to the Nott and Carrow families.
He had nearly forgotten about Minerva and Dumbledore.
Later, as he brooded by the fireplace in Nott's library, he considered his next course of action.
It was tempting, very tempting, to go to the Hogwarts Board of Governors with news of the Headmaster's affair with his Transfiguration mistress. All it would take would be a whisper in the correct ear—Madam Burke's, for example—and Dumbledore would be called on the carpet to defend himself. Tom was not naïve enough to believe Dumbledore would be dismissed over the issue; he had enough supporters among the governors and in the Ministry to weather the inevitable storm, but Minerva would almost certainly lose her place, and Tom wouldn't put it past the old man to refuse to dismiss her, in which case, the Headmaster would be out too.
Even lovelier was the thought of the scandal Tom could ignite with a word or two to the right person at the Daily Prophet. That idea had clearly frightened Minerva.
But to what advantage? That was the question.
As pleasant as the idea of Minerva and the old man being raked over the coals of public opinion was, it would serve Tom little in the long run. Dumbledore might be prevented from heading a school full of young girls, and Minerva might be branded the whore she undoubtedly was, but it would ultimately do little to diminish either's power. In fact, if freed from the fetters of that school, they might just decide to come after Lord Voldemort—what else would they have to occupy their time?
Tom had to reluctantly admit that he was not yet ready to confront Dumbledore directly and openly. Lord Voldemort was powerful—Tom had learnt much magic in the years after leaving Britain—but he was wise enough to know that the old man's disadvantage in years was an advantage in experience. The threat that Dumbledore had issued all those years ago, when Tom had first discovered his secret lechery, still lurked in the back of his mind.
It would be better, Tom decided, to wait. Build his army and ensure his immortality. The he could face Albus Dumbledore from a position of overwhelming strength and cement his place as the most powerful wizard in the world by defeating him utterly. And if Minerva survived the battle, so much the better for Tom and the worse for her.
His fingers unconsciously stroked the pebbled leather cover of the diary he held in his robe pocket. It had been a gift from that old hag, Mrs Cole, at the orphanage on the occasion of his sixteenth birthday. He had brought it with him to the girls' bathroom that fateful night he had summoned the Basilisk, thinking to record his observations of Myrtle's death in it. He had been fascinated by death at the time, and he had spent many an afternoon in the Unknowable Room after the foolish girl had showed it to him, recording what he saw when he killed the small animals he caught in the castle and on the grounds.
What would Minerva say if she knew about all those cats? he laughed to himself.
But the eyes of the cats and other small mammals he executed had never unlocked any of death's secrets for him. Not even when he learnt the spell to create an Inferius; their eyes stayed just as dead and impenetrable as they had been in the moment after death.
A human, he had thought, might be different.
So when he went to kill Myrtle, he had gone prepared with his diary and his quill. When the Basilisk had appeared, and as it had done its lethal work, he had looked intensely at the girl's stupid, surprised face and into her eyes, and he had seen … nothing. It was as if someone had simply turned out a light behind them, just as it had been with all those other animals. His momentary joy at having been able to successfully command the giant serpent had been eclipsed by disappointment and rage.
He had then tried to bring Myrtle back as an Inferius, hoping against hope that a former human might be able to tell him something that those animal Inferi had not, but it hadn't worked. Tom knew now that it was because dim, needy Myrtle had not gone on in death but had stuck around in ghostly form—although, as he subsequently discovered, she had apparently buggered off down the toilet and stayed there for months in her fright and outrage before venturing out to begin her reign of petty terror and vengeance against her schoolgirl tormentors, never guessing that her charming Slytherin friend had been responsible for her death. Stupid, even in death, was Myrtle.
The Inferius spell had failed, and Tom had stood, panting slightly in his frustration. When he went to re-sheathe his wand, his fingers had brushed against something hard in his pocket, and he remembered the diary. He withdrew it and opened it to the first page—the page on which he had copied the information from Secrets of the Darkest Art on the creation of Horcruxes.
Why not? he had thought.
Why not try to make his first Horcrux? It was an auspicious occasion after all, his first murder.
He had known the instant he had finished the last word of the incantation that it had worked. He had felt a great rending—an agony that was not physical, but that felt as if his self was being clawed apart by a million demons, and for just a moment, he had seen into the abyss, into hell, into nothingness, and he had been stricken by terror so deep that he thought he must go mad with it.
Is this death? he had thought.
But no. He had come back to himself, lying on the cold, damp floor of the bathroom, with a dull ache in his head and the sinking feeling that he had pissed himself. Upon sitting up, he discovered he had, and had shat himself into the bargain. He used his wand to clean up, then picked up the diary.
He had almost dropped it again. It had seemed to pulse in his hand—again, not a physical sensation, but a spiritual one—and as he held it longer, a sense of peace seemed to wash gently over him. It was a little like the morphine the Muggle doctors had given him when he'd had his appendix out at age eight. And like the morphine, he'd found that he missed it—very much a physical sensation this time—when he didn't have the diary with him.
Later, when he'd had more time to work out his plans, he'd been a little angry with himself for using so pedestrian an object—a Muggle object!—in which to keep a part of his soul, but there was nothing for it. He'd decided to remove his entries—he'd memorised the Horcrux spell, and his observations on death were no great loss—and kept the diary with him as much as possible. At least no one would ever suspect it could house anything more important than a few random scribblings.
Seven.
The number kept thrumming through his head as he thought about his Horcruxes now. It was the Mersenne safe prime. Rome had seven great kings and seven hills, as did Constantinople. There were seven great sages of ancient Greece, and ancient Thebes had endured the siege of seven great generals and was defended by another opposing seven. There were seven deadly sins in Christian theology.
Seven was the most powerfully magical number. It was the number of parts into which he would divide his soul for safekeeping.
Tom already had five precious vessels for it. For most men, it would suffice. For Lord Voldemort, it wasn't enough. And he wanted the sword. How beautifully appropriate would it be if the old man were finally vanquished by the Sword of Gryffindor, infused with the soul of the man who was the Heir of Slytherin?
Yes, Tom thought, he would wait.
He had time.
~oOo~
Minerva didn't tell Albus about her encounter with Tom Riddle. The last thing she wanted was to spook him further, so she said nothing, but she was especially vigilant and cautious as she went about her business.
The following Saturday, they played chess as usual—Minerva beating Albus for the first time—and they had their customary drink afterward.
They sat in front of the fire, and when she had put down her glass, Albus moved across the settee to embrace her. They kissed for a minute, but when Albus moved his hands to caress her breasts through her dress, which had become their habitual prelude to lovemaking, Minerva put her hands against his chest and gently pushed him away.
"What is it?" he asked. "If it's the wrong time of the month, I could—"
"No," she said. "I just think perhaps we ought to be more careful. I mean, everyone knows I come to your quarters on Saturday evenings; it would be too easy for them to make certain deductions."
"Hardly everyone."
"Well, enough."
"Some of the staff, certainly, but none of them would say anything. And nobody can prove that we do anything other than play chess." Taking her hands he said, "What is it, Minerva?"
She shrugged. "I've just been thinking about what you told me about the morality clause in your contract. It seems imprudent for us to violate it."
"Perhaps. But if we are careful—"
"Yes, but I would hate for anything to come up just when we've decided to make things … well … legal. It seems a foolish risk."
"I see," he said.
She watched him, wondering what he was thinking. When he finally spoke again, she was surprised at what he said.
"Minerva, if you no longer … desire me, I shall understand. I am not a young man, and—"
She pulled him to her abruptly and kissed his mouth.
"You are a foolish man," she said when they broke. "How can you even entertain the idea that I would not want you? Have I not shown you how much I do?"
She was truly astonished that he could harbour such doubts, and she reminded herself yet again that, powerful wizard that he was, he was also a man, with a man's weaknesses and insecurities.
"I want you," she said, "in every conceivable way. But I don't want you to be hurt by our relationship."
He opened his mouth to object, but she cut him off.
"Let me speak, Albus. Remember when you broke off our affair because you didn't want it to harm me? Well, now the shoe is on the other foot. I don't want our relationship to damage your reputation just when you have finally taken your place as Headmaster. All I am saying is that we should consider moving our physical relationship away from here—at least until we're married and the governors can say nothing about it."
He brought her hands to his lips and kissed the knuckles of each. "All right, my dear. If it will make you more comfortable. In light of that, how soon do you imagine we can be married?"
"If we are condemned to having a proper wedding, I'm afraid it will be several months. Einar and his family won't be back from France until mid-May, and my father leaves for his tour of North America the week before term ends. He won't return until mid-October. Of course, we could simply do it in a register office with a couple of witnesses, as I suggested initially," she said hopefully.
"Won't that disappoint your grandmother and your father?"
"Oh, I suppose."
"Then we should wait."
"Oh, gods, Albus. How on earth am I going to survive a wedding, of all blessed things?"
Albus chuckled at her distress.
"What?"
"You spent several years chasing Dark wizards—almost died doing it—and you're worried about a ceremony with a few flowers and toasts?"
"I just …"
"What?"
"Hate to fuss. It should be private—just between us."
"It will be. But the people who love you want to be with you—stand up with you, if you will."
"I know," she sighed. "And I suppose I sound terribly churlish."
"No, my love. You are simply a private person. It's one of the many things I adore about you." He kissed her cheek. "So it sounds as if we'll need to wait until the Christmas holiday, perhaps?"
"So it seems." After a few pensive moments, she asked, "When should we tell people? And whom shall we tell?"
"Oh, I think the staff should know. And the governors, eventually. Beyond that, it's your choice, my dear."
"Other than my family, I think just Amelia and Marlene. And Edgar, of course."
"Edgar?"
"Edgar Bones, Amelia's brother. And his family."
"Ah, of course. I had almost forgotten that you are now related to the Bones family by marriage."
"And you'll want to tell Aberforth," she said.
"Actually, he already knows. I asked his permission to give you my mother's ring."
"And he was delighted for you, I'm sure. Offered you his congratulations?"
"Something like that. I should also like to tell Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel. Other than that, there's no one I feel the need to inform."
"You don't think—" She stopped abruptly, a horrified look on her face.
"What, Minerva?"
"Will it end up in the papers?"
"It could, I suppose," he said. "But I will make it quite clear to those who are informed that they are not to speak to any reporters. And I am not entirely without influence with the editor of the Daily Prophet. While I doubt I could persuade him not to run a story that was of any real importance to the wizarding world—nor would I attempt to—I might be able to ask him to refrain from writing about our personal relationship. He owes me one or two small favours."
Minerva found this information both astonishing and encouraging, but she doubted Albus would be able prevent the Prophet from running the story should Riddle make good on his threat to divulge what he knew about what had happened when she was in school. She didn't know Hector Fleet personally, but she had heard, primarily from Amelia, who did, that he was a man of integrity and devoted to his profession. Such a man could hardly be expected to kill a shocking story about the Headmaster of the most prestigious wizarding school in Europe simply as a favour to an old acquaintance.
There was nothing for it, she thought, but to wait and hope. After all, if Riddle had not gone to the press by now, perhaps he didn't intend to. Perhaps he was waiting for a better time.
"Try not to worry, Minerva," Albus said. "While I would also prefer to keep our relationship private, it would not be the end of the world if it were to become known."
"After we're married."
"Yes."
She sighed again. "I do wish we could do it sooner, then."
"As do I, my dear. Particularly if it means I'm to be deprived of your favours until then."
"As I recall, you said the morals clause only prohibits us from doing anything here," she said. "There are other places, you know."
"Yes, but if we were to go to the Hog's Head or some similar place too often, it might begin to arouse suspicion."
"Oh, no. Not the Hog's Head. Anyway, the idea of your brother's smarmy grin every time we showed up would put me right off," she said, thinking of Riddle's claim to have observed them coming out of the inn on the night Albus had proposed. "I was thinking more along the lines of a Muggle inn."
His eyebrows rose in surprise.
"Really?"
"Why not? It would be far easier to go unnoticed than if we tried meeting somewhere in the wizarding world."
"We couldn't go away every weekend, though."
"No," she admitted. "But you could take the occasional evening off, couldn't you? Surely even the Headmaster is entitled to a day of rest once in a while."
Suddenly he was grinning at her, a familiar glint in his blue eyes. He sidled close to her again and put his arms around her. "I must admit, Minerva, the idea of meeting you for the occasional secret tryst is somewhat titillating," he said, burying his mouth in her neck.
"Oh, I agree, Headmaster. Very titillating indeed—" The rest of her response was lost as he took her mouth again.
He released her a minute later with a deep sigh. "Ah, well, my dear. I suppose I shall have to be content with that for the evening. Would you like another drink? Or perhaps some tea?"
"No, I don't think so," she said. "I think I should just get home."
She didn't exactly want to leave, but his kisses had made her unsure that she would be able to resist making love to him, despite what she had said earlier.
Unbeknownst to both of them, each was having the same thought as she stepped through the door: It was going to be a long few months.