The atmosphere in The Burrow was suffocating, dense, and heavy with a depressing solemnity. From the moment they escorted me back home, my parents hadn't ceased in their attempts to comfort me, trying a thousand tactics to "make me wake up" from what they assumed was a post-traumatic daze brought on by the tragedy. And the absolute truth... was that I was getting bored.
Sustaining the appropriate characterization—reproducing the psyche of a second-year boy who has just taken a life for the first time, consumed by the guilt of an irreversible mistake—did not represent a technical challenge to my capabilities, but it was an frustratingly exhausting exercise. The phase where the pure adrenaline from the risk of being discovered stimulated me had already expired; gone were the days when every maneuver on my agenda possessed the sheen of novelty, immediate victory, or the fulfillment of an objective. In that respect, perhaps I had become a bit old and cynical, but the boredom only surfaced in these mandatory performances that lacked real value. If it were a staging designed to hoodwink my girls... heh, heh... that I would enjoy thoroughly, even if the technical display were a thousand times more fatiguing than this family drama. But this was not a game of seduction. This was a mere theatrical formality destined to provide my parents with a dose of calm and normalcy.
I gathered all my acting discipline to project the necessary vulnerability, indirectly mitigating the fact that I, and no one but I, had orchestrated every variable of the Ministry crisis. In their eyes, the culprit behind the catastrophe was not a cold calculator, but an irresponsible and talented young boy who had gotten involved in a political framework far too complex for his maturity, unable to foresee the magnitude of the consequences.
Even so, the fatigue was starting to take its toll. Keeping my clone's presence confined to this property drastically limited my operations... Fortunately, my new scheme incorporated high-value elements ready to be deployed.
On the morning of the following day, Albus Dumbledore appeared at our doorstep. Of course, the property had already been the target of prior incursions by Daily Prophet reporters and acquaintances of the Weasleys who intended to snoop around the core of the news; but of the select few figures who managed to bypass the security charms, besides Xenophilus, the Headmaster was the only one who managed to visit legally. My savior, so to speak.
The old man stepped through the frame sporting pronounced dark circles under his eyes and a weathered countenance that betrayed fatigue—an evident consequence of the intense family dynamics he had been forced to manage following his trip in the Rolls-Royce. Nonetheless, in his new status as a subordinate partner, this domestic rescue constituted one of his new mandatory tasks.
He sat at the table with my parents and deployed his usual eloquence. He breathed tranquility into them with that cadence of a wise grandfather and, after a prolonged and complex debate, managed to persuade them that isolation in The Burrow would only worsen my emotional paralysis. The Headmaster masterfully argued that the optimal setting for my comprehensive rehabilitation was an immediate return to Hogwarts; contact with the academic routine and the shelter of my friend circles would operate as a catalyst for my recovery.
As was to be expected, my parents flatly opposed at first. They roundly refused to lose custody of me during such a delicate juncture and, internally, experienced a legitimate panic regarding the type of social scrutiny and hostility that would await me in the classrooms once the magical community processed the verdict that a twelve-year-old Weasley had executed Lucius Malfoy himself. It was a strictly logical objection. However, Dumbledore possessed a century of experience in the art of rhetorical manipulation and mass persuasion.
In the first instance, the Headmaster made it easier for me to disengage from the responsibility, attributing a large part of my dangerous maneuvers to the influence of the unique wands I possessed. One of them had fallen in the vicinity of the Ministry after the duel; an opportunistic nobleman must have confiscated it on the spot, and by this hour, the wretched man must be mired in the bitterest regret or dead, since the artifact was already back in my hands. The second wand had been temporarily retained by my parents; fortunately, the nature of the object did not inflict retaliation upon them because I had explicitly ordered it to maintain a dormant state... Though I could swear the piece manifested a certain jealousy regarding its sister. Still, as soon as they stripped me of the artifact, I seized the opportunity to project an even more pronounced display of weakness and overwhelm, optimizing the credibility of my farce.
Finally, Dumbledore confiscated that second wand and finished breaking down my parents' last argumentative defenses. Of course, I contributed my own acting quota, feigning the posture of a "broken child" who begged to return to Hogwarts to take refuge in his friends. It certainly didn't classify as the most dignified milestone of my career, but the combination of that childish drama, a subtle and millimetric deployment of my persuasion auras, Dumbledore's political weight, and his institutional promise to exercise personal oversight over my routine was enough. My parents agreed under the strict condition of receiving daily correspondence detailing my progress, maintaining the prerogative to storm into the school to drag me back to The Burrow at the slightest sign of instability.
In this manner, I left domestic confinement. Holding Dumbledore's hand to execute Apparition, we materialized on the Hogwarts grounds. As soon as we arrived, the farce dropped immediately; my features transitioned from depressed sobs to a grimace of frank annoyance over the exhaustion of the last few hours. I hated having to lie to my parents, but the harsh reality wouldn't be any better.
"You look tired," I commented as I dusted off my robes and retrieved my wand from Dumbledore's calloused fingers.
"A complex family reunion..." the old man limited himself to replying, dragging out the syllables with an age-old fatigue. "How do you plan to manage opinion at Hogwarts? The owls with the morning editions of the Prophet must have arrived by now."
"Leave that to me. You focus on your own duty. Just don't postpone the task I assigned you; the sooner we secure the ground, the better," I dictated, readjusting the collar of my robes while scanning the silhouette of the castle in the distance. "By the way... do you happen to have the location of the old Riddle family residence? No, forget it, I'd better ask Amelia; it's a good excuse to catch up," I added with a smile, beginning the walk toward the entrance hall.
The old man looked at me with intrigue; however, he was too tired to investigate. Dumbledore urgently required a nap. With Ariana under the armed custody of her brother at the Hogsmeade pub, the Headmaster finally enjoyed the necessary leeway to get some sleep. Reality told him he was already very old for the volume of activities my new order demanded he process, and yet, looking at the big picture, the old wizard internalized that the sacrifice was worth it. Although reviewing his mental agenda as he walked along, he remembered that one highly complex loose end still remained to be resolved: the legal engineering to structure Ariana's future identity in the modern world.
...
Tenebrius slipped into the Ministry stealthily once more. The main atrium remained mired in chaos; the echo of Lucius Malfoy's demise kept the officials in a state of shock, and nothing seemed to retain its old order... At least for the most traditionalist sector of magical society. But like everything, the upheaval would be nothing more than a transitory phenomenon. The world does not stop for the fall of an aristocrat. The truly unique thing about the day was that no relative had come forward yet to claim Lucius's body; Narcissa Malfoy had vanished from the public radar on the very day of the crisis and remained unaccounted for, so any funeral protocol remained frozen in the Ministry morgues.
Ignoring the deliberations in the hallway, Tenebrius headed down the corridor until stationing himself outside Amelia Bones's office. He waited patiently for the subordinates to vacate the room and, as soon as the Director was left in absolute solitude, he made his entrance.
Amelia was submerged in a sea of parchment, penning by hand both the minutes of her ordinary routine and the preliminary drafts for the legislative reform she planned to implement. She was firmly determined to restructure the system to ensure that a catastrophe like the previous one would never happen again under her jurisdiction.
"Too busy?" Tenebrius articulated, breaking the silence with a friendly tease.
Amelia's quill stopped dead in its tracks. She raised her eyes to fix them on this young man who had transformed into both a frustrating and pleasant variable in her life. Noticing that he came with seemingly empty hands, the witch knit her brows slightly; but Tenebrius, anticipating the gesture, materialized a silver breakfast tray through a fluid piece of sleight of hand.
Amelia only needed to catch the aroma of the pastry to identify it. Having grown accustomed to his intrusions, she opted to remain silent and continued writing a couple of lines while Tenebrius searched for a clear space on the desk to set down the tray—a complex task given the saturation of folders.
"You know perfectly well that I do not care for excessively strong or sweetened coffee," she stated by way of greeting, without shifting her eyes from the parchment.
"I know, but an extra dose of glucose can brighten your day," Tenebrius replied smoothly, taking a croissant from the Director's tray to take a bite as he settled onto the corner of the desk with utter irreverence.
"What is the real purpose of your presence here?" Amelia inquired. Her tone was dry, but devoid of hostility; it was merely her professional tone when operating under high levels of stress.
"Well... I consider that we still have a legitimate date pending and..." he began, but Amelia's piercing look demanded he abandon the playful register. "Come on, Amelia, I only intend to coordinate a space outside the work spectrum. What do you think about an opera performance? Or perhaps a stroll through some picturesque spot in the Muggle world... A short picnic would also satisfy my standards. You stated yourself that you were willing to grant me an opportunity, but I don't perceive much cooperation on your part," he added, flashing a slight pout. The level of mutual complicity they had consolidated already allowed them to slide into these kinds of familiar dynamics.
"Are you simply unable to see the volume of decrees I have on my desk?" she sighed, pausing for a moment to take a sip of that coffee, which was sweeter than her strict preferences dictated. "In case you are unaware, yesterday one of the most influential figures of the Wizengamot perished at the hands of a twelve-year-old schoolboy."
"I am fully aware... I manage my own information channels," Tenebrius smiled smugly. "Don't forget I hold the management of the most profitable and mystical franchise in Diagon Alley. So... am I to assume that's a no?"
"Right now, it is unfeasible..." Amelia declined with a hint of frustration, though she immediately locked her eyes onto him. "Nonetheless, if you assist me with sorting these security files, we will conclude the day much sooner."
She had learned that delegating certain minor tasks to him did not constitute a breach of her ethics; the loyalty and strategic value Tenebrius had demonstrated to her empowered her to integrate him into matters of such scale.
"All right... I'll do it," he agreed with an apologetic smile, "but on one condition. I require some information from your archives."
"What exactly are you looking for?" asked Amelia, whose expression denoted that she was already expecting a request of that nature.
"Do you have among your Ministry records the location of the old Gaunt family property? It would save me some work."
Amelia raised an eyebrow, fraught with intrigue. After briefly questioning him on whether such a search would lead to any legal infraction and receiving a flat refusal from the young man, she acceded to the request. Although the maneuver bordered on the edges of professional protocol, the foundations of their relationship were solid enough to justify the favor. After all, it wasn't information that couldn't be obtained through ordinary channels given enough time; this operated more like a confidential pact between near-lovers.
That same afternoon, when the workload dwindled, Amelia handed Tenebrius a sealed portfolio containing the coordinates and the annals of the now-extinct Gaunt lineage. In the Director's mind, her suitor's search strictly obeyed a routine private investigation by "The Dragons of Albion" oriented toward the acquisition of land or old debts.