For the past two months, Tom Riddle had been living through something he counted as abject disgrace.
A wizard of noble blood, with Salazar Slytherin's line running in his veins, he had very nearly defiled it. He had been forced to dress like a foolish Muggle and blend in among them.
There had been no real choice. Once the most notorious Dark wizard in Europe, he was now hunted by Ministries across the continent. They were everywhere.
Worse, wizards and witches in every country had learned of You-Know-Who's habit of inhabiting serpents. Rumour had it that, throughout Albania, snakes of all kinds had been culled nearly to extinction over the past two months. Perhaps that was only talk.
Riddle knew he had to change something if he meant to survive the Ministry's blanket dragnet.
There was only one workable option left: take a Muggle host.
The man he settled into had been a forest ranger, a profession steeped in Muggle tedium.
His duties were to patrol the surrounding woods each day, manage and check for potential fire sources, report any blaze at once, and prevent poaching and illegal logging that might damage the forest.
To Riddle, it was idiotic and unbearably dull. A handful of protection charms around the perimeter would accomplish all of it. Why plod the same circuits, day after day? He could not fathom Muggle habits.
In the end, he simply did it the Muggle way.
Given the level of scrutiny he drew in the wizarding world, the smallest flick of magic would, by morning, bring half the Aurors in Europe down on him.
In his current weakened state, that would mean surrender. Nothing else.
So he rose at dawn like a Muggle, walked his allotted patch of forest with a ranger's clipboard, noted any anomaly in detail, and returned to his little house at the wood's edge at dusk.
Day in, day out. Looping back on itself.
There were consolations. The ranger lived alone in his cottage, and there were no neighbours nearby, so few people expected to see him often. Only once a month did a senior ranger appear for a report.
The first time that superior came, Riddle—wearing the man's face—carefully offered over the thick sheaves of parchment he had filled, detailing every movement about the forest's margins.
The look the man gave him then, wary and a shade baffled, made Riddle think he had been discovered.
But the superior only clapped him on the shoulder, told him to keep up the good work, and left as if nothing were out of place.
Riddle let out a slow breath.
He still could not make sense of these stupid Muggles.
Two months passed like that. The searches in the region eased, perhaps because most wizards now believed the Dark Lord had slipped out of Albania.
There were surely unpersuaded Aurors still watching.
He did not dare slacken. He held to the small Muggle patterns of his days, offering nothing that might catch a trained eye.
Now, at last, he could reach outward again, quietly.
The Dark Mark was out of the question. Using it would be noticed at once.
But he had other ways to contact his Death Eaters.
Riddle was certain there were still many loyal ones, searching for him, waiting for his return.
He trusted no one anymore, not after the betrayals of Barty Crouch Jr. and Wormtail. Trust had burnt out of him.
But he needed hands.
He needed a way back.
Tirana International Airport, Albania's capital, had lately acquired a crop of very odd guests.
They wore black or green cloaks, carried old-fashioned trunks and cases, and moved with furtive, secretive care. Strangest of all, the airport security, who patrolled ceaselessly, never seemed to trouble them. It was as if they could not see them at all.
Today, a man in a long black robe and cloak came through the doors.
He was thin, with straight, lank hair. His eyes were cold and unreadable. His skin had a sallow waxen cast, his nose long and hooked.
Any Auror at the airport would have known him at once.
Second only to You-Know-Who on the wanted posters. At large. The most infamous Death Eater alive. Former Defence Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts: Severus Snape.
Even in the thick of Muggles, Snape moved with care. He yanked his hood low to shadow his face and walked quickly.
Then, without warning, he stopped. His right hand plunged into his cloak and closed on his wand. His face hardened.
"Severus," someone murmured, stepping close to touch his back and breathe his name.
"Aiden?" Snape blinked, then raised his voice, clipped and disdainful. "Sir, you've mistaken me for someone else."
As they passed shoulder to shoulder, he added, barely moving his lips, "Corner behind the room ahead."
He tipped two fingers, indicating direction.
A few minutes later, they met again, tucked into a shadowed corner past the doors.
"You answered the Dark Lord's summons as well?" Snape's eyes were narrowed to slits.
"Of course. You aren't the only one still loyal to the Dark Lord, Severus," the Death Eater said with a small smile. "We all came."
An hour later, in the Headmaster's Office at Hogwarts.
Jon Hart stared straight at the portrait in front of him, expression grave. "So You-Know-Who has set his plan in motion again?"
"Yes," said the Headmaster in the frame. "He has called every Death Eater who still serves him to that place."
Jon nodded, thinking it through. "He's pulled himself out of defeat faster than I expected. We need to move as well."