New Year’s Eve is such a magical day, isn’t it? A day that lasts, so excitingly, for all of its’ hours in a way no other day can say they endure, not even Christmas. Is it the promise of new beginnings which is so alluring? Or is it the allure of letting go of the past and the ties that bind you to it?
But the last day of December, the last day of the year on the Gregorian calendar, is not simply New Year’s Eve. It’s also Tom Riddle’s birthday. His 29th birthday, to be precise. This, in itself, is not all that interesting. The average wizard on the street would neither know nor care about the date of his birth, and truthfully, might not even know who they were. And who is Tom Riddle?
Well, Tom Riddle thinks they’re Lord Voldemort. And while you were all celebrating, ringing in the new year together, as you should have been ... there were some who did not join you. Those who did not join you had their own plans, in some cases, but in all cases had their own reasons for not joining the party at the Shafiq estate. Among those who did not join, were a group of those who’d joined together elsewhere.
Across the country from the big bash, life goes on in more typical fashion. Friends gather together, families gather together .... just on a lesser scale. Some gather to celebrate, some to grieve, some to have a little fun, some mischief, and some ... some gather to wreak havoc.
In the latter group, you can find some of Tom’s new pals this evening. So many of his more established “associates” had other plans that evening, appearances to make, toasts to echo, secrets to hide, tasks to complete; Tom had to make other arrangements for his special day. And while they might have been slightly less than ideal, considering their shiny “new-ness”, that “new-ness” brought with it a slight increase in the willingness to go along with what their leader wanted.
What their Lord wanted.
And Lord Voldemort wanted to mark the occasion of their birth with something special. They’d always considered it a blessing and a curse, their birth, and for varied reasons, but the date of the event itself, seemed fated and prophetic, balanced between old and new, a precipice of sorts. The year ahead, Lord Voldemort had decided, should begin on a clear note. A new note.
In a different key.
Wilhelmina Tuft has been the Minister of Magic since 1948, and has seen the wixen world of Great Britain through a much easier period than that of her predecessor, who saw the world through the peaceful years after a series of wars (not all their own). Very popular, she appears to be set to join the club of ministers who sit for a decade or more. Wilhelmina works hard, and she’s gained the trust and support of her people for the most part, and if the general public were to believed, she just might be one of the more popular in recent years (gentle recent years, at least). Of course, it almost goes without saying – but I’m going to say it anyways – that she doesn’t want to see a return to the violence and anger and unrest of the Grindelwald years, and has taken a firm stance in the new developments of this so called Lord Voldemort.
Naturally, Lord Voldemort had already pieced together that it would be impossible to work with such an .... inflexible .... head of government. Though he was already planning (long game, mind you) on a regime change, it had become abundantly clear as the year came to a close that it might be necessary to add a second, more immediate regime change, to help things along some. To help them along ..... a lot, actually. For himself, anyways.
It was pretty widely known information, in her offices, at least (and most importantly) that Wilhelmina Tuft had an incredibly serious, devastatingly deadly allergy to alihotsy. All treats, purchased and gifted, were checked (always) to ensure the Minister’s safety before being presented to her, but someone – after the Ministry had officially shut its’ doors for the day, and the year – had slipped into the Minister’s office and left her a batch of fudge, front and center, on her desk. The fudge was laced, and heavily so, with alihotsy, and the culprit was long since gone into the night by the time the Minister received an owl, a very urgent one, presenting information that had to be acted on right away.
A hard-working woman, her family thought nothing, these days, of the sudden need for her presence at any hour of the day or night at the Ministry, or the owls that came along with that. And she received a number of them that evening, with increasing frequency and urgency until she simply couldn’t stand the guilt. And Wilhelmina, well .... every hard working woman deserves a snack, and treats for the Minister only reached her desk once they’d been cleared. She was so tired, so weary, who could blame her? Fudge was a perfect pick-me-up.
With the holiday falling on a weekend, it could have been several days before the news came out. But Lord Voldemort was celebrating himself, and signaling the start of a new era of his own creation, one soon (if things continued according to plan) to become something that the general public would neither want to, nor be able to, deny.
As fireworks went up across the country, at the stroke of midnight, the Ministry of Magic bore a very different sigil – his mark; bold and green, vile and haunting, large and menacing.
On New Year’s Day 1956, the emblem which had hung above the large government building had silently announced the murder of the Minister. It faded with the rising sun, and though still many years from being known as the calling card it will one day become, was a curious anomaly to those who witnessed it – did you see that snake eating skull thing in the sky?
Maybe the Ministry will have answers for us. Stay tuned to find out! ;)
At supper, the Shafiqs announced – though, yes, they promised to repeat the news again later, for those who weren’t listening (Maddox, Andrew, and Podric, we see you) – that brunch would begin the following morning at eleven, would last until tea time, flowing naturally, of course, into tea time and would only be semi-formal. Guests will then have the rest of the afternoon and evening to make their exits from the estate property for their own personal safety.
How nice of them, don’t you think? To start us off in the new year on a gentle foot? I certainly think so. We’ll have more details on that later.
For now, let’s get to what you came for:
Few know what a horcrux is, fewer know how to make one. Fewer still are brave enough to ask a mentor, and even fewer than that can drum up enough luck or courage, however strengthened, to admit they'd answered the forbidden queries.
Tom Riddle asked, Horace Slughorn answered.
Horace suspects, and now ... so does an out of place muggleborn ingenu who struggles to make their father proud, and has no business keeping the company they do. The animal healer up the road knows for certain that at least one exists, because he's held it. He's kept it safe, secret. And now, though he's long since cut ties (or so he'd have us believe), he's been bid to bury it.
Figuratively, and literally.
The problem is ..... he got rid of that thing ages ago, and in the worst way imaginable. Though, to be fair, his new orders aren’t actually all that much better than what he’d done himself. Years ago, when Winter Macnair was still running with Tom Riddle – when Tom’d murdered his then co-worker Hebzibah Smith after hours in the back of Borgin & Burke’s, when he’d stolen back his family’s heirloom locket and the missing but highly sought after cup of Helga Hufflepuff, when he’d gotten his hands on the long lost diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw – he’d been made to be an active participant in the exploits of his ... associate. But was he an associate? Or was he just another lackey?
If you were bold enough to ask, you’d get a different answer from each, and there’s no question of that. But what that leaves us to question, regardless, is this: can you ever really leave Tom Riddle’s service once you’ve entered into it?
One of those items, these horcruxes, were entrusted to Winter for safekeeping, even after his departure from Tom’s side. And that’s a level of trust which is not only hard to come by, it makes the idea that Winter could simply walk away that much more unbelievable. Macnair wasn’t a fool, though, and he knew that if he was ever going to truly distance himself from his past, his mistakes ... he was going to have to do something about those keepsakes. He’d buried them, after his exit, a sign – to himself, at least, since he couldn’t exactly proclaim it loudly anywhere; that would hardly be helpful. But where had he chosen to relieve himself of his burdens?
In a graveyard. Where else would one bury the ghosts of their past?
In a sick twist of fate, or perhaps a spectacularly clever one, Winter chose to desecrate the grave of someone most would say had already suffered enough: Myrtle Warren. And now, all these years later, with no contact between them, Tom has reached out to his old friend, who was once so ... inspiring .. to have around, with a new (and theoretically, final) request: he’d like one of those unbelievably dark items, the one he gave to Winter, the cup, buried somewhere – in the grave of the one whose murder had granted the acquisition ever so kindly in the first place: Hebzibah Smith.
But will he do what he’s been asked? One thing’s for sure – the so called Dark Lord certainly has a knack for keeping tabs on those he views as his, even those who say they’ve cut ties. Some ties, though, can’t be cut, and some things, once shared, will never be solely yours again. Like that drawing Winter used to do, the one he was so happy, once, to have marked permanently on his body. You know, the one he doesn’t talk about, or even doodle, anymore?
There’s another thing, too, though, that, while many might find surprising, others might consider a given: Winter Macnair is missing.
He was last seen on 30 December, locking up the animal clinic for the last time that week, the last business day of 1955. He hasn’t been seen since, and though, realistically, this is not news, and no report has yet been made – there are people, now, who just might notice the man’s absence. Damn. Right when he most needed to stay invisible and unnoticed.
Turns out, getting comfortable is a luxury some simply cannot afford. Not even when you’re dead and buried. Good luck, anyways, Winter, wherever you are. I have a feeling you’re gong to need it.
