The Minister of Magic's immaculate leather shoes echoed with every step he took on the tile floors of the Hogwarts corridors.
Tom Gaunt walked with an upright posture, yet the air around him was icy, heavy, and suffocating to most. He was furious. Some damned imbecile, some faceless bastard, had dared to infiltrate an abomination into the school and had nearly hurt his son.
HIS SON
Voldemort frowned so hard that his features hardened at the mere thought of losing Aurelian. He clenched his fists beneath the folds of his robes. He had promised and sworn to Elaine that he would protect him at any cost. That the entire world would burn before a single drop of his son's blood was spilled… and he had almost failed him again.
The Dark Lord closed his eyes for a moment and let out a long sigh.
His mind took control. He knew full well that giving in to blind rage would do him no good. He had learned this the hard way from his past, when madness and fury had shattered his empire and reduced him to a pitiful specter. The best, the most efficient thing he could do at this very moment was to find his son. Knowing Aurelian's brilliant mind, Voldemort was certain the boy already had some solid lead he could use to hunt down and slaughter the bastard who had dared to threaten his heir.
He went out into the gardens and, after a brief search, found him.
Aurelian was sitting in the soothing shade of a large tree, very close to the shore of Black Lake. As was now the norm whenever he saw him, he was accompanied by Alaric Carrow's daughters.
Voldemort stopped a few meters away, observing the scene. He was still bothered by it, but above all, he was surprised by the... intensity—if he could find a word to describe it—with which those two girls loved and adored his son. Upon seeing him arrive, Aurelian looked up from the book on his lap and gave him a calm smile. However, Hestia and Flora's reaction was diametrically opposed to their son's.
Noticing the Minister's imposing presence, the twins narrowed their cold eyes, looking at him with seriousness and a touch of distrust. Like a pair of cats protecting their territory, both clung even tighter to Aurelian, hugging the boy's chest and arms tightly, ready to defend him even from his own father.
Voldemort simply rolled his eyes. He had no time to waste on the obsessive dynamics of those two girls.
He closed the distance and got straight to the point.
"Aurelian," Tom called out, his voice resonating with authority. "Do you know, or do you have any name we can associate with this attack?"
Aurelian raised an eyebrow, absentmindedly stroking Flora's hair, and replied calmly.
"It was clearly the work of Gellert Grindelwald, Dad.
Tom Gaunt nodded slowly. Of course it was him. It was obvious. A wave of irritation washed over him. He was deeply angered by the fact that that decrepit old man dared to involve his son in his stupid, dramatic, and pathetic lovers' war with Albus Dumbledore.
Before Voldemort could turn to leave and begin making his moves at the Ministry, Aurelian spoke again, stopping him.
"One more thing, Father," Aurelian added, narrowing his eyes. "Given the level of destruction and the complexity with which that abomination was crafted, I'm certain Grindelwald is conspiring with other Archmages. Most likely with Kazimir Volyov. He is the only one with a mind twisted enough to create something like that."
Voldemort stood motionless for a second. He nodded, processing the invaluable information, and set off on his way back.
As he reentered the castle, he reflected on the name his son had given him. Kazimir Volyov. The Russian Archmage was not someone he could underestimate. He was a monster in every sense of the word. Even he, Lord Voldemort, would be extremely cautious when dealing with or confronting Kazimir directly. If Grindelwald and Volyov had joined forces, the coming war would be far bloodier than he had calculated.
A few heavy, hurried footsteps abruptly snapped him out of his thoughts.
Looking up, he found himself face to face with the veteran Auror Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody and his young, pink-haired apprentice, Nymphadora Tonks.
Moody, his magical eye spinning frantically in its socket, scowled in utter disgust.
"Minister," Alastor growled, making no attempt to hide his utter disrespect for the man standing before him, "I'm here to inform you that we've finished searching the entire castle from top to bottom, including the boiler room where that thing—the Obscurial—was sleeping."
"And?" Tom asked, using his most condescending tone. "Did you find anything useful, Auror Moody?"
Alastor snorted, leaning heavily on his staff.
"We found absolutely nothing new, other than an old, ugly, disgusting, untitled notebook. Someone from your team has already taken it straight to the Department of Mysteries to investigate it."
Voldemort smiled at him smugly.
"Excellent work. I suggest you continue your patrol duties, Alastor. We don't want any more surprises," Minister Gaunt ordered.
Moody clenched his jaw so tightly his teeth creaked. He snorted like an enraged bull and, without saying another word, turned and strode away quickly, his staff striking the ground with fury.
At his side, Nymphadora Tonks blinked a couple of times, slightly intimidated by the Minister's tension and magic. Quickly, the young Auror gave him an awkward but respectful bow.
"With your permission, Minister Gaunt. Have a good day," Tonks said hurriedly, tripping slightly over her own robes before running off to catch up with her mentor.
Voldemort was left alone in the hallway, watching the Aurors' backs recede into the distance.
Little by little, his cold expression transformed into a smile of deep satisfaction. He thought to himself how wonderfully good it was to be the Minister of Magic. It was no longer just about holding the entire country's power in the palm of his hand, or controlling the economy and the laws that governed everyone. There was a pleasure, a great delight, in having the absolute power to irritate, frustrate, and give direct orders to his oldest and most bitter enemies in the Order of the Phoenix, forcing them to call him "sir" and clean up his messes.
Oh, how Lord Voldemort loved being the Minister.
The Great Hall, usually brimming with laughter, food, and the chatter of hundreds of students, was unusually empty.
Voldemort entered the hall. He was enjoying the castle's stillness, but his moment of appreciation was interrupted when he noticed a figure standing near the teachers' table. It was the Deputy Headmistress, Minerva McGonagall, reviewing some scrolls with a tense expression.
As she looked up and saw the Minister of Magic approaching, McGonagall frowned deeply. Her posture stiffened, her lips pressing into a thin line of disapproval and distrust.
Voldemort walked toward her and greeted her kindly.
"Professor McGonagall, how nice to see you," said Tom Gaunt, his soft voice echoing through the hall. "I take this opportunity to extend my sincerest wishes for a speedy recovery to Headmaster Dumbledore. After all, everyone in our country knows how immensely important and beloved he is to us all."
McGonagall clutched the scrolls to her chest. Fully aware of the monster hiding behind that handsome face, she nodded stiffly, refusing to be intimidated.
"The headmaster is a very strong man, Minister. He will recover," the deputy headmistress replied curtly.
Voldemort smiled at her.
"Of course he will. But my dear professor, there is no need to be so cautious or defensive with me," Tom said, spreading his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "As Minister for Magic, I assure you that I care deeply and genuinely for all the citizens of this country."
McGonagall did not respond to the provocation. Without saying another word, she quickly brushed past him, keeping as much distance as possible, and hurried out of the Great Hall.
Voldemort turned his head slightly to watch her leave and snorted at the Gryffindor lioness's unwavering defiance.
Just then, as Professor McGonagall passed through the doors into the hallway, she came face to face with Professor Horace Slughorn, who was humming a cheerful tune.
"Good afternoon, Minerva!" Horace greeted her.
But the deputy headmistress, her brow still furrowed from her recent encounter, walked past him without a word. Horace blinked a couple of times, taken aback by his colleague's lack of manners, but shrugged and continued on his way.
As he entered the Great Hall, his words of complaint died in his throat. Suddenly, Horace understood perfectly why Minerva was in such a state.
Standing in the center of the room was the Minister of Magic. Voldemort turned slowly at the sound of footsteps. Upon seeing his old Potions master, his face lit up with a polite smile.
A bead of cold sweat instantly trickled down the back of Horace Slughorn's neck.
Feeling like a little mouse caught in the gaze of a snake, Horace swallowed hard and approached hesitantly, rubbing his hands nervously.
"Tom," Horace whispered, his voice barely audible, betrayed by the fear he still felt toward his former student.
"Professor Slughorn. What a pleasant surprise," Voldemort greeted him. "Tell me, how have you been?"
Horace quickly pulled a silk handkerchief from the pocket of his robes and began to wipe the sweat from his forehead. His eyes darted from side to side, avoiding direct contact with the Minister's dark eyes.
"Fine, very fine…" Horace replied hastily, forcing a trembling smile. "Life is good, Tom. And one… one must protect and cherish it, mustn't one? Yes, life is very good."
Voldemort nodded slowly, relishing the terror he could still inspire in the man who had taught him so many years ago.
Voldemort took a step forward and patted Slughorn on the shoulder. The professor shuddered at the touch.
Voldemort leaned in slightly, bringing his mouth close to his former teacher's ear, and whispered.
"It's always good to visit the school, Horace. It brings back so many memories… I implore you to take very good care of my son. I trust you."
Horace nodded frantically.
"O-of course, Tom! I'll look after him as if he were my own! You have my word!" stammered Slughorn.
Voldemort gave him one last smile.
"Excellent. Have a very good afternoon, Professor."
Without adding another word, the Dark Lord turned on his heel and left the Great Hall, leaving absolute silence in his wake.
When the Minister's footsteps finally faded into the distance down the corridor, Horace Slughorn's legs gave way. The old Potions professor slumped heavily into the nearest chair at the Hufflepuff table, exhaling the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
He wiped his sweat-drenched forehead with trembling hands and, gazing toward the doors through which he had left, Horace muttered to himself in the emptiness of the hall.
"By Merlin's beard… the world really is upside down these days."
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