Draco turned up at the Grangers' a few days later—much sooner than Arthur had expected.
Inside, Lia sat with Mrs Granger, baby Lilian in her arms, chatting cheerfully about bottles and burping. Snape hovered nearby, hopeless at joining "mum talk," staring at his daughter like a man parched before a spring. Arthur, seeing the poor man's dilemma, conjured a billiards table and dragged Mr Granger and Radahn into a game.
Draco stepped in, froze, then blurted, "Er—good afternoon, Godfather!"
Snape inclined his head. "Mm. What are you doing here?"
"I—came to hang out with Arthur."
"Then hang out properly." Snape slid him a cue.
"I don't know how," Draco admitted.
"Excellent," Snape said, suddenly spirited. He'd only just learnt the rules himself; having someone worse on the table was a gift.
Draco was, in fact, spectacularly bad. He was also distracted—two sentences from the women's corner and he realised the younger witch was Snape's wife, the baby his daughter. Merlin's whiskers. His godfather had married and had a child—and the Malfoys hadn't heard a peep?
Snape caught the look. "About Lia and Lilian—keep it quiet." Enemies of his younger days might not touch him under Hogwarts' umbrella, but family was different. Hence the Muggle neighbourhood.
Draco nodded earnestly—and, ten minutes later, discovered billiards was oddly soothing and much safer than Quidditch. (Second year versus Gryffindor had left scars.)
He spent a happy day at the Grangers', resolved to visit often. The Muggle world was fascinating, and he was already imagining a billiards table in the Malfoy drawing room.
…
After a fortnight's rest, Arthur prepped for the Albanian Forest. Hermione insisted on coming. The Grangers, having witnessed Arthur and Ranni spar, didn't worry. If anything, they pitied anyone foolish enough to be hostile.
Arthur slipped both girls into the Zen Garden, borrowed back Mimic's Veil from Hermione, and disguised himself as a nondescript adult to buy plane tickets. Only once they reached Albania did he drop the glamours and let them out.
"Where to first?" Hermione asked, bright-eyed at the sea of dark pines.
"Helena Ravenclaw's old hideout." Arthur compared Helena's sketch to a modern map, then unfurled a flying carpet—an import from the Indian wizarding world. Slower than brooms, but stable and seats three.
He layered a Disillusionment on the carpet and glided for a hidden valley. Tucked in shadow stood a lone cottage, sunlight never quite touching it. The air prickled—Muggle-Repelling Charms, fresh ones. A web of Dark traps dotted the grounds. Inside: one life-sign, not quite human.
They slipped past the wards and into dust. Two eras spoke from the furniture—centuries-old bones of a room, and tasteful modern additions. Someone had lived here. For years.
They split up. Arthur took the study. Less dust here; shelves were crammed with suspect tomes. The desk bore a neat stack of books—most on souls. The drawers were locked. Alohomora didn't twitch.
So: layered protection. Arthur skimmed the lattice with his mind, unpicked it, and slid the drawer open.
Inside lay a fan of black diaries—the exact make he'd seen months ago.
He opened one. The flyleaf read Tom Marvolo Riddle.
Of course. With so much protection, he'd expected treasure. Instead: teenage angst with delusions of divinity. The early volumes charted first impressions of this wilderness. Later, the tone hardened—experiments in the Dark Arts, "visions" for the wizarding world, rants against blood status "degeneracy." Then the signature shifted, letter by letter, to Lord Voldemort.
The last volume caught his eye: Riddle's shade—fresh from the Philosopher's Stone fiasco—had slunk back here, detailing joyless days of preying on animals to keep a fragment alive.
Arthur's verdict: never keep a diary. Your "deepest thoughts" don't stay deep when someone else is reading them with your tea.
"Ah!"
Hermione's scream snapped him round. He sprinted to a bedroom to find her inside a pearly dome—one of his emergency trinkets—fending off a twelve-inch viper. The snake's strikes skittered off the shield; Hermione's spells were landing just fine.
The serpent whirled at Arthur. He flicked a hand; bindings cinched invisible, and it hung harmlessly in the air—only then realising it had picked the wrong house.
Ranni arrived, glanced Hermione over, and sighed. "You are not injured. Why are you shouting?"
Hermione flushed. "It jumped out—reflex."
Ranni finally noticed the suspended snake. She studied it like a cat eyes a sparrow. "My king, may I eat this one?"
The snake shook its head so hard it blurred, eyes wide with a desperate, very human plea.
Arthur exhaled. "No. That one was probably a person."
A maledictus. Nagini. A blood-curse in the family tree—human once, doomed, over time, to become a snake for good.
Ranni clicked her tongue, disappointed. The snake soup at Hogwarts had been memorable.
"Enough. We've seen what we needed. The owner will be back any minute." Arthur flicked the serpent into the Zen Garden for safekeeping, turned on his heel, and led them out.
On the way past the study, he, ah, cleared a few shelves—including the diaries. Research material. For public safety.
He hadn't been wrong about the owner's schedule. Minutes after they vanished into the trees, a shredded wraith slipped inside. In this empty valley, only Nagini had warmed his exile. But the bedroom was bare. The study—stripped.
Voldemort's shade tried to feel for his familiar. Nothing. Rage flared, helpless and brittle.
"Find you, and I will tear you to pieces," he hissed into the dark, and blasted into the open, scouring the valley.
Calmer, he considered tracks. There—footprints. Three sets. Not broom. Not carpet.
Voldemort flowed along the spoor, silent as smoke, closing the distance.
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