Sunday, June 25, 1995
(Gilderoy Lockhart)
This morning, I found myself sitting at a table inside the Three Broomsticks with my family, staring blankly at my breakfast.
I'd barely touched it.
Aurora sat beside me, quietly stirring her tea.
Rosmerta had placed a plate of toast in front of me several minutes ago, but I couldn't remember taking a single bite.
Tonks was unusually quiet.
That alone was enough to tell me how serious things were.
Normally, breakfast with my wives involved at least three arguments, several jokes at my expense, and one of them threatening to throw something at Sirius if he happened to be around for a visit.
But today...
Even the children seemed to sense that something was wrong.
Gienah sat on Tonks' lap, unusually subdued, her hair shifting slowly between dull shades of blue and purple.
Little Gilderoy was resting against Rosmerta's shoulder, apparently unaware of the tragedy that had unfolded only hours before.
I envied him.
Ignorance had its advantages.
I stared down at my untouched tea. My mind kept returning to the same image.
Harry hanging upside down, with Ivan standing before him.
That question.
How did you survive the Killing Curse?
And then… That flash of green.
I had seen death before, more than once.
I'd fought multiple Dark wizards and stood across from incredibly dangerous creatures.
But watching a child die in front of an entire stadium...
That was different.
It had been wrong.
Deeply wrong.
An owl suddenly swooped through the window.
I barely noticed it.
Usually, I had excellent reflexes, and under normal circumstances, the Daily Prophet wouldn't have even reached my head.
I'd have caught it effortlessly from the air, perhaps with a flourish dramatic enough to impress half the room.
But this time, I was simply too distracted.
Thump~
The newspaper landed directly on my golden hair.
I merely blinked. And for several seconds, I simply sat there listlessly.
Tonks didn't laugh.
Aurora didn't smirk.
Rosmerta didn't even have a smile to hide like she usually does.
That was when I knew just how gloomy the morning truly was.
I slowly reached down and picked up the newspaper where it had fallen beside my chair.
"Thanks," I muttered toward the owl.
The bird gave me an unimpressed hoot before flying away.
I unfolded the newspaper, and immediately frowned.
The headline occupied nearly the entire front page.
Large black letters stared back at me.
THE BOY-WHO-DIED!
My expression hardened.
Aurora leaned over my shoulder, and when she read the headline, her lips pressed into a thin line.
"How distasteful."
Tonks leaned closer as well and stared at the words for several seconds.
Her jaw tightened.
"Bloody hell." She slammed her palm against the table. "That fucking Skeeter."
Rosmerta glanced around nervously. "Tonks..."
"I don't care." Tonks pointed angrily at the newspaper.
"The boy died yesterday and the bitch's already turning it into some bloody spectacle."
I said nothing.
My eyes remained fixed on those four words.
THE BOY-WHO-DIED!
There was something particularly grotesque about them. As though his entire existence could be reduced to a catchy headline.
My fingers tightened around the paper's edges.
I had never particularly cared for Rita Skeeter, we even had a somewhat cooperative relationship.
But for perhaps the first time… I genuinely hated her.
Aurora placed a hand gently over mine. "Don't read it if you don't want to."
I looked at her, then at the newspaper.
"No." I sighed.
"I need to know what she's saying."
Tonks muttered something distinctly uncomplimentary about Skeeter's ancestry.
Rosmerta reached over and squeezed my shoulder.
The table fell silent again.
I looked at the headline one more time.
Yesterday, Harry Potter had still been alive.
Yet today, the entire wizarding world was already fighting over the story of his death.
And somehow, I suspected this was only the beginning.
…
I unfolded the newspaper completely.
The article began beneath the enormous headline in letters almost as dramatic as the title itself.
[Yesterday, what should have been a celebration of magical unity and sporting excellence was transformed into an unspeakable tragedy when one of the champions was publicly executed by another.
The victim? None other than Harry Potter, our beloved Boy-Who-Lived, murdered in cold blood by Durmstrang's champion, Ivan Karkaroff.
Karkaroff, as many readers will already know, is the nephew of Igor Karkaroff, the headmaster of Durmstrang Institute, who mysteriously disappeared from Hogwarts moments before the tragedy unfolded.]
My jaw tightened.
"Already starting with the conspiracy," I muttered.
Tonks leaned closer. "Keep reading."
So I did.
[Britain mourns today.
The Boy-Who-Lived is dead.
The child who survived the Killing Curse. The symbol of hope who defeated You-Know-Who before he could even speak. The young hero who inspired an entire generation.
Gone.
And perhaps most tragically of all, his death could have been prevented.]
Aurora's expression hardened. "Here we go."
I continued.
[The question must be asked: where were those entrusted with his safety?
What was Albus Dumbledore doing while Harry Potter was being murdered?
What was Gilderoy Lockhart doing?
Professor Lockhart proved himself perfectly capable of rescuing the beautiful French champion when she found herself facing a deadly manticore. Yet when his own student was in danger, where was he?
Could it be that the celebrated professor's heroism is reserved for pretty faces and international applause?
Was Harry Potter simply not attractive enough to warrant the same protection?]
I stopped reading.
My hand tightened around the newspaper.
For perhaps the first time in my life, I had absolutely nothing clever to say.
Tonks immediately noticed. "Don't."
I looked at her silently, my eyes reddening.
She shook her head angrily. "Don't let that woman get inside your head."
Rosmerta reached across the table and gently touched my wrist. "She only wants sales."
"I know." I stared down at the article.
"But she isn't entirely wrong, I failed to save him."
And that was what made it hurt.
It wasn't that the accusation was insulting.
It was that I somehow felt there was a degree of truth to it.
"I tried." My voice came out quieter than I intended.
"I tried to get to him."
Aurora's expression softened. "We all know."
I swallowed. "By the time we realised what Ivan was doing, he'd already prepared everything."
The memories came rushing back.
The moment Dumbledore and I realised the situation had gone beyond a simple duel.
We had both tried to reach Harry.
We had tried everything.
But even Phoenix-flame travel had been blocked.
"Ivan knew we'd interfere," I continued. "He anticipated it."
Tonks' fingers curled into a fist. "That bastard planned everything."
"Yes." I nodded slowly.
"He had prepared the maze specifically to delay us."
The newspaper trembled slightly between my fingers.
"And when we finally forced our way through..."
I closed my eyes. "We were too late."
The image returned.
Harry, hanging motionless, eyes empty of light.
The green light still lingering in my memory.
And Ivan...
Gone.
We had torn through the maze practically like madmen.
Hedges had been blasted apart. Enchantments had been ripped open.
Several obstacles had been destroyed outright as we forced our way toward the centre.
But none of it mattered, Harry had already been killed.
And Ivan had vanished.
Or rather… He had escaped, using the Triwizard Cup itself.
The Cup that had been enchanted as a Portkey to bring the winner to the stage.
Ivan had somehow altered its destination before anyone could stop him, turning the final prize into his escape route.
We had tried following through space, but when we reached the other side, there had been nothing.
Not even a single trace of where he'd gone.
Only the abandoned Cup.
I looked back at the article.
[How could such a thing happen within the walls of Hogwarts?
How could a seventeen-year-old foreign champion walk into the heart of Britain's most prestigious magical school, murder its most famous student, and simply disappear?
Perhaps the answers lie with the authorities who failed to protect him.
Perhaps they lie with the mysterious Karkaroff family.
Or perhaps the truth is even more horrifying than we presently understand.]
I snorted bitterly. "At least she hasn't completely fabricated the last part."
Tonks glanced at me. "What do you mean?"
I hesitated.
Then I remembered.
After the tragedy, while everyone was still trying to understand what had happened, Luna had approached us.
She'd been crying, which was really unsettling coming from her.
Luna was usually so calm about things that seemed to terrify everyone else.
But this time, tears had streamed down her cheeks.
She'd looked at me and said something I'll never forget.
"I didn't think Tom would do something like that."
I had stared at her. "Tom?"
She'd nodded through her tears. "He promised he'd be good."
At the time, none of us had understood, but then we'd asked her who Tom was, and she told us everything.
Ivan Karkaroff's real name wasn't Ivan, it was Tom Riddle.
Tom Riddle.
The name had struck me like a hammer.
Suddenly, every strange detail fell into place.
The missing records.
The impossible magical ability.
The unnatural composure.
The incredibly deep magical knowledge possessed by someone supposedly so young.
The way Luna had hung around him despite having never met before.
It was Tom Riddle all along.
Or rather...
Voldemort.
I looked back down at the newspaper, my stomach twisted.
Tonks was watching me carefully. "You have to stop blaming yourself, there's no way you could have known."
I nodded.
"You're right, there isn't. But I can't help but feel like an idiot, I keep thinking that I should have somehow figured it out before things reached this point. I spent the whole year investigating and couldn't even find who placed Harry's name in the goblet until it was pointed out like this."
Aurora's hand found mine beneath the table. "We'll deal with him."
I looked at her.
She gave my hand a firm squeeze.
Rosmerta nodded. "You're not alone."
Tonks leaned forward, her expression fierce. "And when we find him..."
She paused. "...he'll wish he'd stayed dead."
Despite everything, a faint smile tugged at my lips. "My dear, that's rather violent."
Tonks snorted. "He murdered Harry. Sirius almost went crazy, if it wasn't for Remus who stopped him, he would have started killing Durmstrang's students, who looked just as bewildered as everyone else."
I sighed, "we'll need to find a way to redirect his ire, he's not the type to leave something like this stand."
I looked down at the article again.
Rita Skeeter's words continued across the page, dripping with outrage, speculation, and carefully manufactured sorrow.
She had turned Harry's death into a spectacle.
She had blamed Dumbledore.
She had blamed me.
She had blamed Hogwarts.
She had blamed everyone except the person who had actually committed the murder.
But beneath all the sensationalism, one truth remained.
Harry Potter was dead.
And somewhere out there...
Tom Riddle was alive.
The Dark Lord had returned.
This time, he hadn't announced himself with armies or speeches.
He had simply walked into Hogwarts wearing another man's name...
And murdered the Boy-Who-Lived in front of hundreds of witnesses.
I slowly folded the newspaper.
My anger was still there, but beneath it was something else.
Determination.
If Tom Riddle truly believed he could return to the world, kill Harry Potter, and disappear without consequence...
He had made one very serious mistake.
He had left people behind who knew exactly who he was.
And I intended to make sure he regretted it.
…